html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }THus the wise Nightingale that leaves her home,
Her native Wood, when Storms and Winter come,
Pursuing constantly the chearfull Spring
To forreign Groves does her old Musick bring:
The drooping Hebrews banish'd Harps unstrung
At Babylon, upon the Willows hung;
Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excell
No less in Courage, than in Singing well;
Whilst unconcern'd you let your Countrey know,
They have impov'rished themselves, not you;
Who with the Muses help can mock those Fates
Which threaten Kingdoms, and disorder States.
So Ovid, when from Cæsar's rage he fled,
The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led,
Where he so sung, that We through Pitie's Glass,
See Nero milder than Augustus was.
Hereafter such in thy behalf shall be
Th'indulgent censure of Posteritie.
To banish those who with such art can sing,
Is a rude crime which its own Curse does bring:
Ages to come shall ne'r know how they fought,
Nor how to Love their present Youth be taught.
This to thyself. Now to thy matchless Book,
Wherein those few that can with Judgement look,
May find old Love in pure fresh Language told,
Like new stampt Coyn made out of Angel gold.
Such truth in Love as th'antique world did know,
In such a style as Courts may boast of now.
Which no bold tales of Gods or Monsters swell,
But humane Passions, such as with us dwell.
Man is thy theam, his Virtue or his Rage
Drawn to the life in each elaborate Page.
Mars nor Bellona are not named here;
But such a Gondibert as both might fear.
Venus had here, and Hebe been out-shin'd
By thy bright Birtha, and thy Rhodalind.
Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds
Betwixt thy Worthies and the Grecian Gods.
Whose Deities in vain had here come down,
Where Mortal Beautie wears the Sovereign Crown;
Such as of flesh compos'd, by flesh and bloud
(Though not resisted) may be understood.