My bosome friends, and in their severall wayes
Rightly borne Poets, and in these last dayes
Men of much note and no lesse nobler parts,
Such as have freely tould to me their hearts
As I have mine to them. But if you shall
Say in your knowledge that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
Only my selfe to these few men doe tye
Whose workes oft printed, set on every post,
To publique censure subject have been most.
To such whose poems, be they nere so rare,
In private chambers that incloistered are
And by transcription daintily must goe
As though the world unworthy were to know
Their rich composures, let those men that keepe
These wondrous reliques in their judgment deepe
And cry them up so, let such Peeces bee
Spoke of by those that shall come after me;
I hope not for them: nor doe meane to run
In quest of these that them applause have wonne
Upon our Stages in these latter dayes,

That are so many; let them have their bayes
That doe deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Those publique circuits, let them freely chaunt
Their fine Composures, and their praise pursue.
And so, my deare friend, for this time adue.

A

From "The Muses Elisium," 1630.

The Description of Elizium.

PARADICE on earth is found,

Though farre from vulgar sight,

Which with those pleasures doth abound
That it Elizium hight.

Where in Delights that never fade

The Muses lulled be,

And sit at pleasure in the shade

Of many a stately tree,

Which no rough Tempest makes to reele

Nor their straight bodies bowes;

Their lofty tops doe never feele
The weight of winters snowes.

In Groves that evermore are greene

No falling leafe is there,

But Philomel (of birds the Queene)

In Musicke spends the yeare.

The Merle upon her mertle Perch

There to the Mavis sings,

Who from the top of some curld Berch
Those notes redoubled rings;

There Daysyes damaske every place
Nor once their beauties lose,

That when proud Phabus hides his face
Themselves they scorne to close.

The Pansy and the Violet here,

As seeming to descend

Both from one Root, a very payre,

For sweetnesse yet contend;

And pointing to a Pinke to tell

Which bears it, it is loath

To judge it, but replyes, for smell

That it excels them both;

Wherewith displeasde they hang their heads,

So angry soone they grow,

And from their odoriferous beds

Their sweets at it they throw.

The winter here a Summer is,

No waste is made by time,

Nor doth the Autumne ever misse

The blossomes of the Prime.

The flower that July forth doth bring,
In Aprill here is seene,

The Primrose, that puts on the Spring,
In July decks each Greene.

The sweets for soveraignty contend

And so abundant be,

That to the very Earth they bend
And Barke of every Tree.

Rills rising out of every Banck

In wild Meanders strayne,

A

And playing many a wanton pranck
Upon the speckled plaine,

In Gambols and lascivious Gyres

Their time they still bestow,

Nor to their Fountaines none retyres

Nor on their course will goe:

Those Brooks with Lillies bravely deckt,

So proud and wanton made,

That they their courses quite neglect
And seeme as though they stayde

Faire Flora in her state to viewe
Which through those Lillies looks,
Or as those Lillies leand to shew
Their beauties to the brooks;

That Phebus in his lofty race

Oft layes aside his beames

And comes to coole his glowing face
In their delicious streames.

Oft spreading Vines clime up the Cleeves,
Whose ripned clusters there

Their liquid purple drop, which drives
A Vintage through the yeere :

Those Cleeves whose craggy sides are clad

With Trees of sundry sutes

Which make continuall summer glad,

Even bending with their fruits;

Some ripening, ready some to fall,
Some blossom'd, some to bloome,
Like gorgeous hangings on the wall
Of some rich princely Roome.

Pomegranates, Lymons, Cytrons so
Their laded branches bow,
Their leaves in number that outgoe
Nor roomth will them alow.

There in perpetuall Summers shade
Apolloes Prophets sit

Among the flowers that never fade

But flourish like their wit;

To whom the Nimphes upon their Lyres

Tune many a curious lay

And with their most melodious Quires
Make short the longest day.