The brides ornaments viz. fiue meditations, morall and diuine. 1. Knowledge, 2. zeale, 3. temperance, 4. bountie, 5. ioy.

VRANIA.

ABout the Season Lawyers tongues doe rest, And make for * 1.1 Ceres honour long vacation; I (freed from tumults which me erst opprest,) Dispose my mind to holy Meditation:

And thinking how I might a subiect find, Delightfull, pleasing, sweet and profitable; My heart to better, and inrich my mind And tongue acquaint, with Phrases delectable.

As Traueller that meets with diuers wayes, I long deliberate to chuse the best And fairest Path to Mount, where Lawrell Bayes The Numbers crowne that are diuinely drest.

One while I sought in measures Comicall To maske the Graces all vpon the Stage; Or in a Tragique Scene vp Ghosts to call Of Worthys slaine by cruell Tyrants rage:

Anon I would the Vnion celebrate, Which made a Damaske Rose of Red and White, The fairest Flower of Brittons happy State; Which Roses then, now Kingdomes doth vnite.

I thought likewise to sing that happy Peace Our Iland-world enioyeth by this Vnion, Which makes our honour, riches, strength increase, And haue with Heav'nly Arts such free communion.

Then I th'admired Prudence would rehearse Of Brittons Scepter-swaying Solomon, Matter which would immortalize a Verse, And saue such Splendour from obliuion:

Prone was my flesh the winged wag to sing Of wanton Venus, and her Bitter-sweet, That glads the Tast, but doth the Bowells wring For chaster eares a Subiect far vnmeet.

Whilst wauering thus in fruitlesse inquisition, Yet vnresolv'd of any course I roue, Behold I see an heav'nly Apparition, Some Herauld doubtlesse from the Queene of Loue;

Her gesture and her grace Angelicall, With wings whereby her selfe to heav'n shee reares, Her countenance faire, sweet, celestiall, Her voyce like Musicke of the heav'nly Spheares.

A glorious Garland crown'd her golden head, Bedeck'd with all the Flowers, sweet, and gay, That could on Tempes Plaines be gathered, By learned Sisters in their fairest May.

Immortall Flowers, which spring and flourish ay, And ay their verdure and sweet sent retaine, Like heav'nly Arts, which neuer doe decay, But by their vsing greater glory gaine.

On shoulders hangs her azure mantle light, With siluer spangles all adorned faire, Twinkling like brightest Starres in frosty night, As they are moued by the gentle aire:

Her nether parts to hide from vulgar eye A Kirtle like Heav'n Conopy did couer; Where all the Signes of Heav'n embroidred fly, And all the Graces seeme about to houer.

I, saith shee, am Vrania to thee sent, From thine adored Mistresse, Queene of Loue; I rauish Soules aboue the Firmament, That they in Numbers like the Spheres may moue.

With Siluer Key I doe vnlocke the mind Of Mortalls sealed vp in Ignorance, That oft their Soules aboue the Stars they find, When Bodyes lye on ground as in atrance.

For I the Spirit am of Contemplation, Th' Ehxir of Ambrosia diuine, Pure Angells food, Soules sweetest delectation, The Helicon, where both the Sisters nine.

Art teacheth Art, Experience Policy, And Practice guild's the tongue with Eloquence; But none reach lofty straines of Poesie, That haue them not by heav'nly insluence.

Hence 'tis that Clerks which gaine immortall praise, By their deepe learned Eloquence in Prose, Their numbers cannot to such honour raise, As one that scarce the Rules of Grammer knows:

It is beyond the reach of will or wit, A holy Flame of heav'nly Loues pure fire, A soaring, high, transcendent, furious fit, Whose Life, light, heate, and strength loue doth inspire.

Loue's her Beginning, and her End is Loue, Loue is the Soule, and Life of Poesie; No Poeme without Loue did euer proue, No more then Musicke without Harmony.

The Loue of Honour, and of Cheualry, So rais'd the old blind Greeks Heroique quill; * 1.2 Hee lifts Achilles valiant acts more high, Than his that conquer'd all the world at will. * 1.3

The loue of Ciuill, and Self-gouernment Him taught to frame such an exact Ulisses; That hee who by this Patterne did inuent, Roomes glorious author, such perfection misses. * 1.4

Eglogues of Loue are Muses first delights, Till thorough country pleasures shee doth come, To sing in state of Honour, Armes, and Knights, And out of old Troys ashes raise vp Rome.

The wanton, all whose speeches were in Verse, Who sings in Fictions all Dame natures story; * 1.5 In ev'ry sentence doth his Loue rehearse, But ah base Lust obscureth all his glory.

So Loues old rigid Cato vertues lore, He makes them dance the measures cunningly; To loues Lucretius Dame natures store, Hee turnes all Pliny into Poetry.

And as the obiect of our Loue exceeds, So strikes the Muse on high or lower strings; Who lowly late did maske in Shepheards weeds, In high Heroiques of Armes, and Honour sings. * 1.6

My Darling Bartas, who on Angells wings; Beholds the Six Day's of the Worlds Creation, Was so in loue with Heav'n and heauenly things, Hee wholly on them fixt his Contemplation.

And wen he on the Seuenth Day comes to rest, He them all orders to his Makers Glory: Doubtlesse he fram'd a new world in his brest, Whereof he so Diuinely sings the story.

It was this heav'nly Loue that did incite, The warlike Shepheard such sweet notes to sing, * 1.7 His loue vnto Gods Statutes day and night, Doe strike so loud his Harpe and Violls string.

And as Wind-Instrument to him repay's That sounds it sweetest, musicke, for his breath; So sings this Psalmist Hymnes, and Heav'nly Lay's To him that giues him Spirit, till his Death.

Oh heav'nly Musicke, which, the rage could quell Of Cis his sonne, possest with euill Spirit Pure Hymns from God, sweet mercy to compell, When foulest Sins Hell-fire doe commerit.

Sweet Shepheard, when thou singest forth thy Flocks, The Angells all admire thy heav'nly Lay's; Thy musicke moues, stones, trees, and senslesse stocks, When thou diuin'st of Christs most happy day's.

Yet those hands that so gently touch a string, Can Lyons, Beares, and Wolues in peeces teare; And quell the proud Philistine with a sling, From whom the Host of Israel runs for feare.

Loue at his birth him dandled in her Lap, Whilst all the Graces Lullaby's doe sing; Shee fed him with Ambrosia for Pap, And rais'd him from a Shepheard to a King.

And thou my Sonne, although thy Breath be faint; I cannot but commend thy good desire, With their diuine Essays thy Muse acquaint; Which may be fewell to thy heav'nly fire.

Yet though thou straine Inuention, Art, and wits, And fills thy Verses with thy wisest Says, They shall not liue, except some holy fits, Thy Soule aboue the Heav'ns bright Tapers raise.

Thy Soule whose Beeing is Celestiall fire, Must like the Saints be rapt vp in a trance; And extased with holiest desire, If thou thy Verse wouldst vp to Heav'n aduance.

For as none but the Spirit of a man, The secrets of that Spirit can disclose; So none attaine sublimest numbers can, Except a holy Fury them compose.

And as no Actor well can play the King, That is not one in his imagination: So none can Vertues pure Ideas sing, That suits his mind not to his meditation.

Poets are like to Organs sounding shrill With fingers touch, so long as they be full: But as on empty ones; in vaine's our skill, Ev'n so are Verses, without Fury, dull.

And as none on the Harpe sweet tunes can sound, Till hee by Art hath set in Tune each string; So none high-rapted numbers can compound, Till's soule be tun'd by spheare-like rauishing.

Sith then to Numbers life from Heav'n is sent, Oh rarest Spirits! how dare you abuse Them, to dishonour him, who hath them lent To's Glory, and your Chast delight to vse?

Shall your diuinest spirits stoupe so low, To make your-selues base slaues to Lust and Sin; And let your pure Pyrenean Fountaines flow In stinking Channells all defil'd within.

Still will you fawne on Fooles, and Greatnesse flatter? And fill the world with wanton idle groanes? Still shall your Muse like Pyes this one song chatter, Of Lust, which brings corruption to the bones?

Ist not enough you burne in lustfull flame, Except you eke corrupt youth prone to vice? And strumpet-like hang out your signes of shame, The Passengers to folly to intice?

For numbers, notes, and tunes such power haue, They soonest on the noblest Spirits seaze; Whereon they doe their formes and sounds engraue; As Seales on wax imprinted are with ease.

And that's the Reason, graue and wiser Sages, Haue banish't from their coasts lasciuious rymes, When Poets chast and vertuous in all ages, Haue beene as Priests and Prophets in their times.

Would you the Genius of your Fury raise, And change your fleshly to spirituall Flame, Such matter would immortalize your praise And leaue behind you a most honour'd name.

Your Verse would be admir'd, you honoured As Secretarys to the King of Kings, For first the Prophets words thus numbered, To handle mystery's and holy things.

Thus Dauid all his Psalmes by measure sings, Moses the freedome from Egyptian thrall, And Miriam vpon a Timbrell rings Gods Praises; Iudith the Assirians fall.

They sang for Ioy, but Iob, and Ieremy Sing, when they with afflictions most are prest; A Nunc Dimittis was the Poefie The Swan-like Simeon warbled in his brest:

Magnificat the blessed Virgin sings; The Angells, Glory sing to God on high: And Martyrs, bound to stakes with Iron strings Sing Praises whilst in Flames their Body's fry▪

So burnes their zealous heate of Loues purefire, They feele no outward for the inward flame: So long as they haue Bowells to respire They neuer cease to praise Gods holy name:

But he that seemes an Angell of the light, More easie children of the light 'tabuse, In Verse doth also his delusions write, And for his Oracles did numbers chuse:

And for he know's that Loues pure heav'nly fire, Is that by which we Gods whole Law fulfill; His Prophets all must chant of Lusts desire, And make great Ioue be rul'd by Cupids will.

Thus bloud corrupt th'inchanter doth instill With lustfull Fire to scal'd youths hotter veines; And poisons with this Copperis the quill Of Heathen Poets, in their gentle straines.

Who to make more authenticke Ribauldry, Doe faigne their Gods therein to take delight, Where though they Natures secrets wittily Oft vaile! yet thus to Lust they youth inuite.

I know in first pure streames of Poesie, The Muses Bath was chast as Pheebes shrine, The Virgin Graces, Ioues chast progeny, And Pallas chast, and vertuous, as diuine.

Venus was then with Almas title graced, And lov'd her Spouse plaine Vultan, Mars scarce knew: Whom though shee oft in nuptiall bed imbraced, Twas not for wanton pleasure but for due.

This Poetry, my Sonnes, reuiv'd againe, To mortalls would restore the golden times, And for your Brow's immortall Lawrells gaine, And to their ancient honour raise your Rimes.

But Satan since another patterne set, Which he would haue all his to imitate; And like a Fowler draweth to his Net Poore Birds with merry notes and pleasing Bait.

But thou that seek'st Gods Glory, not thine owne, And striv'st to quench, not quicken lustfull Flame; Chuse these diuine ensamples I haue showne, And guild not with faire words the foulest shame.

When thou do'st feele Loue's Fury in thy breast, What better theame or matter canst thou take; Than sing his Loue who Heav'n and Earth possest, Yet here himselfe for Loue a Slaue did make.

The Loue betweene the Bridgroome and his Deare, Were matter to immortalize a Song: No Man or Angell euer yet did heare Diuiner Musicke from a mortall tongue.

This is a deepe, broad, boundlesse Ocean; A high Pernassus of sweet Meditation; No holy Fury diue the bottome can, Nor reach the height thereofby contemplation.

Soule-rapting Tunes: when Turtles voyce doth sound The Songs of Sion, in a Holy Land. Sweet accents, making Hills and Mountaines bound, And Cedars of the Forrest trembling stand.

This better will thy heart; enrich thy mind; Here profit thou shalt reape with sweet delight. Here thou refreshing Nectar-streames shalt find, To coole thy thirst, and cleare thy dimmer sight.

For thus thou safely maist enioy delight, The pleasure which shall last for euermore; Vaine Worldly Pleasures leaue men ere their night, But when the iudgement comes, they run before.

These heav'nly precepts sweetned by her voyce, So rauished my Soule with delectation: My Muse at quiet since doth sole reioyce, And take delight in heav'nly contemplation.

And though I neuer hope to touch with hand, Much lesse my head with Lawrell Bough adorne, May I yet mine owne Passions thus command My Cost and Tilt's short of my Crop of Corne.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Haruest.
• * 1.2

  Homer.
• * 1.3

  Alexander.
• * 1.4

  Aeneas. Virgil.
• * 1.5

  Ouid.
• * 1.6

  Spencer.
• * 1.7

  Dauid.