Certaine small poems lately printed with the tragedie of Philotas. Written by Samuel Daniel.

To the Prince.

TO you most hopefull Prince, not as you are But as you may be, do I giue these lines: That whē your iudgmēt shal ariue so far, As t'ouerlooke th'intricate designes, Of vncontented man: you may behold With what incounters greatest fortunes cloze, What dangers, what attempts, what manifold Incumbrances, ambition vndergoes: How hardly men digest felicity; How to th'intemperat, to the prodigall, To wantonesse, and vnto luxury Many things want, but to ambition all. And you shall find the greatest enemy That man can haue, is his prosperity.

Here shall you see how men disguise their ends, And playte bad courses vnder pleasing shews, How well presumption broken wayes defends, Which cleere-eyed iudgment gráuely doth disclose. Here shall you see how th'easie multitude Transported, take the party of distresse; And onely out of passion do conclude, Not out of iudgment; of mens practises.

How powr••s are thought to wrong, that wrongs debar, And kings not held in danger, though they are. These ancient representments of times past; Tell vs that men haue, doo, and alwayes runne The selfe same line of action, and do cast Their course alike, and nothing can be donne, (Whilst they, their ends, and nature are the same•• But will be wrought vpon the selfe-same frame.

This benefit, most noble Prince, doth yeeld The sure recordes of Bookes, in which we finde The tenure of our state, how it was held By all our ancestors, and in what kinde We hold the same, and likewise how in the end This fraile possession of felicitie, Shall to our late posteritie discend, By the same pattent of like destinie. In them we finde that nothiwg can accrew To man, and his condition that is new.

And though you haue a Swannet of your owne, Which on the bankes of Douen meditates Sweete notes for you, and vnto your renowne The glory of his Musique dedicates; And in a loftie tune is set to sound The deepe reportes of Sullein tragedies. Yet may this l••st of me be likewise found, Amongst the vowes that others sacrifize Vnto the hope of you, that you one day, May grace this now neglected harmonie: Which set vnto your glorious actions may Record the same to all posteritie.

Though I the remnant of another time. Am neuer like to see that happinesse: Yet for the zeale that I haue borne to rime, And to the Muses wish that good successe To others trauaile, that in better place, And better comfort, they may be incheerd Who shall deserue, and who shall haue the grace To haue a Muse held worthy to be heard. And know, sweete Prince, when you shall come to know, That tis not in the powre of Kings to raise A spirit for verse that is not borne thereto: Nor are they borne in euery Princes dayes. For late Elizas raigne, gaue birth to more Then all the kings of England did before.

And it may be, the Genius of that time, Would leaue to her the glorie in that kind; And that the vtmost powers of English Ryme, Should be within her peacefull raigne confinde. For since that time, our songues could neuer thriue, But laine as if for lorne: though in the prime Of this new rising season, we did striue To bring the best we could vnto the time.

And I although among the latter traine, And least of those that sung vnto this land, Haue borne my part, though in an humble straine, And pleasd the gentler that did vnderstand: And neuer had my harmlesse Pen at all Distaind with any loose immodestie, Nor euer noted to be toucht with gall, To aggrauate the worst mans infamy.

But still haue donne the fairest offices To virtue and the time, yet nought preuailes, And all our labors are without successe, For either fauour or our virtue failes. And therefore since I haue out liud the date Of former grace, acceptance, and delight, I would my lines late-borne beyond the fate Of her spent line, had neuer come to light. So had I not bene tax'd for wishing well Nor now mistaken by the censuring stage Nor, in my fame and reputation fell. Which I esteeme more then what all the age Or th'earth can giue. But yeares hath don this wrong, To make me write too much, and liue too long.

And yet I grieue for that vnfinisht frame, Which thou deare Muse didst vow to sacrifize, Vnto the Bed of peace, and in the same, Designe our happinesse to memorize, Must, as it is remaine, though as it is: It shall to after times relate my zeale To kings, and vnto right, to quietnesse, And to the vnion of the common-weale. But this may now, seeme a superfluous vow, We haue this peace; and thou hast sung ynow And more then wilbe heard, and then as good As not to write, as not be vnderstood.

Sam: Dan.