Poems, with a maske by Thomas Carew ... ; the songs were set in musick by Mr. Henry Lawes ...

TO BEN. IOHNSON. Vpon occasion of his Ode of defiance annex'd to his Play of the New Inne.

TIs true (dear Ben:) thy just chastizing hand Hath fix'd upon the somed Age a brand

To their swoln pride, and empty scribling due, It can nor judge, nor Write, and yet 'tis true Thy comique Muse from the exalted line Toucht by the Alchymist, doth since decline From that her Zenith, and foretels a red And blushing evening, when she goes to bed, Yet such, as shall out-shine the glimmering light With which all stars shall gild the following night. Nor think it much (since all thy Eaglets may Endure the Sunnie tryall) if we say This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine; Who hath his flock of cackling Geese compar'd With thy tun'd quire of Swans? or else who dar'd To call thy births desorm'd? but if thou bind By City custome, or by Gavell-kind, In equall shares thy love on all thy race, We may distinguish of their sex, and place; Though one hand form them, & through one brain strike Souls into all, they are not all alike. Why should the follies then of this dull age Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage As seemes to blast thy (else-immortall) Bays, When thine own tongue proclames thy itch of praise Such thirst will argue drougth. No, let be hurld Vpon thy works by the detracting world,

What malice can suggest; let the Rout say, The running sands, that (ere thou make a play) Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame To swallow when th'hast done thy ship- wrack'd name Let them the dear expence of oyl upbraid Suck'd by thy watchfull Lamp, that hath betray'd To theft the blood of martyr'd Authors, spilt Into thy ink, whilst thou grow'st pale with guilt; Repine not at the Tapers thrifty waste, That sleeks thy terser Poem; nor is haste Prayse, but excuse; and if thou overcome A knotty writer, bring the booty home; Nor think it theft, if the rich spoyls so torn From conquered Authors, be as Trophies worn. Let others glut on the extorted praise Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after dayes: Thy labour'd works shall live, when Time devours Th'abortive off spring of their hasty hours. Thou art not of their rank, the quarrell lyes Within thine owne Virge, then let this suffice, The wiser world doth greater Thee confess Than all men else, than Thy selfe only less.