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To his worthy and learned friend, Mr THO. FULLER upon his excellently composed Historie of the HOLY WARRE.
CAptain of Arts, in this thy Holy warre
My Muse desires to be thy ••rumpeter,
In thy just praise to spend a blast or two:
For this is all that she (poore thing) can do.
Peter the Hermite, like an angrie owl,
Would need•• go fight all armed in his cowl.
What, had the Holy man nought else to do,
But thus to lose his bloud and credit too?
Seeking to winne Christs Sepulchre, God w••t,
He found his own: This was the ground he got.
Except he got more ground, when he one day
Besi••ging Antioch fiercely ran away.
Much wiser was the Pope: At home he stay'd,
And made the world believe he wept and prai'd.
Mean while (behold the fruit of feigned tears)
He sets the world together by the ears.
His head serves him, whil'st others use their hands:
Whil'st Princes lose their lives, he gets their lands.
To winne the Holy land what need Kings roam?
The Pope can make an Holy land at home
By making it his own: Then for a fashion,
'Tis said to come by Constantines donation.
For all this Fox-craft, I have leave (I hope)
To think my friend farre wiser then the Pope,
And Hermite both: He deals in Holy warres
Not as a stickler in those fruitlesse jarres,
But a composer rather. Hence this book;
Whereon whil'st I with greedie eyes do look,
Me thinks I travel through the Holy land,
Viewing the sacred objects on each hand.
Here mounts (me thinks) like Olivet, brave sense;
There flows a Iordan of pure eloquence:
A temple rich in ornament I find
Presented here to my admiring mind.
Strange force of Art! The ruin'd Holy citie
Breeds admiration in me now, not pitie.
To testifie her liking, here my Muse
Makes solemn Vows, as Holy Pilgrimes use.