Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony.

An Heroicall Poeme.

MY wanton Muse that whilome wont to sing, Faire beauties praise and Venus sweet delight, Of late had chang'd the tenor of her string To higher tunes then serue for Cupids fight. Shrill Trumpets sound, sharpe swords and Lances strong, Warre, bloud and death, were matter of her song.

The God of Loue by chance had heard thereof, That I was prou'd a rebell to his crowne, Fit words for warre, quoth he, with angry scoffe, A likely man to write of Mars his frowne. Well are they sped whose praises he shall write, Whose wanton Pen can nought but loue indite.

This said, he whiskt his party-colour'd wings, And downe to earth he comes more swift then thought, Then to my heart in angry haste he flings, To see what change these newes of warres had wrought. He pries, and lookes, he ransacks eu'ry vaine, Yet finds he nought, saue loue, and louers paine.

Then I that now perceiu'd his needlesse feare, With heauie smile began to plead my cause: In vaine (quoth I) this endlesse griefe I beare, In vaine I striue to keepe thy grieuous Lawes, If after proofe, so often trusty found, Vniust suspect condemne me as vnsound.

Is this the guerdon of my faithfull heart? Is this the hope on which my life is staide? Is this the ease of neuer-ceasing smart? Is this the price that for my paines is paide? Yet better serue fierce Mars in bloudie field, Where death, or conquest, end or ioy doth yeeld.

Long haue I seru'd, what is my pay but paine? Oft haue I sude, what gaine I but delay? My faithfull loue is quited with disdaine, My griefe a game, my pen is made a play. Yea loue that doth in other fauour finde, In me is counted madnesse out of kinde.

And last of all, but grieuous most of all, Thy selfe, sweet loue, hath kild me with suspect: Could loue beleeue, that I from loue would fall? Is warre of force to make me loue neglect. No, Cupid knowes, my minde is faster set, Then that by warre I should my loue forget.

My Muse indeed to warre enclines her minde, The famous acts of worthy Brute to write: To whom the Gods this Ilands rule assignde,

Which long he sought by Seas through Neptunes spight, With such conceits my busie head doth swell. But in my heart nought else but loue doth dwell.

And in this warre thy part is not the least, Here shall my muse Brutes noble Loue declare: Here shalt thou see thy double loue increast, Of fairest twins that euer Lady bare: Let Mars triumph in armour shining bright, His conquerd armes shall be thy triumphs light.

As he the world, so thou shalt him subdue, And I thy glory through the world will ring, So by my paines, thou wilt vouchsafe to rue, And kill despaire. With that he whis'kt his wing. And bid me write, and promist wished rest, But sore I feare false hope will be the best.

FINIS.

Ignoto.