Psalterium Carolinum. The devotions of His sacred Majestie in his solitudes and sufferings, rendred in verse. / Set to musick for 3 voices and an organ, or theorbo, by John Wilson Dr. and music professor of Oxford.

To his friend (and formerly, fellow-servant to his late Majestie) JOHN WILSON Dr. in Musick.

THat I do love thee, friend, I now would shew it, And do't in Rhime too, though I am no Poet; Yet all that I could say, would but appear Fruitless, and insignificantly here, Since nothing, truly, can thy worth explain, But the composures of thine own rich brain. Thou need'st no Trumpet to proclaim thy Fame, Thy Lyre most sweetly warbles forth thy name; Which every one must needs admire that hears, Unless he have nor Soul, nor Sense, nor Ears. This tribute all must pay, but none can raise (Unless he have an equall skill) thy praise. From long acquaintance and experience, I Could tell the World thy known integrity; Unto thy Friend thy true and honest heart, Ev'n mind, good nature, all, but thy great Art, Which I but dully understand; who do To shadow't out, must have expressions too, (If with thy merits they proportion keep) As high, and apt, as is thy judgement deep. Thus Diamonds Diamonds cut, Kings judge of Kings, Art cann't be prais'd enough by artless thigns.

Excuse me then, if I have no designs Impossible, and needless by these lines, So low, to raise thy high perfection, And light my Candle at thy noon-day Sun: I could say much were I with Raptures fir'd, Were I, as I must think thou art, inspir'd; For this I know, and must say't to thy praise, That thou hast gone, in Musick, unknown wayes, Hast cut a path where there was none before, Like Magellan traced an unknown shore. Thou taught'st our Language, first, to speak in Tone, Gav'st the right accents and proportion; And above all (to shew thy excellence) Thou understand'st good words, and do'st set sense; Hadst none to imitate, and few will be Able t' express inimitably thee. Go on then, Phoebus like, thine own course runne, Fearless of being out-shin'd by a Mock-Sun. Doggs at the Moon may barke, but never dare Against the glorious Sun so much as stare: Go on secure, that Wilsons honoured name Shall have, as it deserves, immortall Fame. Call, O call back thy resolution Of not composing more; Springs allwaies run, The World would suffer else, and thy great name Be lessen'd; then do not bound thy boundless fame; But, like the Sun, still scatter beams of light, Nor the whole World, and thine own worth benight; For sure if men do single Ingots prize, They'll hugg the Mine where all perfection lies.

HENRY LAWES.