Q. Horatius Flaccus: his Art of poetry. Englished by Ben: Jonson. With other workes of the author, never printed before

BARTON HOLYDAY, to BEN JONSON.

EPODE.

TIs dangerous to praise; besides the taske, Which to do't well, will aske An age of time and judgement; who can then Be prais'd, and by what pen? Yet, I know both, whilst thee I safely chuse My subject, and my Muse. For sure, henceforth our Poets shall implore Thy aid, which lends them more, Then can their tyr'd Apollo, or the nine She wits, or mighty wine. These Deities are banquerupts, and must be Glad to beg art of thee. Some they might once perchance on thee bestow: But, now, to thee they owe: Who dost in daily bounty more wit spend, Then they could ever lend.

Thus thou, didst build the globe, which, but for thee, Should want its Axle-tree: And, like a carefull founder, thou dost now Leave Rules for ever, how To keep't in reparations, which will doe More good, than to build two. It was an able stock, thou gav'st before; Yet, loe, a richer store! Which doth, by a prevention, make us quit With a deare yeare of wit: Come when it will, by this thy name shall last Untill Fames utmost blast. Thou art a wealthy Epigram, which spends Most vigour when it ends. This ful Epiphonema of thy best Wit, out-speaks all the rest. Me thinkes, I see our after Nephewes gaze, And all their time to praise Is taken up in wonder; whilst they see Ages of wit, in thee Collected, and well judg'd: Charons stout heart Feeles thy new power of Art, And, his obedient armes labour amaine, Whilst he wafts back againe What Poets shadow, thou dost please to call To this thy judgement hall:

Whiles, at these frightning Sessions, thou dost fit, The searching Judge of wit, O how the Ghosts do shuffle one behind Another, left thou find Them, and their errours: but, in vaine, they flie Thy persecuting eye. Bold Aristophanes, shrewd whotfon, now More feares thy threatning brow, Then his owne guilt of libelling, and prayes He may new write his playes. Plautus so quakes, that he had rather still Grind on in his old mill. Terence would borrow his owne Eunuchs shape, By the disguise to scape. The Greek Tragoedians droop, as if they plaid The persons whom they made: Fearing thou'lt bid them adde with more expence Of braine, wit to their sence: Or whilst their murdered wits thou maist contemne. Write Tragoedies of them. Seneca, would with Hercules be glad To scape, by running mad: Or at the least, he feares as lesse a hurt, To weare his burning shirt. They'd all take care, and if thy Flaccus too Writ now, he'd write all new.

Yet all at once confesse Flaccus doe's well, But thou makst him excell. The Morning Sunne viewing a silver stream, So guilds it with his beame. Master of Art, and Fame! who here makst knowne To all, how all thine owne Well-bodied works were fram'd, whilst here we see Their fine Anatomee. Each nerve and vaine of Art, each slender string, Thou to our eye dost bring: Thus, what thou didst before so well collect, Thou dost as well dissect. For which skill, Poëms now thy censure waie, And thence receive their Fate. Thou needst not seek for thē, to thee they're brought, And so held good, or nought. Thus, doth the eye disdaine, with an extreame Scorne to send forth a beame: But scaly formes from the glad object flow By which the eye doth know Its subtle image: thus the eye keeps state, Thus doth the object wait. But here, at this, perchance some one stands by, and drawes his mouth awry; As if his mouth (his mouth he doth so teare) Would whisper in his eare;

When thy soft pitty, if it see his spight, But saies, set your mouth right. Yet in mild truth, this worke hath some defect, As now I dare object: Thou err'st against a workmans rarest part, Which is to hide his Art. Next, all thy rules fall short, since none can teach A verse, thy worth to reach. For which, Ile now judge thee: know thy estate Of wit must beare this fate: Till Ionson teach some Muse a straine yet new, Ionson shall want his due,