The Authors description of a Poet and Poesie, with an Apollogie in defence of Naturall English Poetrie

Shall Beggers diue into the Acts of Kings?
Shall Nature speake of supernat'rall things,
Shall Egles flights atempted be by Gnatts?
Shall mighty Whales be portraied out by Sprate:
These things I know vnpossible to be,
And it is as vnpossible for me.
That am a begger in these Kingly acts,
Which from the Heau'ns true Poetry extracts.
A supernat'rall foole, by Nature I
That neuer knew this high borne mystery,
A worthlesse gnat, I know my selfe more weake,
Yet of the Princely Egle dare to speake:
A silly sprat the Ocean seekes to sound,
To seeke this Whale, though seeking he be drown'd:
Then to proceed: a Poets Art I know,
Is not compact of earthly things below:
Nor is of any base substantiall mettle,
That in the worlds rotundity doth settle:
But tis immortall, and it hath proceeding,
From whence diuinest soules haue all their breeding.
It is a blessing heau'n hath sent to men,
By men it is diuulged with their pen:
And by that propogation it is knowne,
And ouer all the world disperst and throwne:
In verball elocution so refinde,
That it to Vertue animates mans mindes
The blessed singer of blest Israel,
In this rare Art, he rarely did exell,
He sweetely Poetyz'd in Heau'nly verses,
Such lines which aye eternity rehearses:
What Reuerend rate, and glorious great esteeme,
Augustus Caesar did a Poet deeme:
Admired Virgils life doth plainely show
That all the world a Poets worth may know:
But leauing Israels King, and Romane Caesar,
Let's seeke in England, English Poets treasure,
Sir Phillip Sidney, his times Mars and Muse,
That word, and sword so worthily could vse,
That spight of death his Glory liu's, alwaies
For Conquests, and for Poesie crown'd with bayes:
What famous men liu's in this age of ours
As if the Sisters nine had left their bowres,
With more post hast then expeditious wings
They here haue found the Helliconian springs.
We of our mighty Monarch IAMES may boast,
Who in this heau'nly Art exceeds the most:
Where men may see the Muses wisdome well,
When such a Glorious house they chose to dwell:
The Preacher whose instructions doth afford
The soules deere food, the euerliuing word:
If Poets skill be banisht from his braine,
His preaching (sometimes) will be but too plaine:
Twixt Poetry and best Diuinity
There is such neere, and deere affinity.
As t'were propinquity of brothers blood,
That without tone, the other's not so good:
The man that takes in hand braue verse to write,
And in Diuinity hath no insight,
He may perhaps make smoothe, and Art-like Rimes,
To please the humors of these idle times:
But name of Poet he shal neuer merrit,
Thogh writing them he waste his very spirit:
They therefore much mistake that seeme to say,
How euery one that writes a paltry play:
A sottish Sonnet in the praise of loue,
A song or iegge, that fooles to laughter mooue,
In praise or dispraise, in defame or fame,
Deserues the honour of a Poets name:
I further say, and further will maintaine
That he that hath true Po'sie in his braine,
Will not profane so high and heau'nly skill,
To glory, or be prow'd of writing ill:
But if his Muse do stoope to such deiection,
Tis but to shew the world her sinnes infection:
A Poets ire sometimes may be inflam'd:
To make foule Vices brazen face asham'd.
And then his Epigrames and Satirs whip
Will make basegald vnruly Iades to skip:
In frost they say tis good, bad blood be nipt,
And I haue seene Abuses whipt and stript,
In such rare fashion, that the wincing age,
Hath kick'd and flung, with vncontrouled rage.
Oh worthy Withers I shall loue thee euer,
And often maist thou doe thy best indeuer,
That still thy workes and thee may liue togither
Contending with thy name, and neuer wither.
But further to proceed in my pretence
Of Natr'all English Poetries defence:
For Lawreat Sidney, and our gracious Iames,
Haue plunged bin in Arts admired streames:
And all the learned Poets of our daies,
Haue Arts great ayde to winne still liuing bayes.
All whom I do confesse such worthy men,
That I vnworthy am with inke and pen
To carie after them. But since my haps
Haue bin so happy as to get some scaps:
By Nature giu'n me from the Muses table,
Ile put them to the best vse I am able:
I haue read Tasso, Virgill, Homer, Ouid,
Iosephus, Plutark, whence I haue aproued,
And found such obseruations as are fit,
With plenitude to fraught a barren wit.
And let a man of any nation be,
These Authors reading, makes his iudgement see
Some rules that may his ignorance refine,
And such predominance it hath with mine.
No bladder blowne ambition puff's my Muse,
An English Poets writings to excuse:
Nor that I any rule of art condem,
Which is Dame Natures ornamentall Iem:
But these poore lines I wrote (my wits best pelfe)
Defending that which can defend it selfe.
Know then vnnat'ral English Mungril Monster,
Thy wandring iudgement doth too much misconster:
When thou affirm'st thy Natiue Contry-man,
To make true verse no art or knowledge can:
Cease, cease to do this glorious kingdome wrong,
To make her speech inferiour to each tongue:
Show not thy selfe more bruitish then a beast,
Base is that bird that files her homeborne neast:
In what strange tongue did Virgils Muse commerce?
What language wast that Ouid wrote his verse?
Thou sayst t'was Latin, why I say so too,
In no tongue else they any thing could doo:
They Nat'rally did learne it from their mother,
And must speake Lattin, that could speake no other:
The Grecian blinded Bard did much compile,
And neuer vsde no foreigne far-fetcht stile:
But as he was a Greeke, his verse was Greeke,
In other tongues (alas) he was to seeke,
Du Bartas heauenly all admired Muse,
No vnknowne Language euer vs'de to vse:
But as he was a Frenchman, so his lines
In natitue French with fame most glorious shines.
And in the English tongue tis fitly stated,
By siluer-tongued Siluester translated.
So well, so wisely, and so rarely done,
That he by it immortall fame hath wonne.
Then as Great Maro, and renowned Naso,
Braue Homer, Petrarke, sweete Italian Tasso:
And numbers more, past numbring to be numberd,
Whose rare inuentions neuer were incumberd,
With our outlandish chip chop gibrish gabling,
To fill mens eares with vnacquainted babling:
Why may not then an Englishman. I pray,
In his owne language write as erst did they,
Yet must we suit our phrases to their shapes,
And in their imitations be their Apes.
Whilst Muses haunt the fruitfull forked hill,
The world shall reuerence their vnmatched skill.
And for inuention, fiction, method, measure,
From them must Poets seeke to seeke that treasure.
But yet I thinke a man may vse that tongue
His Country vses, and doe them no wrong.
Then I whose Artlesse studies are but weake,
Who neuer could, nor will but English speake,
Do heere maintaine, if words be rightly plac'd,
A Poets skill, with no tongue more is grac'd.
It runnes so smooth, so sweetly it doth flow,
From it such heauenly harmony doth grow,
That it the vnderstanders senses moues
With admiration, to expresse their loues.
No Musicke vnder heauen is more diuine,
Then is a well-writte, and a well-read line.
But when a witlesse selfe conceited Rooke,
A good inuention dares to ouerlooke:
How pitteous then mans best of wit is martyr'd,
In barbrous manner totter'd torne and quarter'd.
So mingle mangled, and so hack't and hewd,
So seuraily be scuruide and bemewde.
Then this detracting dutty dunghill drudge,
Although he vnderstand not, yet will iudge.
Thus famous Poesie must abide the doome
Of euery muddy minded raskall Groome.
Thus rarest Artists are continuall stung
By euery prating, stinking lumpe of dung.
For what cause then should I so much repine,
When best of writers that ere wrote a line
Are subiect to the censure of the worst,
Who will their follies vent, or else they burst.
I haue at idle times some Pamphlets writ,
(The fruitlesse issue of a nat'rall witte)
And cause I am no Scholler, some enuy me,
With foule and false calumnious words belie me:
With brazen fronts, and flinty hard beleefe
Affirming or suspecting me a theefe:
And that my sterrile Muse so drie is milch'd,
That what I write, is borrow'd, beg'd, or filch,d.
Because my name is Tailor, they suppose
My best inuentions all from stealing growes:
As though there were no difference to be made
Betwixt the name of Tailor, and the Trade.
Of all strange weapons, I haue least of skill
To mannage or to wield a Tailors bill.
I cannot Item it for silke and facing,
For cutting, edging, stiffning, and for lacing:
For bumbast, stitching, binding, and for buckram,
For cotton, baies, for canuas and for lockram.
All these I know, but know not how to vse them,
Let trading Taylors therefore still abuse them.
My skil's as good to write, to sweat, or row,
As any Tailors is to steale or sowe.
In ende, my pulsiue braine no Art affoords,
To mint, or stampe, or forge new coined words.
But all my tongue can speake, or pen can write
Was spoke and writ before I could endite.
Yet let me be of my best hopes bereft,
If what I euer writ I got by thest:
Or by base symony, or bribes, or guifts
Or begd, or borrowd it by sharking shifts.
I know I neuer any thing haue done,
But what may from a weake inuention runne.
Giue me the man whose wit will vndertake
A substance of a shadow for to make:
Of nothing something, (with Arts great aide)
With Nature onely all his Muse arraide.
That solid matter from his braine can squees,
Whilst some Iame Artists wits are drawne to'th leeze.
By teaching Parrots prate and prattle can,
And taught an Ape will imitate a man:
And Banks his horse shew'd tricks, taught with much labor
So did the hare that plaid vpon the tabor.
Shall man, I pray, so witlesse be besotted?
Shall men (like beasts) no wisdome be allotted,
(Without great studie) with instinct of Nature,
Why then were man the worst and basest creature?
But men are made the other creatures Kings,
Because superiour wisdome from them springs.
And therefore Momus vnto thee againe
That dost suspect the issue of my braine
Are but my bastards, now my Muse doth flie,
And in thy throat giues thy suspect the lie.
And to the triall dares thee when thou dar'st
Accounting thee a coward if thou spar'st.
I haue a little wit, and braine, and spleane,
And gall, and memory, and mirth and teene,
And passions, and affections of the minde,
As other Mortals vse to be enclinde.
And hauing all this, wherefore should men doubt
My wit should be so Cripled with the Gout,
That it must haue assistance to compile,
Like a lame dogge, that's limping ore a stile.
No, no, thou Zoylus, thou detracting else,
Though thou art insufficient in thy selfe:
And hast thy wit and studies in reuersion,
Cast not on me that scandalous aspersion.
I hate such belladmongring riming slaues,
Such iygging rascals, such audacious knaues.
The bane of learning, the abuse of Arts,
The scumme of Naturs worst defectiue parts:
The scorne of schollers, poison of rewards,
Regardlesse vassalles of true worths regard,
The shame of time the canker of desarts,
The dearth of liberall and heroicke harts.
That like so many bandogs snatle and snatch,
And all's their owne they can from others cath.
That licke the scraps of Schollers wits (like dogges)
(A Prouerb old) draffs good enough for hogges.
Purloining, line by line, and peece by peece,
And from each place they read, will filch a fleece.
Me thinks my Muse should peecemeale teare these roages
More base and vile then tatter'd Irish broages.
Clawkissing raskals, flattering Parasites,
Sworne vices vassalles, vertues opposites.
Tis you dambde curres haue murderd liberall minds,
And made best Poets worse esteem'd then hindes.
But wherefore doe I take a Schollers part,
That haue no grounds or Axioms of Art:
That am in Poesie an artlesse creature,
That haue no learning but the booke of Nature:
No Academicall Poetike straines,
But homespunne medley of my mottley braines.
The reason I a Schollers wants bewaile,
And why against base litter'd whelps I raile,
Is this, that they long time should time bestow
In painefull study, secret Arts to know,
And after liue in want, contempt and scorne,
By euery dunghill peasant ouerborne.
Abus'd, rejected, doggedly disgrac'd,
Despised ragged, lowsie, and out fac'd:
Whilest Bagpipe-poets stuf with others winde,
Are grac'd for wit, they haue from them purloinde.
Now in mine owne defence once more Ile say,
Their too rash iudgements to much runnes astray,
That, cause my name is Tailor I doe theeue it,
I hope their wisdomes will no more beleeue it.
Nor let my want of learning be the cause,
I should be bitten with blacke enuies iawes:
For whosoere by nature is not a Poet
By rules of Art he neuer well can show it.
Ther'is many a wealthy heire long time at Schoole,
Doth spend much study, and comes home a foole.
A Poet needes must be a Poet borne,
Or else his Art procures his greater scorne.
For why? if Art alone made men excell,
Me thinkes Tom Coriat should write exlent well:
But he was borne be like in some crosse yeere,
When learning was good cheape, but wit was deare.
Then to conclude, as I before began,
Though nought by Schollership or Art I can
Yet (if my stocke by nature were more bare)
I scorne to vtter stolne or borrowed ware:
And therefore Reader now I tell thee plaine,
If thou incredilous dost still remaine.
If yea or nay these reasons doe perswade thee,
I leaue thee and thy faith to him that made thee.