In commendation of Poetry.
By wanton Ovid? heavenly Poesie,
Parden the rashnesse of my infant Muse,
That I, a client to thy mysterie,
Should unadvisedly by that word abuse,
And terme him wanton, did no folly use:
For though his Muse was wanton, as he playned,
Yet Ovids life was chaste, and never stayned.
Parden the rashnesse of my infant Muse,
That I, a client to thy mysterie,
Should unadvisedly by that word abuse,
And terme him wanton, did no folly use:
For though his Muse was wanton, as he playned,
Yet Ovids life was chaste, and never stayned.
Nor sung he alwayes in a wanton lay,
And penned pleasing ditties of blinde fire:
Of deeper matters much could Ovid say,
As he whose soaring spirit mounted higher,
Than ever Poet after could aspire.
And save the famous Homer chiefe of all,
[1]The Prince of Poets may we Ovid call.
And penned pleasing ditties of blinde fire:
Of deeper matters much could Ovid say,
As he whose soaring spirit mounted higher,
Than ever Poet after could aspire.
And save the famous Homer chiefe of all,
[1]The Prince of Poets may we Ovid call.
But neither Homer, Ovid, nor the rest,
That ever tasted [2]Aganippes spring,
Though but to write of fables they addrest,
Which to th'unskilfull no contentment bring,
But with such arte and knowledge did them sing,
That in their volumes scarce appeares one line,
Which to the learned doth not seeme divine.
That ever tasted [2]Aganippes spring,
Though but to write of fables they addrest,
Which to th'unskilfull no contentment bring,
But with such arte and knowledge did them sing,
That in their volumes scarce appeares one line,
Which to the learned doth not seeme divine.
No
