HOw safe (Endimion) had I liv'd? how blest,In all the silent privacies of rest?How might I lengthen sleeps, had I beene wiseUnto my selfe, and never seene thine Eyes?My Verse (unenvy'd then) had learn'd to moveA slow, meeke pace; like sober Hymns of loveBy some noch'd-Brownist sung; that would indeereHis holy itch, to some chaste Midwives Eare:The pleasure of ambition then had bin,To me lost in the danger, and the sinne:The Mirtle Sprig (that never can decay)I had not knowne, nor Wreaths of living Bay:In stead of these, and the wild Ivy Twine,(Which our wise Fathers justly did assigne,To him that in immortall Verse exceeds)My Brow had worne, some homly Wreath of Weeds:And such low pride is safe: for though the BayLightning, nor Winds can blast, yet Envy may.If hidden still from thee, I should have lesseTo answer now, for glory, and excesse:My surfets had not reach'd the cunning yet,To seeke an expiation from their wit:For more than Village Ale, and drowsie Beere,(Cawdles, and Broth to the dull Islander)I nere had wish'd; now, My Man, hot, and dry,With fierce transcriptions of my Poesie;Cryes, Sir, I thirst! then strait I bid him chuse(As Poets Prentices did surely useOf Greece, and Rome) some cleere, cheap Brook; there stay,And drinke at Natures charge his thirst away:Though Fasts (more than are taught i'th Kalender)Had made him weake; this gave him strength to sweare;And urge, that after Horace the divineMæcenas knew, his Slaves drunke ever Wine:So whilst Endimion lives, hee vowes to pierceOld Gascoine Caske, or not transcribe a verse.If never knowne to thee, missing the skillHow to doe good, I should have found my illExcus'd: Th'excessive charge of Ink, and Oyle,Expence of quiet sleepes, and the vaine toyle,In which the Priest of Smyrna tooke delight,(When he for knowledge chang'd his precious sight)Had scap'd me then; now whilst I strive to pleaseWith tedious Art, I lose the lust of ease.And when our Poets (enviously miss-led)Shall finde themselves out-written, and out-read;T'will urge their sorrow too, that thou didst giveTo my weake Numbers, strength, and joy to live.But O! uneasie thoughts! what will becomeOf me, when thou retir'st into a Tombe?The Cruell, and the Envious then will say,Since now his Lord is dead; he that did swayOur publique smiles, opinion, and our praise,Till wee this Childe of Poesie did raiseTo Fame, and love; let's drowne him in our Inke;Where like a lost dull Plummet let him sinkeFrom humane sight; from knowledge he was borne;Unlesse Succession finde him in our scorne.Remembrance, never to Repentance showes,The wealth wee gaine, but what wee feare to lose;Thou art my wealth; and more than Light ere spy'd,Than Easterne Hills bring forth, or Seas can hide:But thus when I rejoyce, my feares divine,I want the fate, still to preserve thee mine:And Kings depos'd, wish they had never knowneDelight, nor sway; which erst they toyl'd to owne.
