A POET'S VISION, AND A PRINCE'S GLORY. DEDICATED TO THE HIGH and mighty Prince, James, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland.  
Written by THOMAS GREEN Gentleman.  
¶ Imprinted at London for William Leake. 1603.   

A POET'S VISION, AND A PRINCE'S GLORY.  

WHEN Hesperus, the Harbinger of night,  
Had justly ordered every burning light,  
My solitary chamber I forsook,  
And musing went unto a pleasant brook;  
Where, sitting down upon a hillock by,  
To steal delight with a more quiet eye,  
Soft drizzling drops upon my face did fall,  
Which sweeter were then that we Nectar call.  
That tree that but one little drop receives,  
Though bore before, was spangled all with leaves,  
The ground where scarce before a grass was seen,  
reviv'd with this, was mantled o'er with green.  
Long looked I not before my wondering eyes  
Were unto Morpheus made a willing prize:  
Such shapes of joy into each sense did creep,  
As rocked them all into a heavenly sleep.  
For had mine eyes a little longer seen,  
With extreme rapture I had senseless been,  
Sith nothing sooner can the sense destroy,  
Then taken by the eye too much of joy.  
Scarce had the pale God with his sleepy dart  
Struck through mine eyes my soft slumbering heart,  
When music sweeter I may say right well,  
Then that which brought Eurydice from hell,  
Did all the powers in me possess so whole,  
That through mine ears it stole away my soul;  
To which a Lady singing hear I might,  
The burden of her song I pray thee write.  
Wherewith I waked, and seeing nought, concluded  
My senses all were merely but deluded:  
Or else the gods to banquet now addressed,  
Apollo gave them music to their feast.  
No creature saw I yet, till looking round,  
Behind me just upon the verdant ground  
I spied a Lady sit, but such an one,  
As well might make jove to forsake his throne,  
And utterly renounce his sister's bed,  
And all his want on tricks with Ganymed.  
Her garments all were white, her hair hung down,  
Upon her head she wore a Laurel Crown,  
An Iu'rie Lute she with one hand did twine,  
And with the other Music played divine.  
Her Lute, to glut mine ears with different choice,  
She did accord with her melodious voice.  
After her song she often had repeated,  
With this demand I fairly her entreated;   

Goddess (said I) for by thy heavenly face,  
I guess thou sprung'st not from a mortal race,  
Those looks of thine serve as a warrant good,  
That thou no mixture hadst of human blood,  
Never could Nature, of herself, bring forth  
A creature of such rare and Princely worth.  
Of favour show to me, why at this time,  
Especially under this hapless clime,  
Where never joy yet peeped from the earth,  
But it was stifled fore it came to birth,  
Delight so prodigal itself doth waste,  
Spending in minutes that should ages last,  
As of necessity it must be shone,  
Yet by extremes, shows it would fain be gone?  
Is Earth ascended into heavens place?  
Or is't your beauty doth enforce this grace?  
Is Heaven descended to the lowest Earth?  
Or is't your Music that doth cause this Mirth?  
Or is't a Dream, and do I nothing see,  
That sweetly thus colludes my fantasy?  
Or if none of these, what it then should be,  
I pray thee, gentle Lady, tell to me?  
Pausing a while, and looking in my face,  
Thus she bespoke me with a modest grace;   

Vainly to boast of my descent or blood,  
Would argue I did fear my proper good.  
For who his blood only and kin commends,  
Commends nought of his own, but of his friends.  
Yet, were I so disposed my birth to prove,  
I could derive myself from highest jove:  
And I could say, and yet but truly say,  
My mother was the wise Mnemosyne;  
Or I could call my name Calliope,  
And tell how once I with Apollo lay,  
From whose mixed pleasures, being then but young,  
The Thracian Orpheus naturally sprung.  
But farewell this: my purpose is to show  
From whence my coming hither now doth flow.   

Virtue confined in a narrow room,  
far in the North, where she doth only bloom,  
(Where had she not contenting favour seen,  
From all the world she had exiled been,  
And long ere this had lost her glorious name,  
Had she not there reviv'd her dying fame.  
O worthy place! thy Epithet henceforth  
Be sung by Poets thus; The Virtuous North.)  
Now breaking forth into a larger State,  
Which of all Lands is made most fortunate,  
Gives me the matter of this new delight,  
And doth my soul unto this joy excite,  
That hours unnumbered hath been locked from light,  
And puzzled lain in dark oblivious night.  
Gross Nature that hath many years lain sick  
(First wounded with lewd vices stinging prick)  
On the corrupted bed of vain desire,  
Without all show of hope, ever t'aspire,  
To blessed fruition of herself, is now  
(The thought whereof would smooth the agedst brow)  
Clean purged of her filth, from error led,  
As till this hour she were not perfect bred,  
But ages infinite had lain in earth,  
And by no means before could have her birth,  
Even as a Hawk new taken from the Mew  
Hath cast her old train, and resumed a new:  
So Nature now doth with fresh wings aspire,  
Whose old ones all were tainted o'er with mire.  
Time, that before was baited with deceat,  
In the foul river of a forced sweat,  
To make simplicity the sooner bite,  
That had no eyes, but bended on delight,  
(Who would not live in blind credulity,  
Rather than see what he would fear to see?)  
Is now full gorged with honourable zeal,  
Which lately proof did to the world reveal.  
Now yet at last returned are those days,  
That ancient Poets long ago did praise,  
Which have so many years been kept from breath,  
Barred up within the Iron cave of death,  
Which eating time, consenting with the Fates,  
Hath now enlarged, by bursting open the gates.  
For joy whereof, could but this dumb earth speak,  
She would into an exultation break:  
Yet, for she wants a tongue, to show her pleasure  
She is invested with her richest treasure.  
Erect thy face, and thou shalt see on high  
The stars do dance proud Galliardes in the sky,  
Or else they all are forced thus to move,  
Under the weight of jove dancing above.  
Now Mercury, heavens Orator alone,  
Persuades his Father leave his sacred throne,  
And sweetly tells him with such moving grace,  
He must descend unto a better place:  
Which jove believing, in Heaven makes a dearth,  
And Tuns of Nectar tumbles on the earth,  
As if he would unfurnish heaven quite,  
And frame another on this earth to night.  
Now flattering Pride, and Ostentation vain,  
Hath (Peacocke-like) pulled in her painted train.  
Covetousness is changed, yet keeps her name,  
Where she craved wealth, she only craves but fame.  
Gluttony feeds slightly upon her own,  
That was before with others cost full blown.  
Drunkenness, that above the rest excelled,  
Is now unto Sobriety compelled.  
Sloth, that till now lodged in her sleepy cave,  
By valour shows she seeks an honoured grave.  
Incontinence, her fires are somewhat drenched,  
But never will be altogether quenched.  
Black vile betraying Policy is dead,  
And meager Envy hangeth down her head.  
And wheresoe'er a vice hath reigned long,  
In that same place there is a virtue sprung.  
Now shall those young and virtuous plants arise,  
Which were destroyed by loathsome poisonous eyes.  
Here Poets might extol their excellence,  
If Barbarism have not exiled them hence,  
If other Lands enjoy not their blessed sight,  
Whom barking ignorance hath put to flight,  
Their long-sheathed Pens they might so exercise,  
As they should sit above the reach of eyes,  
And looking down upon their native earth,  
Should grieve to think they had so low a birth.  
Yet I have one thing left surmounts the rest,  
Which tunes such Music in my gladsome breast,  
That sorrow cannot my least thought annoy,  
Each room in me is so filled up with joy;  
Nor can I tell it with my breaths faint story,  
I am so swelled up with immortal glory.   

Can sense (said I) more of delight yet taste,  
Then that which hath thy lips already past?  
Thou tellest wonders, and I fear this night,  
My greedy ears will surfeit on delight.  
Yet if unspoken joy do live in thee,  
Of it (in kindness) let me sharer be,  
Wherewith to me she did her white hand reach,  
And sweetly thus continued on her speech.   

In Boeotia, my sisters eight and I,  
Which once (said she) were elevated high,  
And well esteemed in former ages passed,  
Until these dead corrupted times came last,  
And every year to us had tribute paid,  
By choicest wits, for lending them our aid,  
Have long in stead of tribute been disgraced,  
And all our names from memory displaced.  
For want whereof, we all were grown so poor,  
That we could scarce keep misery from our door.  
The chiefest pay we had to set us forth  
In all our wants, came from the Princely North,  
And some from hence, from worthy Delia's store,  
From sweet Idea, and from some few more:  
All which so short of that we had before,  
To those rich times so slender and so poor,  
That with it we ourselves could scarce sustain,  
Our number was so great, so small our gain.  
Others here are which with their railing Muse  
Offend grave ears, and do our names abuse  
In bringing forth such Monsters to the light,  
Whose ugly shapes do terrify our sight.  
But why should such my peaceful gall excite?  
Well they may bark, but they shall never bite.  
The whips are made shall yerk them from their places,  
Whose rooms shall be adorned with better Graces.  
But now, ôever blest, eternal sweet!  
The Laurel and a triple Crown doth meet.  
Now cometh in our long-detained Spring,  
Reduced back by a victorious King,  
Whose triple Crown, to add more glorious praise,  
Is triply Crowned with a triple Bays,  
Which is the richest Crown a King can have,  
It keeps him from oblivion of the grave;  
Where, after some expense of running time,  
Upon whose back doth dissolution clime,  
His other Crown, that guilded but the eye,  
Will quickly fade, when fadeth Majesty.  
But this so long as Heaven lends a breath,  
Shall freshly spring in spite of Fate and death.  
To be a Prince it is an honoured thing,  
Yet every Poet to himself's a King.  
But where in one they both commixed be,  
He than is equal with a Deity.   

This caused us all to leave our Helicon,  
Our double-topped hill, our Cithaeron,  
That were nigh ruinated with disgrace,  
And hither come to a more worthy place,  
Where on the top of an Imperious Throne,  
We will build up another Helicon.  
The Hills we left were all composed of mould,  
But we will here erect a hill of gold,  
Which, where it stands, shall to such height arise,  
As it shall keep the Stars from mortal eyes:  
And by these names it shall be called above,  
The Muse's Tent, the golden walk of jove.   

From all my sisters have I stolen away,  
Which marvel much of my so long a stay,  
To bring these glorious tidings unto thee,  
The which have infinitely ravished me,  
That if thou covetst to have thy name near die,  
But wrap thy memory in eternity,  
Past deprivation of corrupting dust,  
When thou into thy latest bed art thrust,  
This place can yield thee such Promethean fires,  
As shall give answer to thy blessed desires.  
Therefore no longer hide thy Muse from light,  
But pray thee, pray thee, take thy pen and write.  
Nor think I would thus much to thee impart,  
But that I know thou dost affect this Art.   

Alas (said I) should I deny my love.  
Of ignorance you might me then reprove:  
Yet (hapless I) nothing in me hath place  
More than my love, with which I can it grace.  
Or if there were, I should not trace this way,  
For that I grieving see how every day  
New swarms of vertue-killing Drones appear,  
Which vilely so untune the general ear  
With harsh discording sounds, as who now sings,  
(Although his lines were sweeter than the strings  
That play the morning up) gets no respect,  
And is not heard, or heard but with neglect;  
But sooner far may move the stones to hear,  
Then careless men, who only bodies bear  
Without true souls: for had they souls, they would  
With all their nerves the life of soul uphold,  
In giving nutriment to Arts, from whence  
Man wholly doth derive his excellence.  
These be the Hydra's of this age, the Apes,  
The monsters, rolled up in men's pleasing shapes,  
Have so infected with their tainted blood  
The nourishing fruits, which should feed the good,  
That undeservingly they now must stand  
Under the censure of too rough a hand,  
And for whole years of nights in labour spent,  
To give the envious idle world content,  
Must not for all those nights receive more right  
Than he whose sleepy Muse near saw the night.  
Which makes them choose to be with ease infected,  
Rather than write, and have their works neglected.  
Where, might not every Cuckoo have access,  
And bring vnsau'rie writings to the Press,  
To dull the ears of men, already slain  
With poisonous swellings of their rotten brain,  
What throngs of learned souls would then aspire,  
Touched with this sacred and celestial fire?  
How many would by this their heavenly skill,  
(Having ability as great as will)  
Infinitely upraise themselves from earth,  
Making their beings far higher than their birth?  
But now they hidden lie from light exempt,  
Raked up within the ashes of contempt.  
This maketh me that am with skill unblessed,  
To love this Art, but dare not rank the best  
With childish issue of my fainter Muse,  
As poor ambitious ignorantes do vse.  
Besides, what slender glory can ensue  
His Muse, whereof the world took never view?   

Fie fie (said she) thou art too Critical,  
And dost consent unto thine own dread fall.  
Admit thy worth were under the degree  
Of toleration, which I know not to be,  
Suppose that millions do deserve more praise,  
Wilt thou for this forsake Apollo's bay?  
O do not so! thy Muse may once be blest,  
And gently fost'red in a Kingly breast.  
What though the world saw never line of thine?  
Near can thy Muse have a birth more divine.  
And where these ugly imitating Apes  
Which (as thou sayst) do but usurp men's shapes,  
Have so defiled this Land, the time's now come,  
Those bawling fools shall quite be stricken dumb,  
Or should they talk, what can it hurt the wise?  
It is well known they but Idolatrise.  
For when true judgement shall their errors find,  
'twill add more honour to the virtuous mind.  
Sweet Philomela that sings in the spring,  
Would lose some grace, did not the Cuckoo sing.  
Therefore no longer hide thy Muse from light,  
But pray thee, pray thee, take thy pen and write.   

With these enforcements was I won at length,  
Convinced wholly by her powerful strength,  
And new inspired with a sacred light,  
Agreed to write what I had seen to night,  
And if this prosper but successefullie,  
I will herein my further fortunes try.   
FINIS.