This Booke will live; It hath a Genius: This Above his Reader, or his Prayser, is. Hence, then, prophane: Here needs no words expense In Bulwarkes, Rav'lins, Ramparts, for defense, Such, as the creeping common Pioners use When they doe sweat to fortifie a Muse. Though I confesse a Beaumonts Booke to bee The Bound, and Frontire of our Poetrie; And doth deserve all muniments of praise, That Art, or Ingine, on the strength can raise. Yet, who dares offer a redoubt to reare? To cut a Dike? or sticke a Stake up, here, Before this worke? where Envy hath not cast A Trench against it, nor a Battry plac't? Stay till she make her vaine Approaches. Then If maymed, she come off, Tis not of men That Fort of so impregnable accesse, But higher power, as spight could not make lesse, Nor flatt'ry! but secur'd, by the Authors Name, Defies, whats crosse to Piety, or good Fame. And like a hallow'd Temple, free from taint Of Ethnicisme, makes his Muse a Saint.
