Robert Farley

E. Colman, "To the Author" Farley, Kalendarium Humanae Vitae (1638) sig. A3v.

Fame pluckes a pinion from the wings of Time,
Dips it in nectar, graves thy mighty rime
Within her brasen sheetes, makes envy stand
(Mauger her heart) and light her duskie brand:
Whil'st she in crimson letters writes: These, these,
Shall be the whole worlds Ephemerides.

Did not Urania loose thy fetter'd minde,
Out of the clayeie prison, and resign'd
Her place to it? did not thy purer lay
Flow from the fountaine of the Milkie way?
Did not she dictate to thee, how to skan
These moneths of woe, this Almanacke of man?
An Almanacke that ne'er shall b' out of date,
But last as long as time, as firme as fate.
She did, (heare, envie, heare and burst) and by
Her staffe thou took'st the height of Poetry:
Th' Arcadian Shepheards shall make thee their starre,
And place this next to Tityrus Calendar.

Like to another Phoebus thou dost take
Thy twelvemoneths taske through lifes short Zodiacke:
But these art too too narrow bounds for thee,
Eeach moneth's an age, each age eternitie.
The names, not nature's of the moneths, I see
Described in thy caelestial poetrie.
Fresh May and lusty June triumph'd alone
In thy warme breast, December there is none.
Envie her selfe can finde no fault but this,
Perfect thy moneths, thy globe imperfect is.
No parallell is seene in all thy spheare,
Besides, too, no Aequator doth appeare.