To praise these Poems well, there doth require The selfe-same spirit, and that sacred fire That first inspir'd them; yet I cannot choose But pay an admiration to a Muse That sings such handsome things; never brake forth, From Climes so neare the Beare, so bright a worth; And I beleeve the Caledonian Bow'rs Are full as pleasant, and as rich in flow'rs As Tempe e're was fam'd, since they have nourish'd A wit the most sublime that ever flourish'd; There's nothing cold, or frozen, here contain'd, Nothing that's harsh, unpolish'd, or constrain'd, But such an ardour as creates the spring, And throws a chearfulnesse on every thing; Such a sweet calmnesse runs through every verse As shews how he delighted to converse With silence, and his Muse, among those shades Which care, nor busie tumult, e're invades; There would he oft, the adventures of his loves Relate unto the Fountaines, and the groves, In such a straine as Laura had admir'd Her Petrarch more, had he been so inspir'd. Some, Phoebus gives, a smooth and streaming veine, A great and happy fancy some attaine, Others unto a soaring height he lifts; But here he hath so crouded all his gifts, As if he had design'd in one to try, To what a pitch he could bring Poetry; For every grace should he receive a Crown, There were not Bays enough in Helicon: Fame courts his Verse, and with immortall wings Hovers about his Monument, and brings A deathlesse trophy to his memory; Who, for such honour, would not wish to dye? Never could any times afford a Story Of one so match'd unto great Sidney's glory; Or Fame so well divided, as between Penshurst's renowned shades, and Hawthornden.
