To the Right Honourable, the Lady Mary, Countess of Pembroke.

Loe here the work the which she did impose,

Who only does predominate my Muse :

The star of wonder, which my labours chose

To guide their way in all the course I use.

She, whose clear brightness does alone infuse

Strength to my thoughts, and makes me what I am,

Called up my spirits from out their low repose,

To sing of state, and tragic notes to frame.

I, who, contented with a humble song,

Made music to myself that pleased me best,

And only told of Delia, and her wrong,

And praised her eyes, and plained mine own unrest :

A text from whence my Muse had not degressed,

Madam, had not thy well graced Anthony,

Who all alone having remained long,

Required his Cleopatra's company.

Who if she here do so appear in act,

That for his queen and love he scarce will know her,

Finding how much she of herself has lacked,

And must that glory wherein I should show her,

In majesty debased, in courage lower ;

Yet lightning thou by thy sweet favouring eyes,

My dark defects which from her spirit detract,

He yet may guess it's she, which will suffice.

And I hereafter, in another kind,

More fitting to the nature of my vein,

May peradventure better please thy mind,

And higher notes in sweeter music strain :

Seeing that thou so graciously does deign,

To countenance my song and cherish me.

I must so work posterity may find

How much I did contend to honour thee.

Now when so many pens, like spears, are charged,

To chase away this tyrant of the North,

Gross barbarism, whose power grown far enlarged,

Was lately by thy valiant brother's worth,

First found, encountered, and provoked forth,

Whose onset made the rest audacious,

Whereby they likewise have so well discharged,

Upon that hideous beast encroaching thus.

And now must I with that poor strength I have,

Resist so foul a foe in what I may,

And arm against oblivion and the grave,

That else in darkness carries all away,

And makes of all our honours but a pray.

So that if by my pen procure I shall

But to defend me, and my name to save,

Then though I die, I cannot yet die all;

But still the better part of me will live,

Decked and adorned with thy sacred name,

Although thyself does far more glory give

Unto thyself than I can by the same.

Who does with thine own hand a bulwark frame

Against these monsters, enemies of honour,

Which evermore shall so defend thy fame,

That time nor they shall never pray upon her.

Those hymns that thou does consecrate to heaven,

Which Israel's singer to his God did frame,

Unto thy voice eternity has given,

And makes thee dear to him from whence they came.

In them must rest thy ever-reverent name,

So long as Sion's God remains honoured ;

And till confusion has all zeal bereaven,

And murdered faith, and temples ruined.

By this, great Lady, thou must then be known,

When Wilton lies low levelled with the ground;

And this is that which thou may call thine own,

Which sacrilegious time cannot confound;

Here thou surviv'st thyself, here thou are found

Of late succeeding ages, fresh in fame;

This monument cannot be overthrown,

Where, in eternal brass remains thy name.

O that the ocean did not bound our stile

Within these strict and narrow limits so,

But that the melody of our sweet isle,

Might now be heard to Tiber, Arne, and Po,

That they might know how far Thames does outgo

The music of declined Italy,

And listening to our songs another while,

Might learn of thee, their notes to purify.

O why may not some after-coming hand

Unlock these limits, open our confines,

And break a sunder this imprisoning band,

To enlarge our spirits, and publish our designs,

Planting our Roses on the Apenines ?

And teach to Rhine, to Loire, and Rhodanus

Our accents, and the wonders of our land,

That they might all admire and honour us.

Whereby great Sidney and our Spencer might,

With those Po-singers being equalled,

Enchant the world with such a sweet delight,

That their eternal songs, for ever read,

May show what great Eliza's reign has bred,

What music in the kingdom of her peace

Has now been made to her, and by her might,

Whereby her glorious fame shall never cease.

But if that Fortune does deny us this,

Then, Neptune, lock up with thy ocean key,

This treasure to ourselves, and let them miss

Of so sweet richness, as unworthy they

To taste the great delights that we enjoy.

And let our harmony so pleasing grown,

Content ourselves, whose error ever is

Strange notes to like, and disesteem our own.

But, whither do my vows transport me now,

Without the compass of my course enjoined ?

Alas, what honour can a voice so low

As this of mine, expect hereby to find?

But, Madam, this does animate my mind,

That favoured by the worthies of our land,

My lines are liked ; the which make me grow,

In time to take a greater task in hand.