WHAT work of honour and eternal name For all th' world to envy, and us t'achieve, Fills me with fury, and gives armed hands

To my heart's peace, that else would gladly turn

My limbs and every sense into my thoughts Rapt with the thirsted action of my mind? O Clio, Honour's Muse, sing in my voice; Tell th' attempt, and prophesy the exploit Of his Eliza-consecrated sword,

That in this peaceful charm of England's sleep

Opens most tenderly her aged throat, Offering to pour fresh youth through all her veins,

That flesh of brass and ribs of steel retains.

Riches, and conquest, and renown I sing, Riches with honour, conquest without blood,

Enough to seat the monarchy of earth, Like to Jove's eagle, on Eliza's hand. Guiana, whose rich feet are mines of gold,

Whose forehead knocks against the roof of

stars,

Stands on her tip-toes at fair England looking,

Kissing her hand, bowing her mighty breast,

And every sign of all submission making, To be her sister, and the daughter both Of our most sacred maid; whose barren

ness

Is the true fruit of virtue, that may get, Bear and bring forth anew in all perfection,

What heretofore savage corruption held In barbarous Chaos; and in this affair Become her father, mother, and her heir.

* Prefixed to "A Relation of the second Voyage to Guiana. Perfourmed and written in the yeare 1596. By Lawrence Keymis, Gent. Imprinted at London by Thomas Dawson, dwelling at the three Cranes in the Vintree, and are there to be solde. 1596."

Then most admired sovereign, let yo breath

Go forth upon the waters, and create
A golden world in this our iron age,
And be the prosperous forewind to a flee
That seconding your last, may go before
In all success of profit and renown;
Doubt not but your election was divine,
As well by fate as your high judgment
der'd,

To raise him with choice bounties, th could add

Height to his height; and like a liber vine,

Not only bear his virtuous fruit aloft, Free from the press of squint-eyed Envy feet,

But deck his gracious prop with golde

bunches,

o let thy sovereign Empire be increased, And with Iberian Neptune part the stake, Vhose trident he the triple world would make.

ou then that would be wise in wisdom's spite,

Directing with discredit of direction,

nd hunt for honour, hunting him to death;

With whom before you will inherit gold, ou will lose gold, for which you lose your souls;

ou that choose nought for right, but certainty,

nd fear that value will get only blows, lacing your faith in Incredulity;

t till you see a wonder, Virtue rich; ill Honour having gold, rob gold of honour,

ill as men have desert that getteth nought, hey loathe all getting that deserves not aught;

nd use you gold-made men as dregs of men;

nd till your poison'd souls, like spiders lurking,

I sluttish chinks, in mists of cobwebs hide

our foggy bodies, and your dunghill pride.

Incredulity! the wit of fools,

hat slovenly will spit on all things fair, he coward's castle, and the sluggard's cradle,

low easy 'tis to be an infidel!

ut you patrician spirits that refine our flesh to fire, and issue like a flame n brave endeavours, knowing that in them

be tract of heaven in morn-like glory opens,

That know you cannot be the kings of earth,

Claiming the rights of your creation,
And let the mines of earth be kings of

you;

That are so far from doubting likely drifts,

That in things hardest y'are most confident. You that know death lives where power lives unused, oying to shine

waves that bury you, And so make way for life even through

your graves;

That will not be content like horse to hold A threadbare beaten way to home affairs ;

But where the sea in envy of your reign, Closeth her womb as fast as 'tis disclosed, That she like avarice might swallow all, And let none find right passage through her rage;

There your wise souls, as swift as Eurus lead,

Your bodies through, to profit and renown, And scorn to let your bodies choke your souls

In the rude breath and prison'd life of beasts;

You that herein renounce the course of earth,

And lift your eyes for guidance to the stars,
That live not for yourselves, but to possess
Your honour'd country of a general store;
In pity of the spoil rude self-love makes
Of them whose lives and yours one air
doth feed,

One soil doth nourish, and one strength combine;

You that are blest with sense of all things noble,

In this attempt your complete worths redouble.

But how is Nature at her heart corrupted, (I mean even in her most ennobled birth) How in excess of sense is sense bereft her! That her most lightning-like effects of lust Wound through her flesh, her soul, her flesh unwounded;

And she must need incitements to her good,

Even from that part she hurts. O! how most like

Art thou, heroic author of this act,

To this wrong'd soul of nature; that sustain'st

Pain, charge, and peril for thy country's good,

And she, much like a body numb'd with surfeits,

Feels not thy gentle applications,

For the health, use, and honour of her powers.

Yet shall my verse through all her easelock'd ears,

Trumpet the noblesse of thy high intent,
And if it cannot into act proceed,
The fault and bitter penance of the fault,
Make red some other's eyes with peni-

tence,

For thine are clear; and what more nimble spirits

Apter to bite at such unhooked baits, Gain by our loss; that must we needs confess,

Then in the Thespiad's bright prophetic fount,

Methinks I see our Liege rise from her throne,

Her ears and thoughts in steep amaze erected

At the most rare endeavour of her power; And now she blesseth with her wonted graces,

Th' industrious knight, the soul of this exploit,

Dismissing him to convoy of his stars. And now for love and honour of his worth,

Our twice-born nobles bring him, bridegroom-like,

That is espoused for virtue to his love, With feasts and music, ravishing the air, To his Argolian fleet, where round about

In haste, as if Guianian Orenoque With his fell waters fell upon our shore. And now a wind as forward as the

spirits

Sets their glad feet on smooth Guiana breast,

Where, as if each man were an Orpheus A world of savages fall tame before them Storing their theft-free treasuries with gold And there doth plenty crown their wealth fields,

There Learning eats no more his thriftie books,

Nor Valour, estridge-like, his iron arms. There Beauty is no strumpet for her wants Nor Gallic humours putrefy her blood; But all our youth take Hymen's lights i hand,

And fill each roof with honour'd progeny There makes society adamantine chains, And joins their hearts with wealth whom wealth disjoin'd.

There healthful recreations strow their meads,

And make their mansions dance

And all dimensions of all works of weight, Reason being ground, structure and ornament,

To all inventions grave and permanent,
And your clear eyes, the spheres where rea-

son moves;

This artizan, this God of rational loves, Blind Homer, in this Shield, and in the rest Of his seven books, which my hard hand hath dress'd

n rough integuments, I send for censure, That my long time and labours' deep extensure,

Spent to conduct him to our envious light, n your allowance may receive some right To their endeavours; and take virtuous heart,

From your applause, crown'd with their own desert.

Such crowns suffice the free and royal mind, But these subjected hang-byes of our kind, These children that will never stand alone, But must be nourish'd with corruption, Which are our bodies that are traitors born

To their own crowns, their souls; betray'd

fiery spirits.

Thus as the soul upon the flesh depends, Virtue must wait on wealth; we must make friends

Of the unrighteous mammon, and our sleights

Must bear the forms of fools or parasites. Rich mine of knowledge, O that my strange

What learned fields pay not their flowers t' adorn

Your odorous wreath? Compact, put on,

and worn

By apt and adamantine industry,
Proposing still demonstrate verity

For your great object, far from plodding gain,

Or thirst of glory; when, absurd and vain, Most students in their whole instruction are,

But in traditions more particular;
Leaning like rotten houses, on out beams,
And with true light fade in themselves
like dreams.

True learning hath a body absolute,
That in apparent sense itself can suit,
Not hid in airy terms, as if it were
Like spirits fantastic, that put men in fear,
And are but bugs form'd in their foul con-
ceits,

Nor made for sale, glazed with sophistic sleights,

But wrought for all times proof, strong to bid prease

And shiver ignorants, like Hercules,

On their own dung-hills; but our formal clerks,

Blown for profession, spend their souls in sparks,

Framed of dismember'd parts that make most show,

And like to broken limbs of knowledge go, When thy true wisdom by thy learning

won,

Shall honour learning while there shines a

sun;

And thine own name in merit, far above Their tympanies of state, that arms of love, Fortune, or blood shall lift to dignity; Whom though you reverence and your empery

Of spirit and soul, be servitude they think And but a beam of light broke through a chink

To all their waterish splendour; and much

more

To the great sun, and all things they adore,

In staring ignorance; yet your self shall

shine

Above all this in knowledge most divine, And all shall homage to your true worth

owe,

You comprehending all, that all, not you. And when thy writings that now Error's night Chokes earth with mists, break forth like eastern light,

Showing to every comprehensive eye High sectious brawls becalm'd by unity, Nature made all transparent, and he heart

Gript in thy hand, crushing digested Art In flames unmeasured, measured out of it On whose head for a crown thy soul shal sit,

Crown'd with heaven's inward brightnes showing clear

What true man is, and how like gnat appear,

O fortune-glossed pompists, and proud misers,

That are of arts such impudent despisers; Then past anticipating dooms and scorns, Which for self-grace each ignorant suborns, Their glowing and amazed eyes shall see How short of thy soul's strength my weak words be;

And that I do not like our poets prefer For profit, praise, and keep a squeaking stir

With call'd-on muses to unchild their brains

Of wind and vapour : lying still in pains
Of worthy issue; but as one profess'd
In nought but truth's dear love the soul's