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To my honoured Friend Mr George Sandys

It is,

Sir, a confest intrusion here That I before your labours do appear,

Which no loud Herald need, that may proclaim Or seek acceptance, but the Authors fame.

Much less that should this happy work commend,

Whose subject is its licence, and doth send It to the world to be receiv'd and read,

Far as the glorious beams of truth are spread.

Nor let it be imagin'd that I look Onely with Customes eye upon your book;

Or in this service that 'twas my intent T'exclude your person from your argument:

I shall profess much of the love I ow,

Doth from the root of our extraction grow;

To which though I can little contribute,

Yet with a naturall joy I must impute To our Tribes honour, what by you is done Worthy the title of a Prelates son.

And scarcely have two brothers farther borne A Fathers name, or with more value worne Their own, then two of you; whose pens and feet Have made the distant Points of Heav'n to meet;

He by exact discoveries of the West,

Your self by painful travels in the East.

Some more like you might pow'rfully confute Th' opposers of Priests marriage by the fruit.

And (since tis known for all their streight vow'd life,

They like the sex in any style but wife) Cause them to change their Cloyster for that State Which keeps men chaste by vowes legitimate:

Nor shame to father their relations,

Or under Nephews names disguise their sons.

This Child of yours born without spurious blot,

And fairly Midwiv'd as it was begot,

Doth so much of the Parents goodness wear,

You may be proud to own it for your Heir.

Whose choice acquits you from the common sin Of such, who finish worse then they begin:

You mend upon your self, and your last strain Does of your first the start in judgment gain;

Since what in curious travel was begun,

You here conclude in a devotion.

Where in delightful raptures we descry As in a Map,

Sions Chorography Laid out in so direct and smooth a line,

Men need not go about through Palestine:

Who seek Christ here will the streight Rode prefer,

As neerer much then by the Sepulchre.

For not a limb growes here, but is a path;

Which in Gods City the blest Center hath:

And doth so sweetly on each passion strike,

The most fantastick taste will somewhat like.

To the unquiet soul Job still from hence Pleads in th' example of his patience.

The mortify'd may hear the wise King preach,

When his repentance made him fit to teach.

Nor shall the singing Sisters be content To chant at home the Act of Parliament,

Turn'd out of reason into rhime by one Free of his trade, though not of Helicon,

Who did in his Poetick zeal contend Others edition by a worse to mend.

Here are choice Hymnes and Carolls for the glad,

With melancholy Dirges for the sad:

And David (as he could his skill transfer) Speaks like himself by an interpreter.

Your Muse rekindled hath the Prophets fire,

And tun'd the strings of his neglected Lyre;

Making the Note and Ditty so agree,

They now become a perfect harmonie.

I must confess,

I have long wisht to see The Psalmes reduc'd to this conformity:

Grieving the songs of Sion should be sung In phrase not diff'ring from a barbarous tongue.

As if, by custome warranted, we may Sing that to God we would be loth to say.

Far be it from my purpose to upbraid Their honest meaning, who first offer made That book in Meeter to compile, which you Have mended in the form, and built anew:

And it was well, considering the time,

Which hardly could distinguish verse and rhime.

But now the language, like the Church, hath won More lustre since the Reformation;

None can condemn the wish or labour spent Good matter in good words to represent.

Yet in this jealous age some such there be,

So without cause afraid of novelty,

They would not (were it in their pow'r to choose) An old ill practise for a better lose.

Men who a rustick plainnesse so affect,

They think God served best by their neglect.

Holding the cause would be profan'd by it,

Were they at charge of learning or of wit.

And therefore bluntly (what comes next) they bring Course and unstudy'd stuffs for offering;

Which like th' old Tabernacles cov'ring are,

Made up of Badgers skins, and of Goats haire.

But these are Paradoxes they must use Their sloth and bolder ignorance t'excuse.

Who would not laugh at one will naked go, 'Cause in old hangings truth is pictur'd so?

Though plainness be reputed honours note,

They mantles use to beautify the coat;

So that a curious (unaffected) dress Addes much unto the bodies comeliness:

And wheresoere the subjects best, the sence Is better'd by the speakers eloquence.

But,

Sir, to you I shall no trophee raise From other mens detraction or dispraise:

That Jewel never had inherent worth,

Which askt such foils as these to set it forth.

If any quarrel your attempt or style,

Forgive them; their own folly they revile.

Since, 'gainst themselves, their factious envy shall Allow this work of yours Canonicall.

Nor may you fear the Poets common lot,

Read, and commended, and then quite forgot:

The brazen Mines and Marble Rocks shall wast,

When your foundation will unshaken last. 'Tis fames best pay, that you your labours see By their immortal subject crowned be.

For nere was writer in oblivion hid Who firm'd his name on such a Pyramid.

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Henry King

Henry King (1592 – 30 September 1669) was an English poet who served as Bishop of Chichester.

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