MISCELLANIES: PROLOGUE by ABRAHAM COWLEY

WHAT shall I do to be for ever knowne,
And make the Age to come my owne?
I shall like Beasts or Common People dy,
Unlesse you write mine Elegy;
Whilst others great by being borne are growne;
Their Mother's Labour, not their owne.
In this Scale Gold, in th' other Fame does ly;
The weight of that mounts this so high.
These Men are fortune's Jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their owne fire and light.
If I, her vulgar stone, for either looke;
Out of my selfe it must be strooke.
Yet I must on; what sound is't strikes mine eare?
Sure I Fame's Trumpet heare.
It sounds like the last Trumpet; for it can
Raise up the buried Man.
Unpast Alps stop mee, but I'le cut through all;
And march, the Muses' Hanniball.
Hence, all ye flattering Vanities that lay
Nets of Roses in the way.
Hence, the desire of Honours or Estate;
And all that is not above Fate.
Hence, Love himselfe, that Tyrant of my Dayes,
Which intercepts my coming Praise.
Come my best Friends, my Bookes, and lead me on;
'Tis time that I were gone.
Welcome, great Stagirite, and teach me now
All I was borne to know.
Thy Scholer's Victories thou doest far out-doe;
He conquered th' Earth, the whole World you.
Welcome learn'd Cicero, whose blest Tongue and Wit
Preserves Rome's Greatnesse yet.
Thou art the first of Or'ators; only hee
Who best can prayse thee, next must bee.
Welcome the Mantuan Swan, Virgil the wise;
Whose Verse walkes highest, but not flies;
Who brought green Poesie to her perfect age,
And mad'st that Art, which was a Rage.
Tell mee, yee mighty Three, what shall I doe
To be like one of you?
But you have climb'd the Mountaine's top, there sit
On the calme flourishing head of it,
And whilst with wearied steps we upward goe,
See us, and Clouds below.

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