Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MR. WILLIAM BASSE UPON THE NOW PUBLISHING OF HIS POEMS, by RALPH BATHURST



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TO MR. WILLIAM BASSE UPON THE NOW PUBLISHING OF HIS POEMS, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Basse, whose rich mine of wit wee here behold
Last Line: That muse can ne're be old which ne're was young.
Subject(s): Basse, William (1583-1653)


BASSE, whose rich mine of wit wee here behold,
As Porseland earth, more precious cause more old,
Who like an aged oake so long hast stood
And art Religion now as well as food,
Though thy gray Muse grew up with elder times
And our deceased Grandsires lisp'd thy Rhymes,
Yet we can sing thee too, and make that Bayes
Which deckes thy brow looke fresher w@5th thy praise.
Some Poets, like some fashions, onely fit
One age or place; you to mankind haue writ:
Whose well-weigh'd fancy flyes an even pitch,
And neither creepes, nor soares beyond our reach.
Like some cleare streame, whose everlasting store
Still filles it's bankes, and yet not drownes the shore,
Art governes Nature's bounty, and your Feast
Feares no Cookes palat, yet contents the guest:
Where wealth like Guajan's gold i'th surface dwelles,
As the best Kernelles haue the thinnest shelles;
Not lesse in worth, cause more attain'd with ease:
You can even Criticks without Criticks please:
Seene by your owne light still your vaine so flowes
It yeildes good verse without the helpe of prose:
Where a soft strength, and generous handsomnesse,
Shewes like Achilles in a female dresse:
Like polish'd steele where force and smoothnes meet,
Or like the riddle of the strong and sweet.
Goe then secure into the armes of Fame;
Applause, which others beg, is your iust claime.
Goe censure-proofe, (as when Apelles lay
Behinde his worke, list'ning what all would say,
The worke stood yet unalter'd; and now more
We praise his modesty then skill before.)
That when some greater names admired lye,
But let alone, men may reade yours and buy.
Though these your happy births haue silent past
More yeares then some abortiue wits shall last,
He still writes new, who once so well hath sung;
That Muse can ne're be old which ne're was young.





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