This book will live; it hath a genius: this Above his reader, or his praiser, is. Hence, then, profane: here needs no words' expense In bulwarks, ravelins, ramparts, for defence, Such, as the creeping common pioneers use When they do sweat to fortify a muse. Though I confess a Beaumont's book to be The bound, and frontier of our poetry; And doth deserve all muniments of praise, That art, or engine, on the strength can raise. Yet, who dares offer a redoubt to rear? To cut a dike, or stick a stake up, here, Before this work, where envy hath not cast A trench against it, nor a battery placed? Stay, till she make her vain approaches. Then If, maimed, she come off, 'tis not of men This fort of so impregnable access, But higher power, as spite could not make less, Nor flattery! But secured, by the author's name, Defies, what's cross to piety, or good fame. And like a hallowed temple, free from taint Of ethnicism, makes his muse a saint. |