But I must Justifie what privately,
I censurd to you: my ambition is
(Even by my hopes and love to Poesie)
To live to perfect such a worke, as this,
Clad in such elegant proprietie
Of words, including a mortallitie.
So sweete and profitable, though each man that heares,
(And learning has enough to clap and hisse)
Arives not too't, so misty it appeares;
And to their fi1med reasons, so amisse:
But let Art looke in truth, she like a mirror,
Reflects [Reflect, C, D] her comfort [consort, D—F], ignorances terror.
Sits in her owne brow, being made afraid,
Of her unnaturall complexion,
As ougly women (when they are araid
By glasses) loath their true reflection,
Then how can such opinions injure thee,
That tremble, at their owne deformitie?
Opinion, that great foole, makes fooles of all,
And (once) I feard her till I met a minde
Whose grave instructions philosophical),
Toss'd it [is, F] like dust upon a march strong winde,
He shall for ever my example be,
And his embraced doctrine grow in me.
His soule (and such commend this) that commaund [commands, D, E, F]
Such art, it should me better satisfie,
Then if the monster clapt his thousand hands,
And drownd the sceane with his confused cry;
And if doubts rise, loe their owne names to cleare 'em
Whilst I am happy but to stand so neere 'em.
N. F.
These verses are in A, B, C, D, E and F. In A and B they are signed 'N.
F.,' in C-F they are signed 'Nath. Field.' The above text is that of A.
To his loving friend M. Jo. Fletcher concerning his Pastorall, being both a Poeme and a play: [concerning…play omitted in D, E, F]
There are no suerties (good friend) will be taken
For workes that vulgar-good-name hath forsaken:
A Poeme and a play too! why tis like
A scholler that's a Poet: their names strike
Their pestilence inward, when they take the aire;
And kill out right: one cannot both fates beare.
But, as a Poet thats no scholler, makes
Vulgarity his whiffler, and so takes
with ease, & state through both sides prease
Of Pageant seers: or as schollers please
That are no Poets; more then Poets learnd;
Since their art solely, is by soules discerned;
The others fals [fall, D, E, F] within the common sence
And sheds (like common light) her influence:
So, were your play no Poeme, but a thing
That every Cobler to his patch might sing:
A rout of nifles (like the multitude)
With no one limme [limbe, E, F] of any art indude:
Like would to like, and praise you: but because,
Your poeme onely hath by us applause,
Renews the golden world; and holds through all
The holy lawes of homely pastorall;
Where flowers, and founts, and Nimphs, & semi-Gods,
And all the Graces finde their old abods:
Where forrests flourish but in endlesse verse;
And meddowes, nothing fit for purchasers:
This Iron age that eates it selfe, will never
Bite at your golden world; that others, ever
Lov'd as it selfe: then like your Booke do you
Live in ould peace: and that for praise allow.
G. Chapman