Kin. If a cleare merrit stand vpon his praise,
Reach him a Poets Crowne (the honour’d Bayes)
But if he claime it, wanting right thereto,
(As many bastard Sonnes of Poesie doe)
Race downe his vsurpation to the ground.
True Poets are with Arte and Nature Crown’d.
But in what molde so ere this man bee cast;
We make him thine Crispinus, wit and iudgement,
Shine in thy numbers, and thy soule I know,
Will not goe arm’d in passion gainst thy foe:
Therefore be thou our selfe; whilst our selfe sit,
But as spectator of this Sceane of wit.
Cri. Thankes royall Lord, for these high honors done,
To me vnworthie, my mindes brightest fires
Shall all consume them selues, in purest flame,
On the Alter of your deare eternall name.
Kin. Not vnder vs, but next vs take thy Seate,
»Artes nourished by Kings make Kings more great,
Vse thy Authority.
Cris. Demetrius.
Call in that selfe-creating Horace, bring
Him and his shaddow foorth.
Dem. Both shall appeare,
»No black-eyed star must sticke in vertues Spheare.
Enter Sir Vaughan.
Sir Va. Ounds did you see him, I pray let all his Masesties most excellent dogs, be set at liberties, and haue their freedoms to smell him out.
Dem. Smell whom?
Sir Vaugh. Whom? The Composer, the Prince of Poets, Horace, Horace, he’s departed: in Gods name and the Kinges I sarge you to ring it out from all our eares, for Horaces bodie is departed: Master hue and crie shall——God blesse King Williams, I crie you mercy and aske forgiuenes, for mine eyes did not finde in their hearts to looke vppon your Masestie.