The Iliads of Homer. Homer

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       'Tis further from me than the worst that reads,

       Professing me the worst of all that write;

       Yet what, in following one that bravely leads,

       The worst may show, let this proof hold the light.

       But grant it clear; yet hath detraction got

       My blind side in the form my verse puts on;

       Much like a dung-hill mastiff, that dares not

       Assault the man he barks at, but the stone

       He throws at him takes in his eager jaws,

       And spoils his teeth because they cannot spoil.

       The long verse hath by proof receiv'd applause

       Beyond each other number; and the foil,

       That squint-ey'd Envy takes, is censur'd plain;

       For this long poem asks this length of verse,

       Which I myself ingenuously maintain

       Too long our shorter authors to rehearse.

       And, for our tongue that still is so impair'd [5]

       By travelling linguists, I can prove it clear,

       That no tongue hath the Muse's utt'rance heir'd

       For verse, and that sweet music to the ear

       Strook out of rhyme, so naturally as this;

       Our monosyllables so kindly fall,

       And meet oppos'd in rhyme as they did kiss;

       French and Italian most immetrical,

       Their many syllables in harsh collision

       Fall as they break their necks; their bastard rhymes

       Saluting as they justled in transition,

       And set our teeth on edge; nor tunes, nor times

       Kept in their falls; and, methinks, their long words

       Shew in short verse as in a narrow place

       Two opposites should meet with two-hand swords

       Unwieldily, without or use or grace.

       Thus having rid the rubs, and strow'd these flow'rs

       In our thrice-sacred Homer's English way,

       What rests to make him yet more worthy yours?

       To cite more praise of him were mere delay

       To your glad searches for what those men found

       That gave his praise, past all, so high a place;

       Whose virtues were so many, and so crown'd

       By all consents divine, that, not to grace

       Or add increase to them, the world doth need

       Another Homer, but ev'n to rehearse

       And number them, they did so much exceed.

       Men thought him not a man; but that his verse

       Some mere celestial nature did adorn;

       And all may well conclude it could not be,

       That for the place where any man was born,

       So long and mortally could disagree

       So many nations as for Homer striv'd,

       Unless his spur in them had been divine.

       Then end their strife and love him, thus receiv'd,

       As born in England; see him over-shine

       All other-country poets; and trust this,

       That whosesoever Muse dares use her wing

       When his Muse flies, she will be truss'd by his,

       And show as if a bernacle should spring

       Beneath an eagle. In none since was seen

       A soul so full of heav'n as earth's in him.

       O! if our modern Poesy had been

       As lovely as the lady he did limn,

       What barbarous worldling, grovelling after gain,

       Could use her lovely parts with such rude hate,

       As now she suffers under ev'ry swain?

       Since then 'tis nought but her abuse and Fate,

       That thus impairs her, what is this to her

       As she is real, or in natural right?

       But since in true Religion men should err

       As much as Poesy, should the abuse excite

       The like contempt of her divinity,

       And that her truth, and right saint-sacred merits,

       In most lives breed but rev'rence formally,

       What wonder is't if Poesy inherits

       Much less observance, being but agent for her,

       And singer of her laws, that others say?

       Forth then, ye moles, sons of the earth, abhor her,

       Keep still on in the dirty vulgar way,

       Till dirt receive your souls, to which ye vow,

       And with your poison'd spirits bewitch our thrifts.

       Ye cannot so despise us as we you;

       Not one of you above his mole-hill lifts

       His earthy mind, but, as a sort of beasts,

       Kept by their guardians, never care to hear

       Their manly voices, but when in their fists

       They breathe wild whistles, and the beasts' rude ear

       Hears their curs barking, then by heaps they fly

       Headlong together; so men, beastly giv'n,

       The manly soul's voice, sacred Poesy,

       Whose hymns the angels ever sing in heav'n,

       Contemn and hear not; but when brutish noises,

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