. Emblems, divine and moral . e so plies her oar: But O the sailIs fiird from Heavn with a diviner gale:When poets prove divines, why should not IApprove in verse this divine poetry?Let this suffice to licence thee the press:I must no more; nor could the truth say appro bavit RIC, LOVE,Procan. Cant. Tot Flores QUARLES, quot Paradisus habetLectori bene male-yo\o. Qui legit ex Horlo hoc Flores, qui carpit, uterque Jure potest Violas Alcere, jure Rosas:Non e Parnasso VlOLAM,fetive ROSETO Carpit Apollo, magis quae sit amoena, Versus VIOLAS legis; eX. quern verba \ocviU\in Ciedi
. Emblems, divine and moral . e so plies her oar: But O the sailIs fiird from Heavn with a diviner gale:When poets prove divines, why should not IApprove in verse this divine poetry?Let this suffice to licence thee the press:I must no more; nor could the truth say appro bavit RIC, LOVE,Procan. Cant. Tot Flores QUARLES, quot Paradisus habetLectori bene male-yo\o. Qui legit ex Horlo hoc Flores, qui carpit, uterque Jure potest Violas Alcere, jure Rosas:Non e Parnasso VlOLAM,fetive ROSETO Carpit Apollo, magis quae sit amoena, Versus VIOLAS legis; eX. quern verba \ocviU\in Ciedis, verba dedit: Nam dedit ille ^onondicamhaecFiOL^.Ssuavissima; Tute Ipse facis VIOLAS, Livide, si velut e VIOLJS s\bi fugit Aranea virus: Vertis at in succos Hasque ROSAS que violas Musas, VIOLAS puto, quasque recusas Dente tuo rosas, has, reor, esse rosas, facis esse ROSAS, dum Zoile, rodis; Sic facies has VIOLASj Livide, dum violas. EDW. BENLOWES. Brent-Han, iq34. BOOK THE Bum Celum aipicio Solum despicio. THE INVOCATION. XVousE thee, my soul; and drain thee from the dregsOf vulgar thoughts ; screw up the heightend pegsOf thy sublime Theorbo four notes highr,And highr yet, that so the shrill-mouthd quire 10 THE INVOCATION. BOOK 1. Of swift-wingd seraphims may come and join,And make the concert more than half no muse; let Heavn be thine Apollo;And let his sacred influences hallowThy high-bred strains. Let his full beams inspireThy ravishd brains with more heroic fire:Snatch thee a quill from the spread eagles wing,And, like the morning lark, mount up and sing :Cast oflF these dangling plummets, that so clogThy laboring heart, which gropes in this dark fogOf dungeon earth; let flesh and blood forbearTo btop thy flight, till this base world appearA thin blue landscape: let thy pinions soarSo high a pitch, that men may seem no moreThan pismires, crawling on the mole-hill earth,Thine ear untroubled with their frant
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