. Emblems, divine and moral . s her oar: But O the sailIs filld 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 less. Sic appirobavit RIC. LOVE, Procan. Cant. 12 Tot Flores QUARLES, quot Faradisus habctLectori bene male-vo\o. Qui legit ex Horto hoc Flores^ qui carpit, uterque Jure potest Violas dicere, jure Rosas:Non e Parnasso VIOLAM, festive ROSETO Carpit Apollo, magis quae sit amoena, Versus VIOLAS legis; & quem verba locutum Credis, ver
. Emblems, divine and moral . s her oar: But O the sailIs filld 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 less. Sic appirobavit RIC. LOVE, Procan. Cant. 12 Tot Flores QUARLES, quot Faradisus habctLectori bene male-vo\o. Qui legit ex Horto hoc Flores^ qui carpit, uterque Jure potest Violas dicere, jure Rosas:Non e Parnasso VIOLAM, festive ROSETO Carpit Apollo, magis quae sit amoena, Versus VIOLAS legis; & quem verba locutum Credis, verba dedit: Nam dedit ille Ego non dicam haec VIOLAS suavissima;Tute Ipse facis VIOLAS, Livide, si velut e VIOLIS sibi fugit Aranea virus: Vertis at in succos Basque ROSAS que violas Musas, VIOLAS pnto, quasquerecnsas Dente tuo rosas, has, reor, esse rosas, facis esse ROSAS, dum Zoile, rodis: Sic facies has VIOLAS, Livide, dum violas. EDW. 1634. BOOK THE FIRST,. Dum Coslum asj<icio Solum INVOCATION. IvousE thee, my soul; and drain thee from thf dregsOf vulgar thoughts; screw up the heightend poggOf thy sublime Theorbo four notes highr,And highr yet, that so the shrill-moutlid quire 14 THE INVOCATION. BOOK. 1. Of swift-wingd seraphims may come and join,And make the concert more than half no mnse; let Heavn be thine Apollo jAnd 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 off these dangling plummets, that so clogThy labring heart, which gropes in this dark fogOf dungeon earth; let flesh and blood forbearTo stop 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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