I THAT in seruice yet haue never knowne More than might well content my humble hart: (I thank the God of heauens mightie Throne, My masters favour, and mine owne desart) Yet am for you the Champion of good will Because I feelingly conceive your ill; To taxe their minds to whom we doe belong I neither purpose nor desier much: The publike multitude that do's us wrong, And none but them, my vaine must chiefly touch: In whose rude thoughts my youth is grieu'd to see That Serving-men so slightly reckon'd bee. Long stood we mute, and heard ourselves defam'd In every moodie jest, and idle braul; But now our prize is seriously proclaim'd, And I become the chalenger for all: My stage is peace, my combat is a word, My Muse my buckler, and my pen my sword. Who treads my stage is chaleng'd, yet not tride: Who tries my combat fights, yet feels no weapon: Who sees my buckler's dar'd, but not defide: Who touch my sword is hit, but neuer beaten: For peace tries no man, words can make no fight, Muses doe but inuent, and pens but write. Now if my actions prosper, you shall see Your titles grac'd with greater estimation; Or at the least we shall no longer bee Deprived of deserved reputation. But if my first attempts have no prevailing, I will supplie them still in never failing To be your faithfull brother | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JOY OF THE HILLS by EDWIN MARKHAM TO A YOUNG MAN ON THE PLATFORM OF A SUBWAY EXPRESS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TO ATHENA by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE RIDDLE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE ACID TEST by BERTON BRALEY THE WAY THAT LOVERS USE by RUPERT BROOKE |