Phoebus, art thou a God, and canst not give A Priviledge unto thine own to live? Thou canst: But if that Poets ne'er should dye, In Heaven who should praise thy Deity? Else still (my Drayton) thou hadst liv'd and writ; Thy life had been immortal as thy wit. But Spenser is grown hoarse, he that of late Sung Gloriana in her Elfin state: And so is Sydney, whom we yet admire Lighting our little Torches at his fire. These have so long before Apollo's Throne Caroll'd Encomiums, that they now are growne Weary and faint; and therefore thou didst dye, Their sweet unfinish'd Ditty to supply, So was the Iliad-writer rapt away Before his lov'd Achilles fatall day, And when his voice began to fail, the great Unequall'd Maro did assume his seat: Therefore we must not mourn, unless it be 'Cause none is left worthy to follow thee. It is in vain to say thy lines are such As neither time nor envies rage can touch: For they must live, and will, whiles there 's an eye To reade, or wit to judge of Poetrie. You Swans of Avon, change your fates, and all Sing, and then die at Drayton's Funeral: Sure shortly there will not a drop be seen, And the smooth-pebbled Bottom be turn'd green, When the Nymphes (that inhabit in it) have (As they did Shakespeere) wept thee to thy grave. But I molest thy quiet; sleep, whilst we That live, would leave our lives to die like thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COUNTRY SUMMER by LEONIE ADAMS THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT THE HARP by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE DAUGHTERS OF ATLAS by AESCHYLUS THE ADORATION OF DISK BY KING AKHNATEN AND PRINCESS NEFER NEFERIU ATEN by AKHENATEN |