LOVE and the soul are two things, both divine, Thy task, friend Marmion now, which once was mine. What I writ was dramatical; thy Muse Runs in an epic strain, which they still use, Who write heroic poems. Thine is such, Which when I read, I could not praise too much. The Argument is high, and not within Their shallow reach to catch, who hold no sin To tax what they conceive not; the best minds Judge trees by fruit, not by their leaves and rinds. And such can find (full knowledge having gain'd) In leaden fables, golden truths contain'd. Thy subject's of that nature, a sublime And weighty rapture, which being cloth'd in rhyme, Carries such sweetness with't, as hadst thou sung Unto Apollo's harp, being newly strung. These, had they issued from another's pen, A stranger, and unknown to me, I then Could not have been so pleas'd: but from a friend, Where I might envy, I must now commend. And glad I am this fair course thou hast run, Unvex'd to see myself so far outdone. 'Twixt intimates, who mutual love profess, More's not requir'd, and mine could show no less. THOMAS HEYWOOD. |