No Passage Can Divert the Course, Of Pegasus, the Muses Horse
THis is the Poets-horse; a Palfray, Sirs,
(That may be ridden, without rod or spurres)
Abroad, more famous then Bucephalus,
Though, not so knowne, as Banks his horse, with us;
Or some of those fleet-horses, which of late,
Have runne their Masters, out of their estate.
For, those, and Hobby-horses, best befit
The note, and practice of their moderne wit,
Who, what this Horse might meane, no knowledge had,
Vntill, a Taverne-signe, they saw it made.
Yet, this old Emblem (worthy veneration)
Doth figure out, that winged-contemplation,
On which the Learned mount their best Invention,
And, climbe the Hills of highest Apprehension.
This is the nimble Gennet, which doth carry,
Their Fancie, thorow Worlds imaginary;
And, by Idæas feigned, shewes them there,
The nature of those Truths, that reall are.
By meanes of this, our Soules doe come to know
A thousand secrets, in the Deeps below;
Things, here on Earth, and, things above the Skyes,
On which, we never fixed, yet, our eyes.
No thorny, miery, steepe, nor craggy place,
Can interrupt this Courser, in his race:
For, that, which others, in their passage troubles,
Augments his courage, and his vigour doubles.
Thus, fares the Minde, infus’d with brave desires;
It flies through Darkenesse, Dangers, Flouds, and Fires:
And, in despight of what her ayme resisteth:
Pursues her hopes, and takes the way she listeth.