Nay truly, learned men have
learnedly thought, that where once reason hath so much overmastered
passion, as that the mind hath a free desire to do well, the inward
light each mind hath in itself is as good as a philosopher's book;
seeing in nature we know it is well to do well, and what is well, and
what is evil, although not in the words of art, which philosophers
bestow upon us. For out of natural conceit, the philosophers drew it;
but to be moved to do that which we know, or to be moved with desire
to know, _Hoc opus, hic labor est_.
Now therein of all sciences (I speak still of human, and according to
the human conceits), is our poet the Monarch. For he doth not only
show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way, as will
entice any man to enter into it. Nay, he doth as if your journey should
lie through a fair vineyard, at the first give you a cluster of grapes:
that, full of that taste, you may long to pass further. He beginneth
not with obscure definitions, which must blur the margent with
interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness: but he cometh
to you with words sent in delightful proportion, either accompanied
with, or prepared for the well enchanting skill of music; and with a
tale forsooth he cometh unto you: with a tale which holdeth children
from play, and old men from the chimney corner.
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