ELEONORA:

A PANEGYRICAL POEM, DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE COUNTESS OF
ABINGDON.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF ABINGDON, &c.

MY LORD,--The commands, with which you honoured me some months ago, are
now performed: they had been sooner; but betwixt ill health, some
business, and many troubles, I was forced to defer them till this time.
Ovid, going to his banishment, and writing from on shipboard to his
friends, excused the faults of his poetry by his misfortunes; and told
them, that good verses never flow but from a serene and composed spirit.
Wit, which is a kind of Mercury, with wings fastened to his head and
heels, can fly but slowly in a damp air. I therefore chose rather to
obey you late than ill: if at least I am capable of writing anything, at
any time, which is worthy your perusal and your patronage. I cannot say
that I have escaped from a shipwreck; but have only gained a rock by
hard swimming, where I may pant a while and gather breath: for the
doctors give me a sad assurance, that my disease never took its leave of
any man, but with a purpose to return. However, my lord, I have laid
hold on the interval, and managed the small stock, which age has left
me, to the best advantage, in performing this inconsiderable service to
my lady's memory. We, who are priests of Apollo, have not the
inspiration when we please; but must wait until the god comes rushing on
us, and invades us with a fury which we are not able to resist: which
gives us double strength while the fit continues, and leaves us
languishing and spent at its departure. Let me not seem to boast, my
lord, for I have really felt it on this occasion, and prophesied beyond