Classic Poem

The Author, of, and to his Muse.

M y Muse is tirde with lyring but on Leaues
that fruitlesse are; yet, leaue ill fruits behinde
Shee onely workes for Ayre, that but deceiues :
so workes for nothing, but deceitful Winde.

And what she seiseth, as her Subiect, is
but vaine, if it be light: and lightly what
Shee preyes vpon, is such: then, now on This.
shee needes to pray, for preying so on That

O Muse, didst thou but know thy natiue kinde,
( being all diuine ) thou ne'er would'st waue thy wings
In that which doth but onely marre the Mind:
but, endlesly about Celestiall Things.

Th' wilt be deplum'd for pluming so on Trash,
And ( like a Flesh-flye) lighting but on Sores;
Then, in Arts fairest Founts, thy Feathers wash ,
to flye to him that Heau'n and Earth adores!

Thy Raptures else, are but such Rauishments,
as are reproachfull, penall, lewde, and light:
But Raptures farre aboue the Elements,
doe shew thy Vertue in the fairest flight.

O then, thou great vnlimitable Muse,
( that rests, in motion, in th' ETERNALS Breast)
Inspire my Muse, with grace her pow'r to vse
in nought, but what to thee shall be addrest
So shall that Spirit that made thy Dauid sing .
Make Dauies too , ( a Begger) like a King.