Some men, they say, are poets born by kind,
And suck that science from their mother's breast;
An easy art that comes with so great rest,
And happy men to so good hap assigned.
In some, desire of praise inflames the mind,
To climb with pain Parnassus' double crest:
Some, hope of rich rewards hath so possest,
That gold in Castal sands they seek to find.
Me, neither Nature hath a poet made,
Nor love of glory moved to learn the trade,
Nor thirst of gold persuaded me to write.
For Nature's graces are too fine for me;
Praise, like the peacock's pride herself to see;
Desire of gain, the basest mind's delight.