So many nations as for Homer striv’d, Unless his spur in them had been divine. Then end their strife and love him, thus receiv’d, As born in England; see him over-shine All other-country poets; and trust this, That whosesoever Muse dares use her wing When his Muse flies, she will be truss’d by his, And show as if a bernacle should spring Beneath an eagle. In none since was seen A soul so full of heav’n as earth’s in him. O! if our modern Poesy had been As lovely as the lady he did limn, What barbarous worldling, grovelling after gain, Could use her lovely parts with such rude hate, As now she suffers under ev’ry swain? Since then ’tis nought but her abuse and Fate, That thus impairs her, what is this to her As she is real, or in natural right? But since in true Religion men should err As much as Poesy, should the abuse excite The like contempt of her divinity, And that her truth, and right saint-sacred merits, In most lives breed but rev’rence formally, What wonder is’t if Poesy inherits Much less observance, being but agent for her, And singer of her laws, that others say? Forth then, ye moles, sons of the earth, abhor her, Keep still on in the dirty vulgar way, Till dirt receive your souls, to which ye vow, And with your poison’d spirits bewitch our thrifts. Ye cannot so despise us as we you; Not one of you above his mole-hill lifts His earthy mind, but, as a sort of beasts, Kept by their guardians, never care to hear Their manly voices, but when in their fists They breathe wild whistles, and the beasts’ rude ear Hears their curs barking, then by heaps they fly Headlong together; so men, beastly giv’n, The manly soul’s voice, sacred Poesy, Whose hymns the angels ever sing in heav’n, Contemn and hear not; but when brutish noises, For gain, lust, honour, in litigious prose Are bellow’d out, and crack the barbarous voices Of Turkish stentors, O, ye lean to those, Like itching horse to blocks or high may-poles; And break nought but the wind of wealth, wealth, all In all your documents; your asinine souls, Proud of their burthens, feel not how they gall. But as an ass, that in a field of weeds Affects a thistle, and falls fiercely to it, That pricks and galls him, yet he feeds, and bleeds, Forbears a while, and licks, but cannot woo it To leave the sharpness; when, to wreak his smart, He beats it with his foot, then backward kicks, Because the thistle gall’d his forward part; Nor leaves till all be eat, for all the pricks, Then falls to others with as hot a strife, And in that honourable war doth waste The tall heat of his stomach, and his life; So in this world of weeds you worldlings taste Your most-lov’d dainties, with such war buy peace, Hunger for torment, virtue kick for vice, Cares for your states do with your states increase, And though ye dream ye feast in Paradise, Yet reason’s daylight shews ye at your meat Asses at thistles, bleeding as ye eat.