Wherefore the prudent Law-givers of old Even in all Nations, with right sage foresight Discovering from farre how clums and cold The vulgar wight would be to yield what’s right To virtuous learning, did by law designe Great wealth and honour to that worth divine. But nought’s by law to Poesie due said he, Ne doth the solemn Statesmans head take care Of those that such impertinent pieces be Of common-weals. Thou’d better then to spare Thy uselesse vein. Or tell else, what may move Thy busie use such fruitlesse pains to prove. No pains but pleasure to do the dictates dear Of inward living nature. What doth move The Nightingall to sing so sweet and clear The Thrush, or Lark that mounting high above Chants her shrill notes to heedlesse ears of corn Heavily hanging in the dewy morn. When life can speak, it can not well withhold T’ expresse its own impressions and hid life. Or joy or grief that smoothered lie untold Do vex the heart and wring with restlesse strife. Then are my labours no true pains but ease My souls unrest they gently do appease. Besides, that is not fruitlesse that no gains Brings to my self. I others profit deem Mine own: and if at these my heavenly flames Others receiven light, right well I ween My time’s not lost. Art thou now satisfide Said I: to which the scoffing boy replide. Great hope indeed thy rymes should men enlight, That be with clouds and darknesse all o’recast, Harsh style and harder sense void of delight The Readers wearied eye in vain do wast. And when men win thy meaning with much pain, Thy uncouth sense they coldly entertain. For wotst thou not that all the world is dead Unto that Genius that moves in thy vein Of poetrie! But like by like is fed. Sing of my Trophees in triumphant strein, Then correspondent life, thy powerfull verse Shall strongly strike and with quick passion pierce. The tender frie of lads and lasses young With thirstie eare thee compassing about, Thy Nectar-dropping Muse, thy sugar’d song Will swallow down with eagre hearty draught; Relishing truly what thy rymes convey, And highly praising thy soul-smiting lay. The mincing maid her mind will then bewray, Her heart-bloud flaming up into her face, Grave matrons will wex wanton and betray Their unresolv’dnesse in their wonted grace; Young boyes and girls would feel a forward spring, And former youth to eld thou back wouldst bring. All Sexes, Ages, Orders, Occupations Would listen to thee with attentive ear, And eas’ly moved with thy sweet perswasions, Thy pipe would follow with full merry chear. While thou thy lively voice didst loud advance Their tickled bloud for joy would inly dance.