|
| Some turnes into lesse Creekes, and wisely take |
| Fresh water at the Heliconian spring; |
| I sing not, Siren like, to tempt; for I |
| Am harsh, nor as those Scismatiques with you, |
| Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew; |
| But seeing in you bright sparkes of Poëtry, |
| I, though I brought no fuell, had desire |
| With these Articulate blasts to blow the fire. |
|
| To M. B. B. |
|
| Is not thy sacred hunger of science |
| Yet satisfy'd, is not thy braines rich hive |
| Fulfill'd with honey which thou dost derive |
| From the Arts spirits and their Quintessence? |
| Then weane thy selfe at last, and thee withdraw |
| From Cambridge thy old nurse, and, as the rest, |
| Here toughly chew, and sturdily digest |
| Th'immense vast volumes of our common law; |
| And begin soone, lest my griefe grieve thee too, |
| Which is, that that which I should have begun |
| In my youths morning, now late must be done; |
| And I, as Giddy Travellers, must doe, |
| Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost |
| Light and strength, darke and tir'd must then ride post. |
|
| If thou unto thy Muse be married, |
| Embrace her ever, ever multiply, |
| Be farre from me that strange Adulterie
|
[CW: To] |