University of Virginia Library


195

Son. 1.

[Too long, my Muse, (ah) thou too long didst toile]

Too long, my Muse, (ah) thou too long didst toile,
An Æthiopian striving to make white;
Lost seede on furrowes of a fruitlesse soile,
Which doth thy trauells but with Tares acquite.
Hence-foorth fare-well all counterfeit delyte,
Blinde Dwarfling, I disclaime thy deitie,
My Pen thy Trophees neuer more shall write:
Nor after shall thine arts enveigle mee.
With sacred straines, reaching a higher key,
My Thoughts aboue thy fictions farre aspire:
Mounted on wings of immortalitie,
I feele my brest warmde with a wountless fire.
My Muse a strange enthusiasme inspires,
And peece and peece thy flamme in smoake expires.