 | The Gratefvll Servant |  |
Is fixt but in one spheare, and that dull night,
Muffles the rest, the dimmest lampe of Skie
Hath some vnborrowed lustre, so may I
By which I may discerne thy muse doth towre,
'Boue common flight and make the cloudes her bowre
Then in the higher pitch see her anon
Reach Ariadnes Crowne and put it on,
And there installed rauish with her shine
The God of Poets not the God of wine.
Thy Helicon is pure and is distild
Through as cleere pipes, which runne, when they are fild
Briske Nectar. Phebus hardly can deuine
Which issues are his owne and which are thine.
Cha. Aleyn.
| The Gratefvll Servant | |