ODE IV.
[Our Muses, not exiled, with Sober Feet]
1
Our Muses, not exiled, with Sober Feet,
Draw forth Sad numbers, to a heavie Straine;
And entertaine
Some Sparke of hope, they may renew the heat,
Of Rapture yet.
Though frequent Sorrowes from Iust Causes spring;
Some little Ayre raises my numméd wing;
And Nature, not yet old in Years,
Would Stop the torrent of my fears,
To strike the Liricke String.
2
The thick Ayre hangs in Fogs about my head,
And many Thoughts make my Sad Heart as Dull;
My brest is full
Of mists and Clouds; my Fancie cannot Spread,
(Ore-burdenéd.)
Her features, to the Life, I did intend:
When I begin, it dyes, and makes an End;
In broken grones, abruptly closing,
A Thousand of her beauties loosing;
Beauties which none can lend.
3
Come, yet a little; let our Thoughts forgett
Theire torture; and some pettie Solace find.
If a sad Mind
Can but a little calme her Sorrowes, let
The Muses' heat
Breath gentle Rapture, interposing Fears,
And Sing our deep Cares, vnto patient Ears;
Who wounded, will not scorne our End,
Well-leveil'd; though (ill Shott) it bend
In a Distracted verse.
