 | Ivvenilia
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Eleg. 27.
[But soft, I mean not here to blaze his praise]
But soft, I mean not here to blaze his praise,
It is a work too mighty, and requires
Many a pen, and many yeares of daies:
My humble quill to no such task aspires;
Onely I mourn with deep-deep-sighing grones,
Yet could I wish the other might be done,
Though al the Muses were imploy'd at once,
And write as long as Helicon would run;
But oh, I feare the Spring's already dry,
Or else why flags my lazy Muse so low?
Why vent I such dull-sprighted Poesie?
Surely 'tis sunk; I lye, it is not so:
For how is't likely that should want supplies,
When all wee feed it with our weeping eyes?
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