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| I NEVER rested on the Muses bed, | |
| Nor dipt my quill in the Thessalian fountaine, | |
| My rustick Muse was rudely fostered, | |
| And flies too low to reach the double mountaine. | |
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| Then do not sparkes with your bright Suns compare, | 5 |
| Perfection in a Womans work is rare; | |
| From an untroubled mind should verses flow; | |
| My discontents make mine too muddy show; | |
| And hoarse encumbrances of houshold care; | |
| Where these remaine, the Muses ne’er repaire. | 10 |
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| If thou dost extoll her haire, | |
| Or her ivory forehead faire, | |
| Or those Stars whose bright reflection | |
| Thrals thy heart in sweet subjection: | |
| Or when to display thou seeks | 15 |
| The snow-mixt roses in her cheekes, | |
| Or those rubies soft and sweet, | |
| Over those pretty rows that meet: | |
| The Chian painter as asham’d | |
| Hides his picture so far fam’d; | 20 |
| And the Queen he carv’d it by, | |
| With a blush her face doth dye, | |
| Since those lines do limne a creature | |
| That so far surpast her feature. | |
| When thou shew’st how fairest Flora | 25 |
| Prankt with pride the banks of Ora, | |
| So thy verse her streames doth honour, | |
| Strangers grow enamoured on her, | |
| All the swans that swim in Po | |
| Would their native brooks forgo, | 30 |
| And, as loathing Phoebus beams, | |
| Long to bath in cooler streames. | |
| Tree-turn’d Daphne would be seen | |
| In her groves to flourish green, | |
| And her boughs would gladly spare | 35 |
| To frame a garland for thy haire, | |
| That fairest Nymphs with finest fingers | |
| May thee crown the best of singers. | |
| |
| But when thy Muse dissolv’d in show’rs, | |
| Wailes that peerlesse Prince of ours, | 40 |
| Cropt by too untimely Fate, | |
| Her mourning doth exasperate | |
| Senselesse things to see thee moane, | |
| Stones do weep, and trees do groane, | |
| Birds in aire, fishes in flood, | 45 |
| Beasts in field forsake their food; | |
| The Nymphs forgoing all their bow’rs | |
| Teare their chaplets deckt with flow’rs; | |
| Sol himselfe with misty vapor | |
| Hides from earth his glorious taper, | 50 |
| And as mov’d to heare thee plaine | |
| Shews his griefe in show’rs of raine. | |
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