Obdurate still and tongue-tied, you accuse
—Though yours is ever vocal—my dull muse;
You blame my lazy, lurking life, and add
I scorn your love, a calumny most sad;
Then tell me, that I fear my wife, and dart
Harsh, cutting words against my dearest heart.
Leave, learned father, leave this bitter course,
My studies are not turn'd unto the worse;
I am not mad, nor idle, nor deny
Your great deserts, and my debt, nor have I
A wife like Tanaquil, as wildly you
Object, but a Lucretia, chaste and true.