html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Heare, how for want of others griefe, I mourne
My sad decay, and weepe at mine owne Urne!
The Hou'rs (that ne're want Wings, when they should fly
To hasten Death, or lead on Destinie,)
Have now fulfill'd the time, when I must come
Chain'd to the Muses Barre, to take my doome:
Where ev'ry Terme, some tim'rous Poet stands,
Condemn'd by whispers, e're repriv'd by hands.
I that am told conspiracies are laid,
To have my Muse, her Arts, and life betray'd,
Hope for no easie Judge; though thou wert there,
T'appease, and make their judgements lesse severe.
In this black day, like Men from Thunders rage,
Or drowning showres, I hasten from the stage;
And wish my selfe, some Spirit, hid within
Those distant, wandring Winds, that yet have bin
Unknowne to'th Compasse, or the Pilots skill;
Or some loose Plumet, sunke so low, untill
I touch where roots of Rocks deepe bury'd be;
There mourne, beneath the leafelesse Corall Tree.
But I am growne too tame! what need I feare,
Whilst not to passion, but thy reason cleere?
Should I perceive, thy knowledge were subdu'd,
T'unkinde consent with the harsh Multitude,
Then I had cause to weep; and at thy Gate
(Deny'd to enter) stand disconsolate;
Amaz'd, and lost to mine owne Eyes; there I
(Scarce griev'd-for by my selfe) would winke and dye:
Olivia then, may on thy pitty call
To bury me, and give mee funerall.