Long since great wits have left the stage
Unto the drollers of the age,
And noble numbers with good sense
Are, like good works, grown an offence.
While much of verse—worse than old story—
Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory.
Such trash-admirers made us poor,
And pies turn'd poets out of door;
For the nice spirit of rich verse
Which scorns absurd and low commerce,
Although a flame from heav'n, if shed
On rooks or daws warms no such head.
Or else the poet, like bad priest,
Is seldom good, but when oppress'd;
And wit as well as piety
Doth thrive best in adversity
For since the thunder left our air
Their laurels look not half so fair.
However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude,
Not to profess our gratitude
And debts to thee, who at so low
An ebb dost make us thus to flow;
And when we did a famine fear,
Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year.
So while the world his absence mourns,
The glorious sun at last returns,
And with his kind and vital looks
Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks,
Puts drowsy Nature into play,
And rids impediments away,
Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through
Her pregnant lap get up and grow.
But if among those sweet things, we
A miracle like that could see
Which Nature brought but once to pass,
A Muse, such as Orinda was,
Ph[oe]bus himself won by these charms
Would give her up into thy arms;
And recondemn'd to kiss his tree,
Yield the young goddess unto thee.