html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }My Lord, it hath beene ask'd, why 'mongst those few
I singled out for Fame, I chose not you
With early speed the first? but I, that strive
My manners should preserve my Verse alive;
That read Men, and my selfe; would not permit
The boldnesse of my love, should tax my wit.
There are degrees, that to the Altar lead;
Where ev'ry rude, dull Sinner must not tread:
'Tis not to bring, a swift thankes-giving Tongue,
Or prayers made as vehement as long,
Can privilege a zealous Votarie,
To come, where the High Priest should only be:
Then why should I (where some more skilfull hand
May offer Gummes, and Spice) strew Dust, and Sand
And this (my chiefe of Lords) made me designe
Those noble flames, sprung from your nobler Wine,
To keepe my spirits warme; till I could prove
My Numbers smooth, and mighty as my love:
Yet such my treach'rous fate, that I this night
(Fierce with untutor'd heat) did vow to write:
But happy those, who undertake no more
Than what their stock of rage hath rul'd before!
It is a Poet's sinne, that doth excell
In love, or wine, not to resolve how well,
But strait how much to write; for then wee think
The vast tumultuous Sea is but our Ink;
The World, our Forest too; and that wee may
Beleeve each Tree, that in it growes, a Bay.
My Vow now kept, I'm loth (my Lord) to doe
Wrong to your justice, and your mercy too;
The last, if you vouchsafe; you will excuse
A strong Religion here, though not a Muse.