Long work perhaps may spoil thy colours quite. Bat never will reduce the native white;
To all the ports of honour and of gain,
I often steer my course in vain,
Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
Thou slack'nest all my nerves of industry,
By making them so oft to be
The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsie.
Whoever this world's happiness would fee,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only heaven desire,
Do from the world retire. This was my error, this my gross mistake, Myself a demy-votary to make, Thus with Sapphira, and her husband's fate, (A fault which I like them am taught too late) For all that I gave up, 1 nothing gain, And peristi for the part which I retain.
Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse,
The court, and better king, t* accuse; The heaven under which I live is fair; The fertile foil will a full harvest bear; Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should plough;