Where do’st thou carelesse lie,
Buried in ease and sloth?
Knowledge, that sleepes, doth die;
And this Securitie,
5 It is the common Moath,
That eats on wits, and Arts, and oft destroyes them both.
Are all th’ Aonian springs
Dri’d up? lyes Thespia wast?
Doth Clarius Harp want strings,
10 That not a Nymph now sings!
Or droop they as disgrac’t,
To see their Seats and Bowers by chattring Pies defac’t?
If hence thy silence be,
As ’tis too just a cause;
15 Let this thought quicken thee,
Minds that are great and free,
Should not on fortune pause,
’Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause.
What though the greedie Frie
20 Be taken with false Baytes
Of worded Balladrie,
And thinke it Poësie?
They die with their conceits,
And only pitious scorne, upon their folly waites.
25 Then take in hand thy Lyre,
Strike in thy proper straine,
Sols Chariot for new fire,
To give the world againe:
30 Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Joves braine.
And since our Daintie age,
Cannot indure reproofe,
Make not thy selfe a Page,
To that strumpet the Stage,
35 But sing high and aloofe,
Safe from the wolves black jaw, and the dull Asses hoofe.