|
| Heavens liberal, and Earths thrice fair Sun, |
| Going to where sterv'd winter aye doth won, |
| Yet, loves hot fires which martyr my sad mind, |
| Do send forth scalding sighs, which have the Art |
| To melt all Ice, but that which walls her heart. |
|
| To M. S. B. |
|
| O thou which to search out the secret parts |
| Of the India, or rather Paradise |
| Of knowledg, hast with courage and advice |
| Lately launch'd into the vast Sea of Arts, |
| Disdain not in thy constant travelling |
| To do as other Voyagers, and make |
| Some turns into less Creeks, and wisely take |
| Fresh water at the Heliconian spring. |
| I sing not, Siren like to tempt; for I |
| Am harsh; nor as those Schismatiques with you, |
| Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew; |
| But seeing in you bright sparks of Poetry, |
| I, though I brought no fuel, had desire |
| With these Articulate blasts to blow the fire. |
|
| To M. B. B. |
|
| Is not thy sacred hunger of science |
| Yet satisfy'd? is not thy braines rich hive |
| Fulfill'd with hony which thou dost derive |
| From the Arts spirits and their Quintessence? |
| Then wean thy self at last, and thee withdraw |
| From Cambridg thy old nurse, and, as the rest,
|
[CW: Here] |