| |
| IS not thy sacred hunger of science | |
| Yet satisfied? is not thy brain’s rich hive | |
| Fulfill’d with honey, which thou dost derive | |
| From the arts’ spirits and their quintessence? | |
| Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw | 5 |
| From Cambridge thy old nurse, and, as the rest, | |
| Here toughly chew, and sturdily digest | |
| Th’ immense vast volumes of our common law. | |
| And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too, | |
| Which is, that that, which I should have begun | 10 |
| In my youth’s morning, now late must be done; | |
| And I, as giddy travellers must do, | |
| Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost | |
| Light and strength, dark and tired must then ride post. | |
| |
| If thou unto thy Muse be married, | 15 |
| Embrace her ever, ever multiply; | |
| Be far from me that strange adultery | |
| To tempt thee, and procure her widowhood. | |
| My Muse 1—for I had one—because I’m cold, | |
| Divorced herself, the cause being in me. | 20 |
| That I can take no new in bigamy, | |
| Not my will only, but power doth withhold. | |
| Hence comes it, that these rhymes which never had | |
| Mother, want matter, and they only have | |
| A little form, the which their father gave; | 25 |
| They are profane, imperfect—O, too bad | |
| To be counted children of poetry, | |
| Except confirm’d and bishoped by thee. | |
