An Ode to Himself
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here dost thou careless lieBuried in ease and sloth?Knowledge that sleeps, doth dieAnd this security,It is the common mothThat eats on wits and arts, and that destroys them both. Are all the Aonian springsDried up? lies Thespia waste?Doth Clarius’ harp want strings,That not a nymph now sings;Or droop they as disgraced,To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced? If hence thy silence be,As ’tis too just a cause,Let this thought quicken thee:Minds that are great and freeShould not on fortune pause;’Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. What though the greedy fryBe taken with false baitsOf worded balladry,And think it poesy?They die with their conceits,And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. Then take in hand thy lyre;Strike in thy proper strain;With Japhet’s line aspireSol’s chariot, for new fireTo give the world again:Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove’s brain. And, since our dainty ageCannot endure reproof,Make not thyself a pageTo that strumpet the stage;But sing high and aloof,Safe from the wolf’s black jaw, and the dull ass’s hoof.
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