This is to spend above our slender rate;
The charge will our abilities outvye:
The Eccho tho Heavens Thunder can repeat;
And smallest Brooks reflect the spatious Sky.
Since all are joy'd, all should their joys declare:
Low notes do Musick, wel as high compound;
An Oaten Reed may yield as true a share
Of Love and Welcom as a Trumpets sound.
The Nightingals (those airy Poets) who
Make Helicon of every purling spring,
Their choicest Songs not only will bestow,
But feather'd Rhymers welcome in the Spring,
Tho great Wits rob us, and the Springs have drain'd,
(Bethesda to the poor man was deny'd)
Something of use ev'n may from Mud be gain'd,
As by the Holland industry is try'd.
The Heart's not best declar'd by finest words;
Silence ev'n sometimes great Rejoycements show;
And humble Turf, when kindled well, affords
As much true heat, as Chips of Cedar do.
Go forward then, and hope to gain excuse;
Rags will be hid in such a multitude:
Heav'n, that bestows on all its fruitful dews,
Will not refuse the meanest gratitude.