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To my MUSE.
FOrbear, vain Muse, thy subject is too high;
Thy Saveraign rather, is the Deity;
The God of all the World, whose dreadful Name
Strikes an Amazement in whole Natures frame.
God! what a fright the very sound hath made!
My Soul into a Ravishment is laid.
I must repent my rashness; when that's done,
Let us consult how thou shalt journey on.
First let thy Meditations, milde and meek,
Direct thy Heart to teach thy Tongue to speak;
And from those pious thoughts (my Muse) distil
Those Fragrants may befit an Angels Quill:
Consider, thou dost boldly dare t'aspire
To do the duty of an Holy Quire;
Nay, of a Quire of Angels blest, who bring
Joy to themselves, and Duty to their King.
Then since thy Task is great, thy Work sublime,
Invoke Apollo to assist thy Rhyme;
Call the nine Muses to inspire thy heart,
That every one with thee may bear a part:
So to preserve your duties from decay,
Striving to Love, to Sing, and to Obey.
'Tis not an easie or a common thing,
For Peasants to approach an Earthly King;
Then how much study is to be acquir'd,
When God, the King of kings, must be admir'd?
Yet thou, presumptuous Muse, although confin'd,
Makest attempts; I hope because thy mind
Tikes a delight in a Poetick Air,
Converting every Poem to a Prayer.
The Task is great, too great for grave Divines;
Angels and Saints best sing 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lines.
First let thy Pen in Helico•…•… be 〈◊〉〈◊〉;
Soar not too high, because thy Wings are clipt.