Wee that are Orpheus Sons, and can inherit By that great title, nought but's num'rous spirit; His broaken Harpe, and when w'are tir'd with moane, A few small Trees of Bay to hang it on. Wee that successively can claime no more, From such a poore unlucky Ancestor; Must now (my noble Lord) take thrifty care, To know, what moderne wealth the Muses share? Or how it is dispos'd? and strait wee finde Great, pow'rfull Love, hath bount'ously resign'd Into your happy Armes, the chiefe, and best, Of all that our ambitious hopes possest: Your noble Bride; to whose eternall Eies, Wee daily offer'd Wreaths in Sacrifice: Whose warmth gave Laurell growth, whose ev'ry beame Was first our influence, and then our theame: Whose brest (too narrow for her heart) was still Her reasons Throne, and prison to her will: And since, this is your willing faith; tis fit What all the kinde, and wiser Starres commit Unto your charge, be with such eager love, And soft indeerements us'd, as well may prove, They meant, when first they taught you how to wooe, She should be happy, and the Muses too. Live still, the pleasure of each others sight; To each, a new made wonder, and delight; Though two, yet both so much one constant minde, That t'will be art, and mystery to finde (Your thoughts and wishes, being still the same) From which of eithers loving heart they came.
