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Excus'd: Th'excessive charge of Ink, and Oyle,
Expence of quiet sleepes, and the vaine toyle,
In which the Priest of Smyrna tooke delight,
(When he for knowledge chang'd his precious sight)
Had scap'd me then; now whilst I strive to please
With tedious Art, I lose the lust of ease.
And when our Poets (enviously miss-led)
Shall finde themselves out-written, and out-read;
T'will urge their sorrow too, that thou didst give
To my weake Numbers, strength, and joy to live.
But O! uneasie thoughts! what will become
Of me, when thou retir'st into a Tombe?
The Cruell, and the Envious then will say,
Since now his Lord is dead; he that did sway
Our publique smiles, opinion, and our praise,
Till wee this Childe of Poesie did raise
To Fame, and love; let's drowne him in our Inke;
Where like a lost dull Plummet let him sinke
From humane sight; from knowledge he was borne;
Unlesse Succession finde him in our scorne.
Remembrance, never to Repentance showes,
The wealth wee gaine, but what wee feare to lose;
Expence of quiet sleepes, and the vaine toyle,
In which the Priest of Smyrna tooke delight,
(When he for knowledge chang'd his precious sight)
Had scap'd me then; now whilst I strive to please
With tedious Art, I lose the lust of ease.
And when our Poets (enviously miss-led)
Shall finde themselves out-written, and out-read;
T'will urge their sorrow too, that thou didst give
To my weake Numbers, strength, and joy to live.
But O! uneasie thoughts! what will become
Of me, when thou retir'st into a Tombe?
The Cruell, and the Envious then will say,
Since now his Lord is dead; he that did sway
Our publique smiles, opinion, and our praise,
Till wee this Childe of Poesie did raise
To Fame, and love; let's drowne him in our Inke;
Where like a lost dull Plummet let him sinke
From humane sight; from knowledge he was borne;
Unlesse Succession finde him in our scorne.
Remembrance, never to Repentance showes,
The wealth wee gaine, but what wee feare to lose;
Thou
