VIII.
Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse,
The court, and better king, t’ accuse;
The heaven under which I live is fair;
The fertile soil will a full harvest bear;
Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou
Mak’st me sit still and sing, when I should plough;
When I but think, how many a tedious year
Our patient sov’reign did attend
His long misfortunes fatal end;
How chearfully, and how exempt from fear,
On the Great Sovereign’s will he did depend,
I ought to be accurst, if I refuse
To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
Kings have long hands (they say) and though I be
So distant, they may reach at length to me.
However, of all princes, thou
Should’st not reproach rewards for being small or slow;
Thou, who rewardest but with popular breath,
And that too after death.