HYMN XXI.

Of the innumerable Virtues of her Mind.

E re thou proceed in these sweet pains,

L earn Muse! how many drops it rains

I n cold and moist December!

S um up May flowers! and August's grains!

A nd grapes of mild September!

B ear the sea's sand in Memory!

E arth's grasses! and the stars in sky!

T he little moats, which mounted

H ang in the beams of Phœbus' eye,

A nd never can be counted!

R ecount these numbers, numberless,

E re thou, her virtue canst express!

G reat wits, this count will cumber!

I nstruct thyself in numbering schools!

N ow Courtiers use to beg for fools;

A ll such as cannot number.