ODE 5.
[An Amouret Anacreontic.]
Ost good! most fair!
Or thing as rare!
To call you's lost;
For all the cost
Words can bestow
So poorly show
Upon your praise,
That all the ways
Sense hath, come short.
Whereby Report
Falls them under:
That when Wonder
More hath seized;
Yet not pleased
That it, in kind,
Nothing can find,
You to express.
Nevertheless
As by globes small
This mighty ALL
Is shewed, though far
From life; each star
A World being:
So we seeing
You, like as that,
Only trust what
Art doth us teach.
And when I reach
At Moral Things,
And that my strings
Gravely should strike;
Straight some mislike
Blotteth mine Ode;
As, with the Load,
The Steel we touch:
Forced ne'er so much;
Yet still removes
To that it loves,
Till there it stays.
So to your praise
I turn ever:
And though never
From you moving;
Happy so loving.