The poet's god arrayed in robes of gold,
Of his gilt harp the well-tuned strings doth hold.60
Let Homer yield to such as presents bring,
(Trust me) to give, it is a witty thing.
Nor, so thou may'st obtain a wealthy prize,
The vain name of inferior slaves despise.
Nor let the arms of ancient lines[178] beguile thee;
Poor lover, with thy grandsires I exile thee.
Who seeks, for being fair, a night to have,
What he will give, with greater instance crave.