Of those that such impertinent pieces be
Of common-weals. Thou’d better then to spare
Thy uselesse vein. Or tell else, what may move
Thy busie use such fruitlesse pains to prove.
No pains but pleasure to do the dictates dear
Of inward living nature. What doth move
The Nightingall to sing so sweet and clear
The Thrush, or Lark that mounting high above
Chants her shrill notes to heedlesse ears of corn
Heavily hanging in the dewy morn.