Contracted by our eager toil;
In which we shine like glittering beams
Or christal in the christal streams;
Though Venus we transcend in form,
No wanton flames our bosomes warm!
If you ask where such wights do dwell,
In what bless’t clime, that so excel?
The poets onely that can tell.
35. Upon the Saying that My Verses were made by Another
Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!