And think it poesy?
They die with their conceits,
And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.
Then take in hand thy lyre, 25
Strike in thy proper strain,
With Japhet’s line, aspire
Sol’s chariot for new fire,
To give the world again:
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove’s brain.
And since our dainty age 31