He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands, 40
But knows that right is in the senate’s hands,
Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
Low at the Muses’ feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, resigns his bays. 45
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But ’tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.
John Dryden.
XC
PROLOGUE.
TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.