And sure in elder times the Poets were
Those Priests that told men how to hope and feare,
Though they most sensually did write and live,
Yet taught those blessings, which the Gods did give,
But you (my King) have purify’d our flame,
Made wit our virtue which was once our shame;
For by your own quick fires you made ours last,
Reform’d our numbers till our songs grew chast.
Farre more thou fam’d Augustus ere could doe
With’s wisdome, (though it long continued too)