Th’ Apologetick Atlas of the Stage;
Well of the Golden age he could intreat,
But little of the Mettal he could get;
Three-score sweet Babes he fashion’d from the lump,
For he was Christ’ned in Parnassus pump;
The Muses Gossip to Aurora’s bed,
And ever since that time his face was red.
Thus through the horrour of infernall deeps,
With equal pace each of them softly creeps,
And being dark they had Alectors torch, [Alecto’s]