Then do they bravely march, with honour arm'd,
20Which, as the gods the people, charmeth charm'd.
On this known privilege feet I these lines,
In which, though dimmer than your native, shines
Your worth, enfired by my kneèd quill,
Which claims the scale not of deserts, but will,
In your acceptance and the world's surmise.
Then, cynics, bark, and, critics, beam your eyes!
My quill's no pencil to emblazon forth
Your stainless honour and your matchless worth.