Thus, into dying poetry, thy Muse
Doth full perfection and new life infuse;
Each line deserves a laurel, and thy praise
Asks not a garland, but a grove of bays;
Nor can ours raise thy lasting trophies higher,
Who only reach at merit to admire.
But I must chide thee, friend: how canst thou be
30A patron, yet a foe to poetry?
For while thou dost this age to verse restore,
Thou dost deprive the next of owning more;