When I should eat, or sigh when I should sleep;
I will not fall upon my pointed quill,
Bleed ink and poems, or invention spill
To contrive ballads, or weave elegies
50For nurses' wearing when the infant cries.
Nor like th' enamour'd Tristrams of the time,
Despair in prose and hang myself in rhyme.
Nor thither run upon my verses' feet,
Where I shall none but fools or madmen meet,
Who midst the silent shades, and myrtle walks,