And since I nought can add but in desire,
Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.
What ends soever others' quills invite,
I can protest, it was no itch to write,
Nor any vain ambition to be read,
20But merely love and justice to the dead,
Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring
These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,
To whose most rich and fruitful bead we owe
The purest streams of language which can flow.