The manhood of the elder world? hath rust of time deuour’d
Th’ Heröe’s stocke that on your heads such golden blessings showr’d?
This silent night, when all things lie in lap of sweet repose,
Ye only wake, the powres of sleepe your eyes do neuer close,
To shew the sempiternitie, to which their names ye raise
On wings of your immortall verse that truly merit praise:
But where’s the due of your desert, or where your learning’s meed?
Not only now the baser sprite, whom dunghill dust doth breed,
But they that boast themselues to be in honor’s bosome borne,
Disdaine your wisdome, and do hold your sectaries in scorne: