The pinions of my humble muse be all too weake to flie
So large a flight; theirs be this taske that loue to soare on high:
But how can they such taske vp-take, that in a stately straine
Haue rais’d the dead out of the dust; yet after all their paine,
When their sweet muse in vertue’s praise hath powred out their store,
Are still despis’d and doom’d for aye with vertue to be poore.”
To this, “alas,” quoth Memorie, “it grieues me to behold
The learned wits left all forlorne, t’whom whilome it was told
Mæcenas was reuiu’d againe: yet grieue I more to see
The loathed lozell to prophane that sacred mysterie: