Write not to cloaths, but brains:
But thy great spleen doth rise,
’Cause moles will have no eyes;
This only in my Ben I faulty find,
He’s angry they’ll not see him that are blind.
V.
Why shou’d the scene be mute
’Cause thou canst touch the lute
And string thy Horace? Let each Muse of nine
Claim thee, and say, th’art mine.