And the little mind is bloated with the praise, scorning him who gave it,
A fool shall turn to be thy tyrant, an thou hast dubbed him great:
And the medium mind of common men, loving first thy music,
After, when the harmonies are done, shall feel small comfort in their echoes;
For either he shall know thee false, conscious of contrary deservings,
And, hating thee for falsehood, soon will scorn himself for truth,
Or, if in aught to toilsome merit honest praise be due,
Though for a season, belike, his weakness hath been raptured at thy witching,
Shall he not speedily perceive, to the vexing of his disappointed spirit,
That thine exaggerated tongue hath robbed him of fair fame?