Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:
For seeliest Ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind Affection, which doth ne’er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem’d to raise . . .
But thou art proof against them, and in deed
Above th’ ill fortune of them, or the need.
I, therefore, will begin. Soul of the age!