[339] As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair;
[340] And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
[341] Make heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write
[343] Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs;
O, then his lines would ravish savage ears,
[345] And plant in tyrants mild humility.
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,