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| How can my muse want subject to invent, | 1 |
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| While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse |
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| Thine own sweet argument, too excellent |
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| For every vulgar paper to rehearse? |
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| O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me | 5 |
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| Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; |
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| For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, |
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| When thou thy self dost give invention light? |
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| Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth |
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| Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; | 10 |
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| And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth |
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| Eternal numbers to outlive long date. |
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 If my slight muse do please these curious days, |
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| The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. |
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