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| So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, | 1 |
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| And found such fair assistance in my verse |
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| As every alien pen hath got my use |
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| And under thee their poesy disperse. |
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| Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing | 5 |
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| And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, |
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| Have added feathers to the learned's wing |
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| And given grace a double majesty. |
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| Yet be most proud of that which I compile, |
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| Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: | 10 |
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| In others' works thou dost but mend the style, |
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| And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; |
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 But thou art all my art, and dost advance |
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| As high as learning, my rude ignorance. |
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