ODE IV

1

  Our Muses, not exiled, with Sober Feet
Draw forth Sad numbers, to a heavie Straine;
And entertaine
  Some Sparke of hope, they may renew the heat
Of Rapture yet;
Though frequent Sorrowes, from Just Causes spring;
Some little Ayre, raises my nummed wing;
And Nature, not yet old in Years,
Would Stop the torrent of my fears,
To Strike the Liricke String.

2

  The thicke Ayre hangs, in Fogs about my head;
And many Thoughts, make my Sad Heart as Dull;
My brest is full
  Of mists and Clouds; my Fancie cannot Spread,
(Oreburdened).
Her features, to the Life, I did intend;
When I begin, it dyes, and makes an End;
In broken grones, abruptly closing,
A Thousand of her beauties loosing,
Beauties, which none can lend.

3

  Come; yet a little, let our Thoughts forgett
Theire torture; and some pettie Solace find.
If a sad Mind
  Can but a little calme her Sorrowes; let
The Muses heat
Breath gentle Rapture, interposing Fears,
And Sing our deep Cares, unto patient Ears;
Who wounded, will not scorne our End
Well leveil'd, though (ill Shott) it bend
In a Distracted verse.