To his Muse

No enemy hath done me so much wrong
As thou, that hast betray'd me with a song
To ship-wracke of my fortunes: yet such sport
Thou dost afford me, that I hugge thee for't;
And those that most doe envy thee, delight
To see thee hovering in thine Eagle-flight,
And (proudly pearched on a Meteors backe)
With Ioves maine Thunder vying crack for crack,
While (Swallow-like) Detraction flyes below,
And chatters. For such feates I love thee so,
That were the choyce propos'd, I should refuse
Rich India's bosome, to embrace my Muse.