The Author, of, and to his Muse

MY Muse is tirde with tyring but on Leaues
that fruitlesse are; yet, leaue ill fruits behinde:
Shee onely workes for Ayre, that but deceiues:
so, workes for nothing, but deceitfull Winde.

And what she seiseth, as her Subiect, is
but vaine, if it be light; and lightly what
Shee preyes vpon, is such: then, now on This,
shee needes to pray, for preying so on That.

O Muse, didst thou but know thy natiue kinde,
(being all diuine) thou ne'er would'st waue thy wings
In that which doth but onely marre the Mind;
but, endlesly, about Celestiall Things.

Th'wilt be deplum'd for pluming so on Trash,
and (like a Flesh-lye) lighting but on Sores;
Then, in Arts fairest Founts, thy Feathers wash,
to flye to him that Heau'n and Earth adores!

Thy Raptures else, are but such Rauishments,
as are reproachfull, penall, lewde, and light:
But Raptures farre aboue the Elements,
doe shew thy Vertue in the fairest light.

O then, thou great vnlimitable Muse,
(that rests, in motion, in th'ETERNALS Breast)
Inspire my Muse, with grace her pow'r to vse
in nought, but what to thee shall be addrest:
So shall that Spirit that made thy Dauid sing,
Make Dauies too, (a Begger) like a King.