To the King

Ovr graver Muse from her long Dreame awakes,
Peneian Groves, and Cirrha's Caves forsakes:
Inspir'd with Zeale, she climbes th' Aethereall Hils
Of Solyma, where bleeding Balme distils;
Where Trees of Life unfading Youth assure,
And Living Waters all Diseases cure:
Where the Sweet Singer, in coelestiall Laies,
Sung to his solemne Harp Iehovah's Praise.
From that falne Temple, on her wings she beares
Those Heavenly Raptures to your sacred Eares:
Not that her bare and humble Feet aspire
To mount the Threshold of th'harmonious Quire;
But that at once she might Oblations bring
To God; and Tribute to a god-like King.
And since no narrow Verse such Mysteries,
Deepe Sense, and high Expressions could comprise;
Her labouring Wings a larger compasse flie,
And Poesie resolves with Poesie:
Lest she, who in the Orient clearly rose,
Should in your Western World obscurely close.