It is (Lord of my Muse and heart) since lastThy sight inspir'd me, many ages past.In darknesse thick as ill-met Clouds can make,In sleeps wherein the last Trump scarce could wakeThe guiltlesse dead, I lay; and hidden moreThan Truth, which testy Controverts explore.More hid than paths of Snakes, to their deep beds,Or walkes of Mountaine-Springs from their first Heads:And when my long forgotten Eies, and Mind,Awak'd; I thought to see the Sunne declin'dThrough age, to th' influence of a Starre, and MenSo small, that they might live in Wombes agen.But now, my strength's so giantly, that wereThe great Hill-lifters once more toyling here;They'ld choose me out, for active Back, for Bone,To heave at Pælion first, and heave alone.Now by the softnesse of thy noble care,Reason, and Light, my lov'd Companions are;I may too, ere this Moone be lost, refineMy bloud, and bathe my Temples with thy Wine:And then, know my Endimion (thou, whose nameTo'th World example is, Musick to Fame)I'le trie if Art, and Nature, able beFrom the whole strength, and stock of Poesie,To pay thee my large debts; such as the pooreIn open Blushes, hidden Hearts restore.
