It is (Lord of my Muse and heart) since last Thy sight inspir'd me, many ages past. In darknesse thick as ill-met Clouds can make, In sleeps wherein the last Trump scarce could wake The guiltlesse dead, I lay; and hidden more Than 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'd Through age, to th' influence of a Starre, and Men So small, that they might live in Wombes agen. But now, my strength's so giantly, that were The 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, refine My bloud, and bathe my Temples with thy Wine: And then, know my Endimion (thou, whose name To'th World example is, Musick to Fame) I'le trie if Art, and Nature, able be From the whole strength, and stock of Poesie, To pay thee my large debts; such as the poore In open Blushes, hidden Hearts restore.
