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SIR MARTYN.
XLII.
To fayre Parnassus groves ſhe took her flight;
There, culling flowretts of a thouſand dyes,
Still did her head with tawdry girlonds dight;
As ſoon the wreath ill ſorted would ſhe quight:
Ne ever did ſhe climb the twyforkt hill,
Ne could her eyen explore its lofty height,
Ne did ſhe ever taſte the ſacred rill
From Inſpirations fount that ever doth diſtill.
XLIII.
Her drowſy dulneſs from her Mother ſprong;
This never would allow her mind aſpyre,
That never would allow her patience long,
Thus as ſhe ſlightly rovd the lawns among,
High Jove beheld her from his ſtarry ſeat,
And calld her Dissipation: Wylde and young
Still ſhalt Thou be, he said; and this thy fate,
On Man thy ſleights employ, on Man that prowd ingrate.
