To M[r]. B[asil] B[rooke]

IS not thy sacred hunger of science

Yet satisfied? is not thy brain’s rich hive

Fulfill’d with honey, which thou dost derive

From the arts’ spirits and their quintessence?

Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw

From Cambridge thy old nurse, and, as the rest,

Here toughly chew, and sturdily digest

Th’ immense vast volumes of our common law.

And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too,

Which is, that that, which I should have begun

In my youth’s morning, now late must be done;

And I, as giddy travellers must do,

Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost

Light and strength, dark and tired must then ride post.

If thou unto thy Muse be married,

Embrace her ever, ever multiply;

Be far from me that strange adultery

To tempt thee, and procure her widowhood.

My Muse—for I had one—because I’m cold,

Divorced herself, the cause being in me.

That I can take no new in bigamy,

Not my will only, but power doth withhold.

Hence comes it, that these rhymes which never had

Mother, want matter, and they only have

A little form, the which their father gave;

They are profane, imperfect—O, too bad

To be counted children of poetry,

Except confirm’d and bishoped by thee.