Ah silly Muse thus to infest
This barran Region of my brest,
Which never can a harvest yield,
Since sorrow has o'ergrown the field,
If intrest w'ont oblige thee too't
At least let honour make thee do't
Cause I ungratfully oppose
Thy charmes, and make my friends thy foes.
But nought I see, will drive thee hence,
Grief, business, or impertinence,
But still thou will't thy joys obtrude,
Upon a mind so wholly rude,
As can't afford to entertain,
Thee with the welcome of one strain,
Few friends like thee will be so kind,
To come where intrest does not bind,
And fewer yet, return again,
After coldness and disdain,
But thou kind friend art none of those
Thy charmes thou always doe'st oppose,
'Gainst all inquietude of mind,
If I'm displeas'd still thou art kind.
And gently drive'st my griefs away,
Which else wou'd make my heart their prey,
And fills't their empty places too,
With thoughts of what I ought to do,
Tou'rt to my mind so very good,
Its consolation, phisick, food
Thou fortify'st it in distress,
In joy augment'st its happiness
Companion to me at all times,
Inspiring me with harmless rhimes,
To praise good deeds, detest all crimes
Then gentle muse, be still my guest,
Take full possession of my brest.