I doubt not to come safe to glories port,
Since I have such a troop for my escort,
This band of gallant youths, bear me along,
Who teach me how to sing, then praise my song,
Such wreaths and branches, they've bestow'd on me,
I look like Daphne turn'd into a tree,
Whilst these young sons of Phoebus dance around
And sing the praise of her themselves have crown'd.
Not like those jdole-makers heretofore
Who had no right to praise, much less adore,
No justly I a poets honour claim,
'Cause they have power to make me what I am.
Ye learned youths, most learned of your time,
Of all your Reverend mothers sons the prime,
Ye gayest, sweetest, gentlest, youths on earth
Tell me what constellation rul'd my birth,?
That I'm become copartner of your bays,
And what's more glorious, subject of your praise,
'Twas not for beauty, learning, eloquence,
no, 'twas your vertue, lov'd my innocence,
My Rural muse, which never higher aimes,
Than to discourse, of shepherds and their lambs,
Of groves, obscure retreats, and to dispise,
What I deserve not, wealth and dignitys
Your good ness make, these humble fances please,
And your own worth supply defects in these.