ODE XXXIV

It is not worth your Care:
My better Poem's, which the greedie Flame
Devour'd. Tis true; they might have kept my name,
More glorious, and faire
Unto Posteritie, then I can hope
From these remaining Trifles; and perhaps
Have given a Light to those, who can but grope
The way, and Stumble; or surprised, in Trapps
Of Cunning, fall to Ruine; this, and more,
They might have done;
But I am one
Who value nothing of my private Store.
Who knowes! but they determin'd were, to fall,
Part of a greater Ruine? and unfitt
To give such Light to future Times, as shall
Brand our owne Age in witt, for want of witt?
I doe not yet despaire
When silver-winged Peace againe shall Shine,
To raise a Poesie, in everie Line.
As high, as full, as faire.