Or looke I back unto the Times hence flown, To praise those Muses, and dislike our own? Or did I walk those Pean-Gardens through, To kick the Flow'rs, and scorn their odours too? I might (and justly) be reputed (here) One nicely made, or peevishly severe. But by Apollo! as I worship wit, (Where I have cause to burn perfumes to it:) So, I confesse, 'tis from what to do well In our high art, although we can't excell, Like thee; or dare the Buskins to unloose Of thy brave, bold, and sweet Maronian Muse; But since I'm cal'd (rare Denham) to be gone, Take from thy Herrick this conclusion: 'Tis dignity in others, if they be Crown'd Poets; yet live Princes under thee: The while their wreaths and Purple Robes do shine, Lesse by their own jemms, then those beams of thine.
