Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing; To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

I may command where I adore.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

wert thou as far As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.