Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task,
Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask;
His absence in my verse is all I ask.

Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us,
Though he would steal his sisters’ Pegasus,
And rifle him; or pawn his petasus.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,
Though they were crushed into one form, could make
A beauty of that merit, that should take

My muse up by commission; no, I bring
My own true fire:  now my thought takes wing,
And now an epode to deep ears I sing.

EPODE

Not to know vice at all, and keep true state,
   Is virtue and not fate: 
Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,
   And her black spite expel. 
Which to effect (since no breast is so sure,
   Or safe, but she’ll procure
Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard
   Of thoughts to watch and ward
At th’ eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,
   That no strange, or unkind
Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy,
   Give knowledge instantly
To wakeful reason, our affections’ king: 
   Who, in th’ examining,
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
   Close, the close cause of it. 
’Tis the securest policy we have,
   To make our sense our slave. 
But this true course is not embraced by many: 
   By many! scarce by any. 
For either our affections do rebel,
   Or else the sentinel,
That should ring ’larum to the heart, doth sleep: 
   Or some great thought doth keep
Back the intelligence, and falsely swears
   They’re base and idle fears
Whereof the loyal conscience so complains. 
   Thus, by these subtle trains,
Do several passions invade the mind,
   And strike our reason blind: 
Of which usurping rank, some have thought love
   The first:  as prone to move
Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,
   In our inflamed breasts: 
But this doth from the cloud of error grow,
   Which thus we over-blow. 
The thing they here call love is blind desire,
   Armed with bow, shafts, and fire;
Inconstant, like the sea, of whence ’tis born,
   Rough, swelling, like a storm;
With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,
   And boils as if he were
In a continual tempest.  Now, true love
   No such effects doth prove;
That is an essence far more gentle, fine,
   Pure, perfect, nay, divine;
It is a golden chain let down from heaven,
   Whose links are bright and even;
That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines
   The soft and sweetest minds
In equal knots:  this bears no brands, nor darts,
   To murder different hearts,
But, in a calm and god-like unity,
   Preserves community. 
O, who is he that, in this peace, enjoys
   Th’ elixir of all joys? 
A form more fresh than are the Eden bowers,