Virtue runs before the Muse, And defies her skill; She is rapt, and doth refuse To wait a painter's will. Star-adoring, occupied, Virtue cannot bend her Just to please a poet's pride, To parade her splendor. The bard must be with good intent No more his, but hers; Must throw away his pen and paint, Kneel with worshippers. Then, perchance, a sunny ray From the heaven of fire, His lost tools may overpay, And better his desire. |