The Argvment.
Whose birth the Muse doth not refuse
To grace with friendly eye,
Shall glory gaine, by the sweet veine
Of divine Poësie.

Whose birth Melpomeney
Thou smiling look'st upon,
No toyle in Isthmos him can make
A famous Champion.
No stately Steeds shall draw,
Contending for the prize,
His conquering Charet going on
With ioyfull shouts and cryes.
Nor good successe in warre,
To th'Capitoll him brings
Adornd with bayes, because the threats
He batterd of proud Kings.
But waters, that their course
By fertill Tiber take,
And woods with leaves thick-clad shall him
Renownd by verses make.
The Gallants of great Rome
Amongst the crue recite me
Of lovely Poëts: Envie now,
With venim split, less bites me.
O Muse, that guid'st the strings
Of the sweet warbling Lute:
O thou that if thou wilt canst give
Swans notes to fishes mute;
It's thy free gift, that me
Her Poët Rome doth call:
It's by thee that I breath, and please,
If ought I please at all.