145
No more, my Muse! no more, for now my Lyre untunèd lies, and hoarse my voice of Song; not that of singing tire I, but I tire singing for surd and horny-hearted throng. Favours which Poet-fancy mostly fire our Land gives not, ah, no! ’tis plunged too long in lust of lucre, whelmed in rudest folly of vile, austere and vulgar melancholy.