Chapter 6
To my lord Corraine, an answer to his complimental verses sent me under the name of Clonorne by Anne Killigrew. Read for LibriVox.org by Nomin Brannock. Long my dull muse and heavy slumbers lay, Indulging sloth and to soft ease gave away, Her fill of rest resolving to enjoy, Or fancying little worthy her employ. When noble Clonorne's obliging strains, Her, the neglected liar to tune constraints,
Confused at first she raised her drowsy head, Pondered awhile, then pleased for soak her bread. Serve at each line with fancy richly fraught, Be read and then revolve them in her thought. And can it be, she said, and can it be, That among the great ones I a poet see, The great ones who their ill-spent time divide, To ex-dangerous politics and formal pride, Destructive vice, expansive vanity, In worse ways yet, if worse their any be,
Leave to inferiors the despised arts, Let their retainers be the men of parts. But here with wonder and with joy I find, Ith noble born a no less noble mind. One who on ancestors does not rely, For fame and merit as entitle high. The severe goddess thus approved the lays, Yet too much pleased, alas, with her own praise. But to vain pride my muse ceased to give place, Vigils immortal numbers once did grace.
As mother gnawed by high plosives shown, If undeserved the praiser's worth alone, Nor that you should have believed isn't always meant, Tis often for instruction only sent, To praise men to amendment and display, By its perfection where their weakness lay. This use of the applauding numbers make Them, for example, not incommium take. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
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