And must I sing? what subject shall I chuse? <br />Or whose great name in Poets heaven use? <br />For the more countenance to my active Muse? <br /> <br />Hercules? alas his bones are yet sore, <br />With his old earthly labours. T'exact more, <br />Of his dull god-head, were sinne. Ile implore <br /> <br />Phoebus? No. tend thy cart still. Envious day <br />Shall not give out, that I have made thee stay, <br />And foundred thy hot teame, to tune my lay. <br /> <br />Nor will I begge of thee, Lord of the vine, <br />To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine, <br />In the greene circle of thy Ivie twine. <br /> <br />Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid, <br />That, at thy birth, mad'st the poore Smith affraid, <br />Who, with his axe, thy fathers mid-wife plaid. <br /> <br />Goe, crampe dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts, <br />Or, with thy Tribade trine, invent new sports. <br />Thou, nor thy loosenesse with my making sorts. <br /> <br />Let the old Boy, your sonne, ply his old taske, <br />Turne the stale prologue to some painted maske, <br />His absence in my verse, is all I aske. <br /> <br />Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us, <br />Though hee would steale his sisters Pegasus, <br />And riffle him: or pawne his Petasus. <br /> <br />Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake, <br />(Though they were crusht into one forme) could make <br />A beautie of that merit, that should take <br /> <br />My Muse up by commission: No, I bring <br />My owne true fire. Now my thought takes wing, <br />And now an Epode to deepe eares I sing.<br /><br />Ben Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/x-and-must-i-sing/
