Page:Madagascar, with other poems - Davenant (1638).djvu/71

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And this (my chiefe of Lords) made me designeThose noble flames, sprung from your nobler Wine,To keepe my spirits warme; till I could proveMy Numbers smooth, and mighty as my love:Yet such my treach'rous fate, that I this night(Fierce with untutor'd heat) did vow to write:But happy those, who undertake no moreThan what their stock of rage hath rul'd before!It is a Poet's sinne, that doth excellIn love, or wine, not to resolve how well,But strait how much to write; for then wee thinkThe vast tumultuous Sea is but our Ink;The World, our Forest too; and that wee mayBeleeve each Tree, that in it growes, a Bay.My Vow now kept, I'm loth (my Lord) to doeWrong to your justice, and your mercy too;The last, if you vouchsafe; you will excuseA strong Religion here, though not a Muse.

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