e compassing about,
Thy Nectar-dropping Muse, thy sugar'd song
Will swallow down with eagre hearty draught;
Relishing truly what thy rymes convey,
And highly praising thy soul-smiting lay.

The mincing maid her mind will then bewray,
Her heart-bloud flaming up into her face,
Grave matrons will wex wanton and betray
Their unresolv'dnesse in their wonted grace;
Young boyes and girls would feel a forward spring,
And former youth to eld thou back wouldst bring.

All Sexes, Ages, Orders, Occupations
Would listen to thee with attentive ear,
And eas'ly moved with thy sweet perswasions,
Thy pipe would follow with full merry chear.
While thou thy lively voice didst loud advance
Their tickled bloud for joy would inly dance.

But now, alas! poore solitarie man!
In lonesome desert thou dost wander wide
To seek and serve thy disappearing Pan,
Whom no man living in the world hath eyde:
For Pan is dead but I am still alive,
And live in men who honour to me give:

They honour also those that honour me
With sacred songs. But thou now singst to trees
To rocks to Hills, to Caves that senselesse be
And mindlesse quite of thy hid mysteries,
In the void aire thy idle voice is spread,
Thy Muse is musick to the deaf or dead.

Now out alas! said I, and wele-away
The tale thou tellest I confesse too true.
Fond man so doteth on this living clay
His carcase dear, and doth its joyes pursue,
That of his precious soul he takes no keep
Heavens love and reasons light lie fast asleep.

This bodies life vain shadow of the soul
With full desire they closely do embrace,
In fleshly mud like swine they wallow and roll,
The loftiest mind is proud but of the face
Or outward person; if men but adore
That walking sepulchre, cares for no more.

This is the measure of mans industry
To wexen some body and getten grace
To 's outward presence; though true majestie
Crown'd with that heavenly light and lively rayes
Of holy wesdome and Seraphick love,
From his deformed soul he farre remove.

Slight knowledge and lesse virtue serves his turn
For this designe. If he hath trod the ring
Of pedling arts; in usuall pack-horse form
Keeping the rode; O! then 't's a learned thing.
If any chanc'd to write or speak what he
Conceives not 't were a foul discourtesie.

To cleanse the soul from sinne, and still diffide