octave

Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,

That, bravely masked, their fancies may be told;

Or Pindar's apes flaunt they in phrases fine,

Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold;

Or else let them in statelier glory shine,

Ennobling new-found tropes with problems old;

Or with strange similes enrich each line,

Of herbs or beasts with Ind or Afric hold.