The Muses, Jove, and Phœbus, now I sing;
For from the far-off-shooting Phœbus spring
All poets and musicians, and from Jove
Th’ ascents of kings. The man the Muses love,
Felicity blesses; elocution’s choice
In syrup lay’ng of sweetest breath his voice.
Hail, Seed of Jove, my song your honours give,
And so in mine shall yours and others’ live.