And let those things in plush
Till they be taught to blush,
Like what they will, and more contented be
With what Broome[107] swept from thee.
I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains
Write not to cloaths, but brains:
But thy great spleen doth rise,
'Cause moles will have no eyes;
This only in my Ben I faulty find,
He's angry they'll not see him that are blind.