O, why should Nature niggardly restraine!
That Foraine Nations relish not our Tongue,
Else should my Lines glide on the Waues of Rhene,
And crowne the Piren’s with my liuing Song:
But bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth,
Thence take you Wing vnto the Orcades,
There let my Verse get glory in the North,
Making my Sighes to thaw the Frozen Seas;
And let the Bards within that Irish Ile,
To whom my Muse with fierie Wings shall passe,
Call backe the stiffe-neck’d Rebels from Exile,
And mollifie the slaught’ring Galliglasse;
And when my flowing Numbers they rehearse,
Let Wolues and Beares be charmed with my Verse.