Virtue runs before the Muse,
⁠And defies her skill;
She is rapt, and doth refuse
⁠To wait a painter's will.

Star-adoring, occupied,
⁠Virtue cannot bend her
Just to please a poet's pride,
⁠To parade her splendor.

The bard must be with good intent
⁠No more his, but hers;
Must throw away his pen and paint,
⁠Kneel with worshippers.

​Then, perchance, a sunny ray
⁠From the heaven of fire,
His lost tools may overpay,
⁠And better his desire.