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thou not, in clearest days, Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays? And that vapours which do breathe From the Earth's gross womb beneath, Seem unto us with black steams To pollute the Sun's bright beams, And yet vanish into air, Leaving it unblemished fair? So, my Willy, shall it be With Detraction's breath on thee: It shall never rise so high As to stain thy poesy. As that sun doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale, Poesy so sometime drains Gross conceits from muddy brains; Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 'Twixt men's judgments and her light; But so much her power may do, That she can dissolve them too. If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing she gets power; Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more, Till she to the highest hath past; Then she rests with Fame at last. Let nought, therefore, thee affright; But make forward in thy flight.