Page:Hudibras - Volume 1 (Butler, Nash, Bohn; 1859).djvu/247

CANTO I.] Her voice, the music of the spheres, So loud, it deafens mortal ears; As wise philosophers have thought, And that's the cause we hear it not. This has been done by some, who those Th' ador'd in rhyme, would kick in prose; And in those ribbons would have hung, Of which melodiously they sung. That have the hard fate, to write best Of those still that deserve it least; It matters not how false, or forc'd, So the best things be said o' th' worst; It goes for nothing when 'tis said, Only the arrow's drawn to th' head, Whether it be a swan or goose They level at: so shepherds use To set the same mark on the hip, Both of their sound and rotten sheep: For wits that carry low or wide, Must be aim'd higher, or beside The mark, which else they ne'er come nigh, But when they take their aim awry. But I do wonder you should chuse This way t' attack me with your muse.