Page:The castle of Indolence - an allegorical poem - Written in imitation of Spenser (IA castleofindolenc00thomiala).pdf/60

 Yet the fine Arts were what he finish'd least. For why? They are the Quintessence of All, The Growth of labouring Time, and slow increast; Unless, as seldom chances, it should fall, That mighty Patrons the coy Sisters call Up to the Sun-shine of uncumber'd Ease, Where no rude Care the mounting Thought may thrall, And where they nothing have to do but please:

But now, alas! we live too late in Time: Our Patrons now even grudge that little Claim, Except to such as sleek the soothing Rhyme; And yet, forsooth, they wear ' Name, Poor Sons of puft-up Vanity, not Fame! Unbroken Spirits, chear! still, still remains Th' Eternal Patron, ; whose Flame, While she protects, inspired the noblest Strains.