PEACE, BABBLING MUSE!
Reading edition
1 Peace, babbling Muse! I dare not sing what you indite; Her eyes refuse To read the passion which they write. She strikes my lute, but, if it sound, Threatens to hurl it on the ground; And I no less her anger dread, Than the poor wretch that feigns him dead, While some fierce lion does embrace His breathless corpse, and lick his face; Wrapp'd up in silent fear he lies, Torn all in pieces if he cries.