IV.

And let those things in plush Till they be taught to blush, Like what they will, and more contented be With what Broome[107] swept from thee. I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains Write not to cloaths, but brains: But thy great spleen doth rise, 'Cause moles will have no eyes; This only in my Ben I faulty find, He's angry they'll not see him that are blind.