AD ASTRA PER OTIUM

AS I read over old John Dryden’ s verse,

The rhymes of men like William Blake, and Gay,

The stuff that helped fill Edmund Waller’ s purse,

And that which placed on Marvell’ s brow the bay,

It doth appear to me that in those times

The Muses quaffed not sparkling wine, but grog,

And that to grow immortal through one’ s rhymes

Was’ bout as hard as falling off a log.