All unadvised, and in an evil hour, Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft The lowly labours of the “Gentle Craft” For learned toils, which blood and spirits sour. All things, dear pledge, are not in all mens' power; The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground; And sweet content of mind is oftener found In cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower. The sorrest work is what doth cross the grain; And better to this hour you had been plying The obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying, Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein; Still teasing Muses, which are still denying; Making a stretching-leather of your brain. |