|
| To M.r T.W.| |
| All haile sweete Poet, more full of more strong fyre [f. 27v] |
| Then hath or shall enkindle any Spiritt. |
| I lovd what Nature gaue thee, but this meritt |
| Of witt & art I love not, but admyre. |
| Who haue before, or shall write after thee, |
| Ther works, though toughly Laboured, wilbee |
| Like infancy or Age, to Mans firme stay, |
| Or early & late twilights to Midday. |
| Men say, & truly, that they better bee |
| wch be envied then pitied, therfore I |
| Because I wish thee best, do thee envy, |
| line blotted: Oh wouldst thou by like reason pity mee. |
| words blotted: But care not for mee: I yt euer was |
| In natures & in fortunes guifts alas |
| words blotted: Before thy grace got in the Muses schoole |
| A Monster & a begger, am now a foole. |
| Oh how I grieue yt lateborne Modesty |
| Hath got such roote in easy waxen harts |
| That Men may not themselues ther owne good parts |
| Extoll, wthout suspect of Surquedry. |
| for but thy selfe no Subiect can be found |
| Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound |
| Thy worth but thyne: how good it weare to see |
| A poeme in thy prayse & writt by thee. |
| How if this Song be to'harsh for ryme, yet as |
| The Painters bad God made a good deuill |
| t'will be good prose, although the verse be euill, |
| If thou forget ye ryme as thou dost pas. |
| Then wryte yt I may follow, & so bee |
| Thy debtor, thy'Eccho, thy foyle, thy Zanee. |
| I shall be thought, if myne like thyne I shape |
| All the Worlds Lyon though I be thy Ape. |