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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.