|
| But maist thou wish great things, and them attain, |
| As thou tell'st her, and none but her my pain. |
|
| To E. of D. with six holy Sonets. |
|
| See Sir, how as the Suns hot masculine flame |
| Begets strange creatures on Niles durty slime, |
| In me, your fatherly yet lusty Ryme |
| (For, these songs are their fruits) have wrought the same; |
| But though the ingendring force from whence they came |
| Be strong enough, and nature doth admit |
| Seven to be born at once; I send as yet |
| But six; they say, the seventh hath still some maim; |
| I choose your judgment which the same degree |
| Doth with her sister, your invention, hold, |
| As fire these drossie Rhymes to purifie, |
| Or as Elixar to change them to gold; |
| You are that Alchymist which always had |
| Wit, whose one spark could make good things of bad. |
|
| To Sir Henry Wotton, at his going Ambassadour |
| to Venice. |
|
| After those reverend papers, whose soul is |
| Our good and great Kings lov'd hand and fear'd name, |
| By which to you he derives much of his, |
| And (how he may) makes you almost the same, |
|
| A Taper of his Torch, a copie writ |
| From his Original, and a fair beam |
| Of the same warm, and dazelling Sun, though it |
| Must in another Sphere his vertue stream.
|
[CW: After] |