|
| And if I flatter any, 'tis not you |
| But my owne judgement, who did long agoe |
| Pronounce, that all these praises should be true, |
| And vertue should your beautie,'& birth outgrow. |
|
| Now that my prophesies are all fufill'd, |
| Rather then God should not be honour'd too, |
| And all these gifts confess'd, which hee instill'd, |
| Your selfe were bound to say that which I doe. |
|
| So I, but your Recorder am in this, |
| Or mouth, and Speaker of the universe, |
| A ministeriall Notary, for 'tis |
| Not I, but you and fame, that make this verse. |
|
| I was your Prophet in your yonger dayes, |
| And now your Chaplaine, God in you to praise. |
|
| To M. I. W. |
|
| All haile sweet Poët, more ful of more strong fire, |
| Then hath or shall enkindle my dull spirit, |
| I lov'd what nature gave thee, but thy merit |
| Of wit and art I love not, but admire; |
| Who have before or shall write after thee, |
| Their workes, though toughly laboured, will bee |
| Like infancy or age to mans firme stay, |
| Or earely and late twilights to mid-day.
|
[CW: Men] |