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To E. of D. with sixe 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 borne at once, I send as yet
But sixe; they say, the seventh hath still some maime;
I choose your judgement which the same degree
Doth with her sister, your invention, hold,
As fire these drossie Rymes to purifie,
Or as Elixar, to change them to gold;
You are that Alchymist which alwayes had
Wit, whose one sparke could make good things of bad.
To Sir H. W. at his going Ambassadour
to Venice.
After those reverend papers, whose soule 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,

[CW: A]