|
| So my ill reaching you might there grow good, |
| But I remain a poisoned fountain still; |
| And not your beauty, vertue, knowledg, blood, |
| Are more above all flattery, than my will. |
|
| And if I flatter any, 'tis not you |
| But my own judgment, who did long ago |
| Pronounce, that all these praises should be true, |
| And vertue should your beauty, and birth outgrow. |
|
| Now that my prophesies are all fulfill'd, |
| Rather than God should not be honour'd too, |
| And all these gifts confess'd, which he instill'd, |
| Your self were bound to say that which I doe. |
|
| So I, but your Recorder am in this, |
| Or mouth, and Speaker of the universe, |
| A ministerial Notary, for 'tis |
| Not I, but you and fame, that make this verse. |
|
| I was your Prophet in your younger dayes, |
| And now your Chaplain, God in you to praise. |
|
| To M. I. W. |
|
| All hail sweet Poet, and full 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 works, though toughly laboured, will be |
| Like infancy or age to mans firm stay, |
| Or early and late twilights to mid-day.
|
[CW: Men] |