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| To M. S. B. |
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| O thou which to search out the secret parts |
| Of the India, or rather Paradise |
| Of knowledge, hast with courage and advise |
| Lately launch'd into the vast Sea of Arts, |
| Disdaine not in thy constant travailing |
| To doe as other Voyagers, and make |
| Some turnes into lesse Creekes, and wisely take |
| Fresh water at the Heliconian spring; |
| I sing not, Siren like, to tempt; for I |
| Am harsh, nor as those Scismatiques with you, |
| Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew; |
| But seing in you bright sparkes of Poetry, |
| I, though I brought no* fuell, had desire |
| With these Articulate blasts to blow the fire.
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[CW: To] |