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| A little forme, the which their Father gave; |
| They are prophane, imperfect, oh, too bad |
| To be counted Children of Poetry |
| Except confirm'd and Bishoped by thee. |
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| To M. R. W. |
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| If, as mine is, thy life a slumber be, |
| Seeme, when thou read'st these lines, to dreame of me, |
| Never did Morpheus nor his brother weare |
| Shapes soe like those Shapes, whom they would appeare, |
| As this my letter is like me, for it |
| Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, minde and wit; |
| It is my deed of gift of mee to thee, |
| It is my Will, my selfe the Legacie. |
| So thy retyrings I love, yea envie, |
| Bred in thee by a wise melancholy, |
| That I rejoyce, that unto where thou art, |
| Though I stay here, I can thus send my heart, |
| As kindly'as any enamored Patient |
| His Picture to his absent Love hath sent. |
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| All newes I thinke sooner reach thee then mee; |
| Havens are Heavens, and Ships wing'd Angels be, |
| The which both Gospell, and sterne threatnings bring; |
| Guyanaes harvest is nip'd in the spring, |
| I feare; And with us (me thinkes) Fate deales so
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[CW: As] |