1251That to his subiect lends not some small glory,

1252But he that writes of you, if he can tell,

1253That you are you, so dignifies his story.

1254Let him but coppy what in you is writ,

1255Not making worse what nature made so cleere,

1256And such a counter-part shall fame his wit,

1257Making his stile admired euery where.

1258 You to your beautious blessings adde a curse,

1259Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

1261MY toung-tide Muse in manners holds her still,

1262While comments of your praise richly compil'd,

1263Reserue their Character with goulden quill,

1264And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.

1265I thinke good thoughts, whilst other write good wordes,

1266And like vnlettered clarke still crie Amen,

1267To euery Himne that able spirit affords,

1268In polisht forme of well refined pen.

1269Hearing you praisd, I say 'tis so, 'tis true,

1270And to the most of praise adde some-thing more,

1271But that is in my thought, whose loue to you

1272(Though words come hind-most)holds his ranke before,

1273 Then others, for the breath of words respect,

1274Me for my dombe thoughts, speaking in effect.

1276WAs it the proud full saile of his great verse,

1277Bound for the prize of (all to precious) you,

1278That did my ripe thoughts in my braine inhearce,

1279Making their tombe the wombe wherein they grew?

1280Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,

1281Aboue a mortall pitch, that struck me dead ?

1282No, neither he, nor his compiers by night

1283Giuing him ayde, my verse astonished.

1284He nor that affable familiar ghost

1285Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,

1286As victors of my silence cannot boast,