W.B.
Thamis nere heard a Song equall to this,
Although the Swan that ow'd this present quill
Sung to that Eccho, her owne Epitaph
As proude to die, and render up her wing
To Venus Swan, who doth more pleasing sing,
Produce thy worke & tell the powerfull tale.
Of naked Cupid, and his mothers will
My selfe I doe confine from Helicon,
As loath to see the other Muses nine,
So imodestlie eye shoot, and gaze uppon
Their new borne enuie: this tenth Muse of thine,
Which in my selfe I doe in thee admire,
As Aesops Satire the refulgent fire,
Which may me burn, (I mean with amorous flame
In reading, as the kissing that did him.
And happie Mirrha that he rips thy shame,
Since he so queintly doth expresse thy sin,
Many would write, but see mens workes so rare,
That of their owne they instantly dispaire.
Robert Glouer.
To his esteemed friend.
W.B.
Not for our friendship, or for hope of gaine
Doth my pen run so swiftly in thy praise:
Court-seruile flatterie I doe disdaine,
"Enuie like Treason, stil it selfe betraies.
This worke Detractions sting, doth disinherit:
He that giues thee all praise, giues but thy merrit.
Lewes Machin.
