To his friend Maister Robert Peterson Gent.
Thy Galateo (Peterson) doth shrowd him selfe to long.
What? shall it sleepe Endymions yeares? thou dost thy countrie wrong.
She hath a childs parte, Plato saies, and with the Author cries,
That both thy toile, and this her gaine, may reare his skill to skies.
What thoughe thou thinke thy present small, for view of gallant ones
This litle Diamond, shall out prize, a quarry full of stones.
And Noble Cyrus (Man) will daine cold water in Sinaetaes hand:
Then fray not, if thy booke, in pure, unfiled termes doe stand.
Translatours can not mount: for though, their armes with wings be spread,