With meanes more blessed then my barren rime?
Now stand you on the top of happie houres,
And many maiden gardens, yet vnset,
With vertuous wish would beare your liuing flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repaire
Which this (Time’s pensel or my pupill pen)
Neither in inward worth nor outward faire
Can make you liue your selfe in eies of men,
To giue away your selfe, keeps your selfe still,