Which was call’d mine durst beare a critic’s view,
I was the instrument, but the author you.
I need not tell you of our health, which here
Must be presum’d, nor yet shall our good cheare
Swell up my paper, as it has done me,
Or as the Mayor’s feast does Stowe’s History:
Without an early bell to make us rise,
Health calls us up and novelty; our eyes
Have divers objects still on the same ground,
As if the Earth had each night walk’d her round