This book to you 'tis fit I dedicate
Since you, my friend, so well appreciate—
Nay, rather love, our poets of old time,
Responding ever to their notes sublime:
Who, though you treasure most those sons of light,
Whose radiance glitters on the brow of night,
Do not despise the faintest twinkling star
That shines where Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton are:
Who can, like Lamb, a brilliant flower descry
Where all seems sterile to the common eye,