Nay, he, befriending me above my merit,
Unseen of any heaved my wingèd spirit
T' a higher court than the Star chamber is,
Where souls may surfeit with immortal bliss;
And taught my fancy, in those quiet slumbers,
What, waking, I have folded up in numbers;
40To tell the brood of critics that there are
Some few, or if not some, yet one, that dare
(Backèd by your thrice-sacred worths) expose
These lines and letters to the ken of prose.