Turning the volume large of late, in which my Clio sings
The deeds of worthie Britaines dead, I find that many kings
Exempted are, whose noble acts deserue eternitie,
And mongst our Mirrours challenge place for all posteritie:
For which, my station I haue left, and now am come to thee,
This night thou must abandon sleepe, my pen-man thou must bee.”
To this said I: “O goddesse great, the taske thou dost impose
Exceeds the compasse of my skill, t’is fitter farre for those,
Whose pens sweet nectar do distill, to whom the power is giuen
Vpon their winged verse to rap their readers vp to heau’n: