Let it suffice, her Beauty doeth excell:
Whose praise no Pen can paint, no Tongue can tell.
Then how shall I describe, with artlesse Pen,
The praise of her, whose praise, all praise surmounteth?
Breeding amazement, in the mindes of men:
Of whom, this pressent Age to much accounteth.
Varietie of Words, would sooner want,
Then store of plentious matter, would be scant.
Whether yee list, to looke into the Citty:
(Where money tempts the poore Beholders eye)