Thy sorc'ries; Pity shall to justice turne,
And judge thee, witch, in thy owne flames to burne.
To the Honourable my much honoured friend, R. B. Esquire.
While you dare trust the loudest tongue of fame,
The zeale you heare your Mistresse to proclaim
To th' talking world: I in the silent'st grove,
Scarce to my selfe dare whisper that I love.
Thee, titles Brud'nell, riches thee adorne,
And vigorous youth to vice not headlong borne