For Christ, King, Countrey, what thou there indur’d
Not them alone, but therein all injur’d:
Their tort’ring Rack, arresting of thy pace
Hath barr’d our hope, of the worlds other face:
Who is it sees this side so well exprest,
That with desire, doth not long for the rest.
Thy travell’d Countreyes so described be,
As Readers thinke, they doe each Region see,
Thy well compacted matter, ornat stile,
Doth them oft, in quicke sliding Time beguile,