Classic Poem

An Answer to his kinde friend Richard Day. Gent.

No lovely, nor beloved REDBREST I ,
A ROBIN poore refusde, such one I am ,
Which Ile ascribe unto my Destinie,
And not impute it unto ALBAS blame :
 Yet will I chirp her praises to my skill,
 Where Art doth want, my Hart supplies goodwill.

Sweet Friend, tis thou that lovely sweet dost sing,
No swanne, but raven I; my voice is hoarse:
Thou Day to the day the cleerest light dost bring ,
And of thy DIAMANTA findst remorse .
 Heavens, Aire, Windes, Earth, Beasts, Stones, Hils, Seas and all,
 Thou canst command by thy sweet Verses call.

To praise me thus thou dost me too much wrong,
This waight's too heavie for my back to beare:
To thee, and to thy Mistris, Praise belong;
For you, not me, this Garland's fit to weare.
Yet since some Flowers thereof you do bestow
  on ALBA mine, thankefull still will show .

Be thou our ALBIONS Orpheus most divine ,
I cannot play, my joynts not nimble are:
Thou that art best in Loves sweet tune and time,
Sound thou, directed by a beautious Starre.
 My Star is bright, yet let me tell the truth,
 Where Beautie most abounds, there wants most Ruth.