To the Deere Chyld of the Muses, and His Ever Kind Mecaenas, Ma. Anthony Cooke, Esquire -
Vouchsafe to grace these rude unpolish'd rymes,
Which long (deer friend) have slept in sable night,
And come abroad now in these glorious tymes,
Can hardly brooke the purenes of the light.
But sith you see their desteny is such,
That in the world theyr fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name theyr gracious livery.
Yet these mine owne, I wrong not other men,
Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,
Nor filch from Portes nor from Petrarchs pen,
A fault too common in thys latter tyme.
Divine Syr Phillip , I avouch thy writ,
I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.
Which long (deer friend) have slept in sable night,
And come abroad now in these glorious tymes,
Can hardly brooke the purenes of the light.
But sith you see their desteny is such,
That in the world theyr fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name theyr gracious livery.
Yet these mine owne, I wrong not other men,
Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,
Nor filch from Portes nor from Petrarchs pen,
A fault too common in thys latter tyme.
Divine Syr Phillip , I avouch thy writ,
I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.
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