To his Friend Mr. Browne.
All that doe reade thy Workes, and see thy face,
(Where scarce a haire growes vp, thy chin to grace)
Doe greatly wonder how so youthfull yeares
Could frame a Work, where so much worth appears.
To heare how thou describ'st a Tree, a Dale,
A Groue, a Greene, a solitary Vale,
The Euening Showers, and the Morning Gleames,
The golden Mountaines, and the siluer Streames,
How smooth thy Verse is, and how sweet thy Rimes,
How sage, and yet how pleasant are thy Lines;
What more or lesse can there be said by men,
But, Muses rule thy Hand, and guide thy Pen.
Tho. Wenman, è Societate Inter. Templi.
