To the Right Worshipfull,
my very loving Master, Master
Lambert Osbolston, chiefe Schoolmaster
of Westminster-Schoole.
Sir,
My
childish Muse is in her Spring, and yet
Can onely shew some budding of her Wit.
One frowne upon her Worke (learn'd Sir) from you,
Like some unkinder storme shot from your brow,
Would turn her Spring to withering Autumn's time,
And make her Blossomes perish, ere their Prime.
But if you smile, if in your gracious Eye
Shee an auspicious Alpha can descrie:
How soone will they grow Fruit? How will they flourish,
That had such beames their infancie to nourish?
Which being sprung to ripenesse, expect then
The best, and first fruits of her gratefull Pen.
Your most dutifull Scholler,
Abra. Cowley.
