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Epode.

And nought escapes out of my hand,
In this Ode, but it's veritee:
And heere I sweare Deuer tis thee,
That art ornament of England.
Uaunting me againe of this thing:
Which is, that I shall neuer sing,
A man so much honoured as thee,
And both of the Muses and mee.
And when I gette the spoyle of Thebes,
Hauing charged it on my shoulders.
In verses exempte fro the webbes,
Of the ruinous Filandinge systers:


I promise to builde thee a glorie,
That shall euer liue in memorie.
In meane while, take this lyttle thing:
But as small as it is: Deuere,
Uaunt vs that neuer man before,
Now in England, knewe Pindars string.