TO MY LORD OF CANTERBURY His Grace.
My
Wit, weak Orphan, weaned too-too-yong
From Pallas Brest, and too-too-Truant-bred
(Not, as too-wanton, but too-wanting) led
From Arts, to Marts (and Miseries among)
Had else perhaps (besides du Bartas) sung
Some natiue Strains the grauest might haue read;
And to your Grace now grately tendered
Some fitter Sound then This rude Bell hath rung:
Yet; sith it tends to drown th'Heav'n-reaching Cry
Of Blood heer shed by Luxe and Auarice;
And to awake the World to Charitie
(Whereof Your Life so liuely Pattern is)
Propitious, pardon mine officious Zeale,
In This lowd Eccho of a lowder Peale.
Your Graces most bounden and humble Bead-man, Iosvah Sylvester.
