University of Virginia Library

Epistle. To my Lady Covell.

You won not Verses, Madam, you won mee,
When you would play so nobly, and so free.
A booke to a few lynes: but, it was fit
You won them too, your oddes did merit it,
So have you gain'd a Servant, and a Muse:
The first of which I feare, you will refuse;
And you may justly, being a tardie cold,
Unprofitable Chattell, fat and old,
Laden with Bellie, and doth hardly approach
His friends, but to breake Chaires, or cracke a Coach.
His weight is twenty Stone within two pound;
And that's made up as doth the purse abound.
Marrie the Muse is one, can tread the Aire,
And stroke the water, nimble, chast, and faire,
Sleepe in a Virgins bosome without feare,
Run all the Rounds in a soft Ladyes eare,
Widow or Wife, without the jealousie
Of either Suitor, or a Servant by.
Such, (if her manners like you) I doe send:
And can for other Graces her commend,
To make you merry on the Dressing stoole,
A mornings, and at afternoones, to foole
Away ill company, and helpe in rime,
Your Joane to passe her melancholie time.
By this, although you fancie not the man
Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can:
How many verses, Madam, are your Due!
I can lose none in tendring these to you.
I gaine, in having leave to keepe my Day,
And should grow rich, had I much more to pay.