 | To the author |  |
To the Authour.
Thy booke beginning sweete and ending sowre,Deere friend, bewrayes thy false successe in loue,
Where smiling first, thy Mistres falles to lowre,
When thou did'st hope her curtesie to proue;
And finding thy expected lucke to fayle,
Thou falst from praise, and dost begin to rayle.
To vse great tearmes in praise of thy deuise,
I thinke were vaine: therefore I leaue them out;
Content thee, that the Censure of the wise
Hath put that needeles question out of doubt:
Yet howe I weigh the worke that thou hast wrought,
My iudgement I referre vnto thy thought.
T. Acheley.
| To the author | |