 | Occasions Off-spring |  |
58
To a faire Lady.
Madam;
Hard is the task to write to such as you,For if I give you but whats halfe your due,
Such as are unacquainted with your worth;
Are apt to say, I highly set you forth;
Whilst these that know you, must conclude, with mee,
Your praise above the straine of flattery.
They that nere saw the glory of the Sun,
Would think the Moon lights only parragon;
So such, to whom scarce a good face is knowne,
Measure your beamfull beauty by their owne;
Whilst, saw they but your face, As in amaze
Theyd worship, what they wonder I so praise:
Could you (faire soule) but parcell out your graces,
There were, enough t'enrich a thousand faces
And leave your selfe such store, as (though your light,
Have made them starres) you'd still be Queen of night,
But hold my Muse, my paper is halfe done
And I have scarce her story yet begun.
But that would ask (to tell you what I think)
A world of paper, and a Sea of Inke.
Of Inke said I? Inke alas! would make that,
A spotted fame, that is immaculate,
No, I will rather never write at all,
Then mention her, who is all-sweet, in gall:
59
Must pluck a pineon from a Seraphins wing.
And write in Nectar till her fame appeares
An anthem to the musick of the spheares
But to leave what only my wish effects,
My fancy to whats feasible directs;
Ile rob the Swan of her white quill and then
With the same pen-knife that I make my pen,
Ile lance my purple veynes, and therewith write
Her story, like her self in red, and white.
And when my bloud ha's all forsook my veines,
Let mee but be her Martyr for my paines.
| Occasions Off-spring | |