Mirrha the Mother of Adonis | ||
To his esteemed friend. W. B.
Not for our friendship, or for hope of gaine,Doth my pen run so swiftly in thy praise:
Court-seruile flatterie I doe disdaine,
“Enuie like Treason stil it selfe betraies.
This worke Detractions sting, doth disinherit:
He that giues thee all praise, giues but thy merrit.
Lewes Machin.
Mirrha the Mother of Adonis | ||