To my louing Friend Iohn Taylor.
Some say kind Iacke thou art a Poet borne,
And none by Art; which thou maist justly scorne;
For if without thy name they had but seene
Thy lines, thy lines had artificiall beene,
Opinion carries with it such a curse,
Although thy name makes not the verse the worse.
If then this worke, variety affords
Of Trophes, of Figures, Epethites, and Words.
With no harsh accent and with iudgement too.
I pray what more can Art or Nature doe?
So that in thee thy Genius doth impart,
To Artificiall Nature, Naturall Art.
Thy old assured friend Io: Moray.