To my chosen Friend, the hopefull Mr. Baron.
So
young! and write so well! it might appeare
Impossible but that thy name is there
Nature hath here her former selfe surpast,
Shewing at once perfection and hast:
Since thou like Virgills Genethliack bay
Art a tall tree, ere time could thinke a spray.
Well might thy happy lovers wish to come
From th' Checquer shades of their Elizium,
And suffer further miseries so they might
Engage so rich a pen to give them light;
For nothing was so well performd as writ,
Such is the wide Prerogative of wit.
Thy Booke and Picture contradictions tell,
And thwart themselves into a Miracle.
J: Hall. é Soc: Gray. hosp. Gent.
