 | New Epigrams, and a Satyre |  |
To his Deare friend the Author.
The Martin is turnd Nightingale, strange newes!Enuy not little birds: his sweet tun'd Muse,
Warbles harmonious notes with such true skill,
As if Apollo did direct his quill,
Though yong, and scarcely fleg'd, he dares be heard,
Amongst old chanters, that their garlands reard
To Cadmus shaggy woods, be prais'd by them,
Whom latter times haue stil'd the wittiest men,
And to their number added, as for others
(Whose iudgements ranckle toothed enuy smothers,)
He cares not, feares not any, no, not those,
Whose Eastern-breaths will blast a budding Rose.
His blooming youth may better things produce,
Though this be good, yet time and longer vse,
Will add perfection, Now he hath done well,
Then in his next indeuors he'le excell.
But harke! he sings, silence the Titmouse fits,
When the shrill Nightingall so neere me sits.
Rob: Cooke.
| New Epigrams, and a Satyre | |