 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
LV. To Francis Beaumont.
How I doe love thee Beaumont, and thy Muse,That unto me dost such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest mee,
For writing better, I must envie thee.
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |