 | Divine Poems |  |
To his Learned, Pious Friend, the Authour.
Most do but sin in Verse, and pale sheets dress
Fitter to cloath their pennance, then the Press,
And all their vain, though most advanced Rimes,
Are but soft mischiefs, and ingenuous Crimes.
For to write well, where it is ill to write,
Is to transgress a Poem, nor indite.
Fitter to cloath their pennance, then the Press,
And all their vain, though most advanced Rimes,
Are but soft mischiefs, and ingenuous Crimes.
For to write well, where it is ill to write,
Is to transgress a Poem, nor indite.
Loose fancies frenzies are, and our fond layes
Require more wreaths of Hellebore then Bayes.
But from thy guided choice thy Poem is,
Not thy distemper, but thy Artifice.
Thy numbers are thy Zeal, yet not thy fit
This is not to impart, but hallow wit.
Require more wreaths of Hellebore then Bayes.
But from thy guided choice thy Poem is,
Not thy distemper, but thy Artifice.
Thy numbers are thy Zeal, yet not thy fit
This is not to impart, but hallow wit.
Martin Lleuellin M. D.
| Divine Poems | |