TO The Choicest of my Noble Friends, John Wroth Esquire.
I'm big with love. How shall I (gentle Wroth)
Set it, and th'cause of it, thy merit, forth?
I'm no rare Herald to fetch far thy name,
Or patch together coates to cloath thy Fame,
Yet I doe more than that when call thee Good;
For Vertue's higher noblenesse than blood.
I'm no grave Antiquary, to present
Old Medals, or some dusty Monument
Of some great Ancestor, by Reliques foes
Envy and Time, rob'd of an Eare or Nose.
For Worth I will not rake their sleeping Urnes,
That which but glow'd in them, in thee bright burnes.
Thee, who had old Rome in her Glory seen,
Thou 'mongst her hundred Statues plac'd had'st been:
But safe in them thy Name could not have stood,
From Times sharp teeth, even them he makes his food.
The Memphian wonders that so long did boast
Their neighbourhood and kin to Heaven, are forc't
To bow their proud tops, and begin a new
Acquaintance with low Earth, where first they grew.
Rhodes haughty Colosse that bestrid the Floud,
Is now but Aier wherein once it stood,
And needs the everlasting Muse to tell
The World it once had such a Miracle.
The Muse 'twas furnish'd Heaven with Deities;
Fames Roll with Hero's, and with Stars the Skies.
Her workes will last, 'twas She that Power did give
To some men longer than those Pyles to live.
And if that I finde grace with her to grow
In favour, shee shall doe much more for you.
Yours, More than mine own. Robert Baron.
