 | The Royall Master |  |
On the Royall Master, to his Friend the Author.
Smooth and unsullied lines, keepe on your way,From envies Ioss'le free, a cleare ey'd day
Smiles on your triumph; onely thus to blame,
Too lavish is your sacrifice to fame.
Lesse of such perfume, to succeeding age,
The dead would sweeten, and enbalme the Stage;
Here is a pile of incense, every line
Heapes on fresh Narde, your Muse cannot decline
To intermissions, some leave hills, by turnes
Flame, and expire his Etna ever burnes.
Ric. Belling.
| The Royall Master | |