 | Divine Poems |  |
121
To the no less honoured Lady, the Lady P.
Somewhat I owe unto your honoured Name,But cannot pay it, yet you may not blame
The Poet, but your self, as cause of it,
Since that your worth is far above his wit,
And either you below your self must fall,
Or else want his Encomium; for all
That he may say or write in your just praise
Will but eclipse your Sun and cloud its raies.
'Tis true, he knowes you not (which is his grief)
But by report, and that hath made you chief
Of all your Sexe; within your Hemisphere
There's none in competition will appear,
Your vertues raise you to so high a state,
They may admire but hardly imitate.
You need not blush, as if this were too high;
To write the Truth, I hope's no flatterie.
Now (Madam) if you please to cast a look,
Or spend some spare time on this little Book,
And in it any thing that's good do view,
Then challenge it, for it belongs to you;
What's vain or worthless in it that decline
And pass it by I challenge that for mine.
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