The Poems of William Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

You whom the world admires for rarest stile,
You which haue sung the sonnets of true loue:
Vpon my maiden verse with fauour smile,
Whose weake pend muse to flie too soone doth proue,
Before hir feathers haue their full perfection,
She soares aloft prickt on by blinde affection.

You whose deepe wits, ingine, and industrie,
The euerlasting palme of praise haue wunne,
You Parragons of learned Poesie,
Fauor these mists, which fall before your sunne,
Intentions leading to a more effect,
If you them grace but with your milde aspect.

And thou the Genius of my ill tun'de note,
Whose beautie vrged hath my rustick vaine,
Through mighty Oceans of despaire to flote,
That I in rime thy crueltie complaine:
Vouchsafe to reade these lines both harsh and bad,
Nuntiates of wo with sorrow being clad.

W. Smith