H. His Deuises for his owne exercise, and his Friends pleasure [by Thomas Howell] |
 |
|
He lykeneth his lotte to Virgils.
|
 | H. His Deuises |  |
He lykeneth his lotte to Virgils.
Though
Virgils Uearse, for loftie style were rare,
Surmounting farre my feeble Muses might:
Yet in this poynte my case I may compare
With his, what tyme another claymde his right,
And say with him, though I the seede did sowe,
Another seekes the fruite therof to mowe.
Surmounting farre my feeble Muses might:
Yet in this poynte my case I may compare
With his, what tyme another claymde his right,
And say with him, though I the seede did sowe,
Another seekes the fruite therof to mowe.
Like as the toyling Oxe the Plow doth pull,
And hath but stalkes, when others share the eares:
Or as the sheepe that Nature clothes with wooll,
Brings forth the Fleece, the shearer from him sheares,
Euen much alike it fareth now with me,
That forst the ground, where others reape the Fee.
And hath but stalkes, when others share the eares:
Or as the sheepe that Nature clothes with wooll,
Brings forth the Fleece, the shearer from him sheares,
Euen much alike it fareth now with me,
That forst the ground, where others reape the Fee.
I bred the Bees, thou wouldst the Honey haue,
I tylde the soyle, thou seekste by guyle the gaine:
I owe the Tree, thou doest the branches craue,
Thou prickst for prayse, where none but I tooke paine.
What deedes denie, some wynne by naked wordes,
I hatchte the broode, though thou possesse the byrdes.
I tylde the soyle, thou seekste by guyle the gaine:
I owe the Tree, thou doest the branches craue,
Thou prickst for prayse, where none but I tooke paine.
What deedes denie, some wynne by naked wordes,
I hatchte the broode, though thou possesse the byrdes.
Who so doth holde the light, whilst others Maske,
No Masker is perdie, you know right well:
Nor all whose shewes would clayme the greatest taske,
Deserues the same, when truth her tale doth tell.
Though mine the wrong, yet seemes the losse so light,
As shame forbids me more therof to write.
No Masker is perdie, you know right well:
Nor all whose shewes would clayme the greatest taske,
Deserues the same, when truth her tale doth tell.
Though mine the wrong, yet seemes the losse so light,
As shame forbids me more therof to write.
| H. His Deuises | |