In laudem Authoris.
Wit, Reason, Grace, Religion, Nature, Zeale,
Wrought all together in thy working braine
And to thy worke did set this certaine seale;
Pure is the colour that will take no staine.
What need I praise? the worke it selfe doth praise:
In words, in worth, in forme and matter to.
A world of wits are working many wayes,
But few haue done, what thou dost truly doe:
Was neuer Tailor shapt so fit a Coat,
Vnto the Corps of any earthly creature,
As thou hast made for that foule Romish Goat,
In true description of his diuellish nature.
Besides such matter of judicious wit,
With quaint conceits so fitting euery fancie;
As well may proue, who scornes and spights at it
Shall either shew their folly or their franzie.
Then let the Popes Buls roare, Bell, Booke & Candle
In all the Diuels circuit sound thy curse:
Whilst thou with truth dost euerie tryall handle.
God blesse thy worke, and thou art ne're the worse.
And while hels friends their hateful fo do proue thee,
The Saints on earth, & God in heauen will loue thee.
Thy louing friend Nicholas Breton.
