University of Virginia Library



To his worthy Friend the Author, upon his Translation.

Thy Arnalt sad, yet sweetly sung, will move
In all delight and pleasure, win their love.
So Philomel, whilst of her Rape she plaines,
The senses ravisht with delightsome straines.
Then doe not suffer this thy worke to dwell
With dull Oblivion in her gloomy Cell:
What though thy Arnalt doth himselfe confine
To Groves? yet to the World let thy Muse shine:
Feare not the ill-intreated Lovers Fate,
All lovingly will 'treate thy Muse, none hate.
W. M.