 | Love Crownes the End |  |
To his friend the Author.
Had I Chapmans Line or Learning, Iohnsons Art,Fletchers more accurate Fancie, or that part
Of Beaumont that's divine, Dun's profound skill,
Making good Verses live, and damning ill:
I then would prayse thy Verses, which sho'd last
Whil'st Time ha's sands to run, or Fame a blast.
But I've a Braine so dull, that though I beat
The Anvill ne're so oft, there's nought but sweat
And emptie vapours crowne my long lost paine.
I write, 'tis bad, dislik't, rub't out againe;
And in this serious folly I abuse
The patience of my Lamp, my Oyle I loose;
Nor is it fit, that each unworthy Line
Sho'd court the light, but onely such as thine.
Then since I cannot write what I desire,
May thine for ever live, mine's for the fire.
W. Ling.
| Love Crownes the End | |