 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
To the truely noble Knight Sir Christopher Hatton.
To you (whose recreations, Sir, might beOthers imployments, whose quick soul can see
There may, besides a hawk, good sport be found,
And musick heard, although without a hound)
I send my Muse. Be pleas'd to heare her strain
When y' are at truce with time. 'Tis a low vein.
But were her breast inrag'd with holier fire,
That she could force, when she but touch'd her lyre,
The waves to leap above their clifts, dull earth
Dance round the centre, and create new birth
In every Element, and out-charm each Spheare,
'Twere but a lesson worthy such an eare.
T. R.
| The Jealous Lovers | |