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Such, as might be prescrib'd the Earth, to drinke
For cure of her old Curse; Teares, you would thinke
Too rich to water (if you knew their price)
The chiefest Plant deriv'd from Paradise.
But O! where is a Poets faith? how farre
We are miss-led? how false we Lords of Numbers are?
Our Love, is passion, our Religion, rage!
Since, to secure that mighty heritage
Entail'd upon the Bay, see, how I strive
To keepe the glory of your looks alive;
And to perswade your gloomy Sorrows thence;
As subt'ly knowing, your kind influence
Is all the pretious Stock, left us t'inspire,
And feed the flame, of our eternall fire.
But I recant: 'Tis fit you mourne a while,
And winke, untill you darken all this Isle;
More fit, the Bay should wither too, and be
Quite lost, than he depriv'd your obsequie:
He that was once your Lord; who strove to get
That title, cause nought else, could make him great;
A stile, by which his name he did preferre
To have a day, i'th Poets Kalender.
For cure of her old Curse; Teares, you would thinke
Too rich to water (if you knew their price)
The chiefest Plant deriv'd from Paradise.
But O! where is a Poets faith? how farre
We are miss-led? how false we Lords of Numbers are?
Our Love, is passion, our Religion, rage!
Since, to secure that mighty heritage
Entail'd upon the Bay, see, how I strive
To keepe the glory of your looks alive;
And to perswade your gloomy Sorrows thence;
As subt'ly knowing, your kind influence
Is all the pretious Stock, left us t'inspire,
And feed the flame, of our eternall fire.
But I recant: 'Tis fit you mourne a while,
And winke, untill you darken all this Isle;
More fit, the Bay should wither too, and be
Quite lost, than he depriv'd your obsequie:
He that was once your Lord; who strove to get
That title, cause nought else, could make him great;
A stile, by which his name he did preferre
To have a day, i'th Poets Kalender.
His
