L. W.
A rare one 'tis indeed, for in it I
Can shew what all the world besides can't do,
A face like to your own, so fair, so true.
L. E.
Nature hath order'd there's no waist about ye:10
Pray, therefore, be but pleas'd to search my pack,
There's no ware that I have that you shall lack.
L. E.L. M.
I have those will enter, and that stiffly too:
It's time you choose, in troth; you will bemoan15
Too late your tarrying, when my pack's once gone.
L. B.L. A.
Whose ware perchance may better take your mind:
One cannot please ye all; the pedlar will draw back,
And wish against himself that you may have the knack.20
AN ANSWER TO SOME VERSES MADE IN HIS PRAISE
The ancient poets and their learned rimes
We still admire in these our later times,
And celebrate their fames. Thus, though they die,
Their names can never taste mortality:
Blind Homer's muse and Virgil's stately verse,5
While any live, shall never need a herse.
Since then to these such praise was justly due
For what they did, what shall be said to you?
These had their helps: they writ of gods and kings,
Of temples, battles, and such gallant things;10
But you of nothing: how could you have writ,
Had you but chose a subject to your wit?
To praise Achilles, or the Trojan crew,
Shewed little art, for praise was but their due.
To say she's fair that's fair, this is no pains:15
He shows himself most poet, that most feigns.
