And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you your selfe being extant well might show,
How farre a moderne quill doth come to short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow,
This silence of my sinne you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumbe,
For I impaire not beautie being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tombe.
  There lives more life in one of your faire eyes,
  Then both your Poets can in praise devise.
Who is it that sayes most, which can say more,
Then this rich praise, that you alone, art you,
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equall grew,
Leane penurie within that Pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory,
But he that writes of you if he can tell,
That you are you, so dignifies his story.
Let him but coppy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so cleere,
And such a counter-part shall fame his writ,
Making his still admired every where.
  You to your beautious blessings adde a curse,
  Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
My tongue tide Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compil'd,
Reserve their Character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.
I thinke good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
And like unlettered clerke still crie Amen,
To every Himne that able spirit affords,
In polisht forme of well refined pen.

Hearing you praisd, I say 'tis so, 'tis true,
And to the most of praise adde something more,
But that is in my thought, whose love to you
(Though words come hind-most) holds his ranke before,
  Then others, for the breath of words respect,
  Me for my dumbe thoughts, speaking in effect.

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