I never faw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you
This filence for my fin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
Who is it that fays most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whofe confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his fubject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, fo dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praife, which makes your praifes worse.
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise, richly compiled, Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts, whilft other write good words,
And, like unlettered clerk, still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I fay 'Tis fo, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whofe love to you,
Though words come hindmoft, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
Was it the proud full fail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his fpirit, by fpirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my filence cannot boast;
I was not fick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.
Farewell! thou art too dear for my poffeffing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And fo my patent back again is fwerving.
Thyself thou gaveft, thy own worth then not know-
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
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