Poems: by Michaell Draiton Esquire

To the Phoeniae. Sonnet 16.

VVIthin the compasse of this spatious round, Amongst all birds the Phoenix is alone, Which but by you could neuer haue beene knowne. None like to that, none like to you is found, Heape your owne vertues seasoned by their sunne, On heauenly top of your diuine desire; Then with your beautie set the same on fire, So by your death, your life shalbe begunne. Your selfe thus burned in this sacred flame, With your owne sweetnes all the heauens perfuming, And still encreasing as you are consuming, Shall spring againe from th'ashes of your fame, And mounting vp shall to the heauens ascend, So may you liue, past world, past fame, past end.