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To M. Michaell Drayton.
HOw can he write that broken hath his penne;
Hath rent his paper, throwne his incke away;
Detests the world, and company of men,
Because they growe more hatefull day by day?
Yet with these broken reliques, mated mind,
And what a iustly-grieued thought can say:
I giue the world to know, I ne're could find,
A worke more like to liue a longer day.
Goe Verse, an object for the prowdest eye;
Disdaine those which disdaine to reade thee ouer,
Tell them they know not how they should descry,
The secret passions of a wirty louer.
For they are such, as none but those shall know,
Whom Beauty schooles to hold the blind Boies bow.
Once I had vowd, (O who can all vowes keep?)
Henceforth to smother my vnlucky Muse;
Yet for thy sake she started out of sleepe,
Yet now she dies: Then doe as kinsfolkes vse;
Close vp the eyes of my new-dying stile,
As I haue op'ned thy sweeet babes ere-while.
E. St. Gent.
Duris decus omen: