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In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon.
THE priviledge that pen and paper finde 'Mongst men, falls short, reflecting to the minde. Vertue herselfe, no other worth displayes, Than eankred censure, leaves behinde, as rayes. But mentall Cabonets, are they, that yeeld No forfiture to battring Critickes shield. If thoughts might character deserts, I dare Challenge my pensill for the largest share: But when the Vultures of our age must gnaw, Ile cease for modestie, and say, tis law. It's safer farre, to faile of debt, than t'be Soaringin tearmes that badge of flattery. I hate the name, and therefore freely give My verdict thus, as may have power to live 'Gainst calumnie. If wit and learning may Passe with applause, the authour hath the day. Crownd be those browes with everlasting Bayes, Whose worth a paterne is to future dayes. Tis not a Poem dropt from strength of grape, That's debter to the wines inspiring sap, Hee to himselfe alone. Cease urging, earth, The father well deserve, so faire a birth. And if a witnesse may be lawfull, then Ile undertak't shall feare no vote of men. But where-in Artis bold it selfe to glory Is that which crownes the verge of Whitings story.Io. Rosse.