O be not grieu’d that these my papers should,
Bewray vnto the world howe faire thou art:
Or that my wits haue shew’d the best they could,
The chastest flame that euer warmed hart.
Thinke not sweete Delia, this shall be thy shame,
My Muse should sound thy praise with mournefull warble:
How many liue, the glory of whose name,
Shall rest in yce, when thine is grau’d in Marble.
Thou maist in after ages liue esteem’d,
Vnburied in these lines reseru’d in purenes;
These shall intombe those eyes, that haue redeem’d
Mee from the vulgar, thee from all obscurenes.
Although my carefull accents neuer mou’d thee;
Yet count it no disgrace that I haue lou’d thee.