Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eye-lids sit
A thousand Nimph-like and inamor’d Graces,
The Goddesses of Memory and Wit,
Which there in order take their seuerall places,
In whose deare Bosome, sweet delicious Loue
Layes downe his Quiuer, which he once did beare:
Since he that blessed Paradise did proue,
And leaues his Mothers lap to sport him there,
Let others striue to entertaine with Words,
My Soule is of a brauer Mettle made,
I hold that vile, which Vulgar wit affords;
In Me’s that Faith which Time cannot inuade.
Let what I praise, be still made good by you:
Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true.