Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

Mongst all the Creatures in this spacious Round,

Of the Birds kind, the Phœnix is alone,

Which best by you, of liuing Things, is knowne;

None like to that, none like to you is found:

Your Beautie is the hot and splend’rous Sunne,

The precious Spices be your chaste Desire,

Which being kindled by that heau’nly fire,

Your Life so like the Phœnix’s begun;

your selfe thus burned in that sacred flame,

With so rare sweetnesse all the Heau’ns perfuming,

Againe increasing, as you are consuming,

Onely by dying, borne the very same:

        And wing’d by Fame, you to the Starres ascend,

        So you of Time shall liue beyond the End.