Who with sweet layes (O King) would please thyne eare,
Or make thy glorie more by verse appeare,
Hee with à Torch should seeme to cleare the day,
And with à teare enlarge the groundlesse sea:
For not inspyr'd by Phoebus men Thee deeme,
But gold-wing'd Phoebus selfe they Thee esteeme,
Nor did'st thou drink of Aganippe Well,
But thou à Spring art where Joves daughters dwell,
In which grave Pitho with each fair-hair'd Howre,
And blew-ey'd Pallas all their Nectar powre:
Yet thus much wee, the Muses nurslings, would,
Though not as thou deserv'st, yet as wee could,
In this glade tyme, when now, by thy Repaire
To these deare bounds where first thou sucked aire,
Joy over-joy'd in formes confus'd appeares,
And maks old age amaz'd of Æsons yeeres,
As was oure dewtie, humblie to Thee bring
These lines, à gift but small for such à King,
Save that wee know, what all the world doth know,
That thou canst small things take, as great bestow;
Which is the rarest, too and richest Gemme,
That can adorne à Princes Diademe.