T	He matchlesse Lustre of faire poesie, Which erst was bury'd in old Romes decayes, Now 'gins with height of rising maiesty,

Her dust-wrapt head from rotten tombes to rayse,
        And with fresh splendor gilds her toplesse crest,
        Rearing her palace in our Poets brest.

The wanton Ouid, whose inticing rimes
Haue with attractiue wonder forc't attention,
No more shall be admir'd at: for these times
Produce a Poet, whose more mouing passion
        VVill teare the loue-sick mirtle from his browes,
        T'adorne his Temple with deserued bowes.

The strongest Marble feares the smallest rayne:
The rusting Canker eates the purest gold:
Honours best dye dreads enuies blackest stayne:
The crimson badge of beautie must waxe old.
        But this faire issue of thy fruitfull brayne,
        Nor dreads age, enuie, cankring rust, or rayne.

                                                                A. F.

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