W.B.
Reading edition
Not for our friendship, or for hope of gaine Doth my pen run so swiftly in thy praise: Court-seruile flatterie I doe disdaine, "Enuie like Treason, stil it selfe betraies. This worke Detractions sting, doth disinherit: He that giues thee all praise, giues but thy merrit. Lewes Machin.
