W.B.

Thamis nere heard a Song equall to this, Although the Swan that ow'd this present quill Sung to that Eccho, her owne Epitaph As proude to die, and render up her wing To Venus Swan, who doth more pleasing sing, Produce thy worke & tell the powerfull tale. Of naked Cupid, and his mothers will My selfe I doe confine from Helicon, As loath to see the other Muses nine, So imodestlie eye shoot, and gaze uppon Their new borne enuie: this tenth Muse of thine, Which in my selfe I doe in thee admire, As Aesops Satire the refulgent fire, Which may me burn, (I mean with amorous flame In reading, as the kissing that did him. And happie Mirrha that he rips thy shame, Since he so queintly doth expresse thy sin, Many would write, but see mens workes so rare, That of their owne they instantly dispaire. Robert Glouer.