To Ben. Ionson

As Martials Muse by Caesars ripening rayes
Was sometimes cherisht, so thy happier dayes
Ioy'd in the Sun-shine of thy Royall IAMES,
Whose Crowne shed lustre on thine Epigrammes:
But I, remote from favours fostering heate,
O're snowy Hills my Muses passage beate,
Where weeping Rocks my harder Fates lament,
And shuddering Woods whisper my discontent.
What wonder then my numbers, that have rowl'd
Like streames of Tygris, run so slow and cold?