Epigram 21 (Mountioy, thy vetue and thy secret woorth,)

Mountioy, thy vetue and thy secret woorth,
My lowe enditing seeketh not to raise.
Heres no inuention to set thee forth.
Here is no painted stile, no borrowed phraise.
Yet breathing tables sweetly thee resemble,
And thy fayre image dwels in liuing hearts:
But least succeeding ages should dissemble,
And time obscure the glory of thy partes.
While thou dost liue giue life vnto my pen,
Which when thou dyest will pay it the agen.