To the Lord B. in performance of a vow, that night to write to him.

MY Lord, it hath beene ask'd, why 'mongst those few
I singled out for Fame, I chose not you
With early speed the first? but I, that strive
My manners should preserve my Verse alive;
That read Men, and my selfe; would not permit
The boldnesse of my love, should tax my wit.
There are degrees, that to the Altar lead;
Where ev'ry rude, dull Sinner must not tread:
'Tis not to bring, a swift thankes-giving Tongue,
Or prayers made as vehement as long,
Can privilege a zealous Votarie,
To come, where the High Priest should only be:
Then why should I (where some more skilfull hand
May offer Gummes, and Spice) strew Dust, and Sand
And this (my chiefe of Lords) made me designe▪
Those noble flames, sprung from your nobler Wine,
To keepe my spirits warme; till I could prove
My Numbers smooth, and mighty as my love:
Yet such my treach'rous fate, that I this night
(Fierce with untutor'd heat) did vow to write:
But happy those, who undertake no more
Than what their stock of rage hath rul'd before!
It is a Poet's sinne, that doth excell
In love, or wine, not to resolve how well,
But strait how much to write; for then wee think
The vast tumultuous Sea is but our Ink;
The World, our Forest too; and that wee may
Beleeve each Tree, that in it growes, a Bay.
My Vow now kept, I'm loth (my Lord) to doe
Wrong to your justice, and your mercy too;
The last, if you vouchsafe; you will excuse
A strong Religion here, though not a Must▪