Orchestra: To his very Friend, Ma. Rich. Martin

To whom shall I this dauncing Poem send,
This suddaine, rash, half-capreol of my wit?
To you, first mouer and sole cause of it,
Mine-owne-selues better halfe, my deerest frend.
O, would you yet my Muse some Honny lend
From your mellifluous tongue, whereon doth sit
Suada in Maiestie, that I may fit
These harsh beginnings with a sweeter end.
You know the modest Sunne full fifteene times
Blushing did rise, and blushing did descend,
While I in making of these ill made rimes,
My golden howers unthriftily did spend:
Yet, if in friendship you these numbers prayse,
I will mispend another fifteene dayes.