To sir Anthonie Cooke (Sonnet 65)

VOuchsafe to grace these rude vnpollisht rimes,
Which but for you had slept in sable night,
And come abroade now in these glorious times,
Can hardly brooke the purenes of the light.
But sith you see their destenie is such,
That in the world their fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name their gracious liuerie.
Yet these mine owne, I wrong not other men,
Nor traffike further then this happy clime,
Nor filch from Portes, not from Petrarchs pen,
A fault too common in this latter time;
Diuine sir Philip, I auouch thy writ,
I am no picke-purse of anothers wit.