Moeris

THe sister Nymphs which haunt the Thespian springs,
More liberally their Gifts ne're did bequeath
To them who on their Hils suckt sacred Breath,
Then unto thee, by which thou sweetly sings.
Ne're did Apollo raise on Pegase Wings
A Muse more neare Himselfe, more far from Earth,
Than thine; whether thou weep thy Ladies Death,
Or sing those sweet-sowre Pangs that Passion brings.
To write our Thoughts in Verse doth merit Praise,
But thus the Verse to gild in Fictions Ore,
Bright, rich, delightfull, doth deserve much more,
As thou hast done these thy melodious Layes:
No doubt thy Muses faire Morne doth bewray
The swift Approach of a more glistring Day.