To Mary, Lady Wroth

How well, fair crown of your fair sex, might he
That but the twilight of your sprite did see,
And noted for what flesh such souls were fram'd,
Know you to be a Sidney, though unnam'd?
And being nam'd, how little doth that name
Need any muse's praise to give it fame?
Which is itself the imprese of the great,
And glory of them all, but to repeat!
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are
A Sidney; but in that extend as far
As loudest praisers, who perhaps would find
For every part a character assign'd:
My praise is plain, and wheresoe'er profest,
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.