To Celia on Some Verses Sent Her by Another

DEar Fair if that some riper wit
In rapt of some
To ease the fan
Writ of Love, and Love shall fain,
Shall those lines acceptance have?
Not those indited by thy slave?
Whose troubled brains no muses move,
But the darling God of Love.
If my lines you 'Count a toy
You know Cupid is a boy,
Yet his trifles often finde
Fair acceptance from the kinde;
Such are they whose search doth sift
The givers mind above the guift.
Let others write to shew their wit,
When I; Love shall be Cause of it.