To my respected Friend, Capt. Shipman. 1678

TO you, as to my Guardian, I go;
To ask protection from a mighty Foe.
My tender Muse, frighted with Critick's fame,
Starts, and gives back, when she but hears the name.
She's young, and dares not hope to come to good;
Yet strangely dreads a blighting in the bud.
So little Birds, below the Fowler's care,
Most apprehend the danger of the snare.
And whilst he shoots at some more noble prize,
They hear the ecchoing noise, and trembling rise.

It is presumption in my worthless Muse
To ask your help, worthy a better use.
Yet she's ambitious, and desires to live;
And says, if you'l vouchsafe your Pass to give;
She's sure no Critick dares against you strive.
When I consider how the mighty Iove
Receiv'd the Token of the poor Bee's love;
Methinks I cann't but hope—that as a Friend
You'l not despise (I'm sure you cann't commend)
That wch scarce half an hour both thought & penn'd.