To the Right Honourable John, Lord Lovelace

The law-enactors, whilst time fear'd the rod,
Feign'd in their laws the presence of a god,
Whose awful nod and wisdom grave should be
As hand and signet unto their decree;
And such commanding awe that sacred name
Struck in the vulgar breasts, it teen'd a flame
Of love and duty to their pious hests.
Thus Rhadamanthus in his laws invests
Him whom profaner times styl'd heaven's king.
Minos and others strike the selfsame string.
The moral's mine: for, in this quirking season,
When pride and envy steer the helm of reason,
It is, has with press-taskers been, in use
To press the issue of their prose and muse
Under the ensigns of some worthy peer,
Whose very name unsatire can a jeer,
And lock detraction up in beds of clay,
To sleep their suns as rearmice do the day.
Then do they bravely march, with honour arm'd,
Which, as the gods the people, charmeth charm'd.
On this known privilege feet I these lines,
In which, though dimmer than your native, shines
Your worth, enfired by my kneèd quill,
Which claims the scale not of deserts, but will,
In your acceptance and the world's surmise.
Then, cynics, bark, and, critics, beam your eyes!
My quill's no pencil to emblazon forth
Your stainless honour and your matchless worth.
As dust-born flies, which 'bout the candle play,
Glide through its arch, encircle, fan, survey,
Wink at the presence of day's beamy blaze,
Purr on the glass, or on herb-pillows laze,
Just so my downy muse in distichs dare
Feet the perfection of a silkless fair,
Pumex each part so trimly that her foe
Swears her cheeks roses and her bosom snow;
Nay, has strew'd flowers of desertless praise
T'adorn the tomb of good sir Worthy Crayse.
Under this (ah me!) stone is laid (alas!)
A man--a knight--the best that ever was.
His prowess war, his wisdom state did prove,
His kindness kindred, and the world his love;
But when she should with her weak feathers soar
To court a star, or with her feeble oar
Strike such a sea of worth, ride honour's ring,
She dares not touch or snaffle, sail, or wing.
Only as he which limn'd those tears and sighs
Which Iphigenia's death from hearts and eyes
Of kindred drew, but o'er her father's brow
(Telling the world he mourn'd without an how)
He drew a veil spake sorrow in excess,
So with a ---- ---- must my muse express
Your sacred worth, concluding it to be
Too high for any bard, if not, for me.
Beside, the world of late has nicknam'd praise,
Calls it an elbow-claw and scraping bays.
Then pardon, sir, this dearth, and judge the why
Is your worth soar'd above Parnasse's eye.
Let not your slights or nescio's (though most just)
Condemn my muse to be enseil'd with dust,
Nor let presumption hoist to your embrace.
But rather let your honour bate its place
And stoop unto my measures, since the name
Of patron awes oft times the breath of fame;
And by this honour shall you e'er engage
The knee, hand, duty, air, and thriving age

Of your honour's ever
humbly devoted,