These Lyrick Pieces, short, and few, Most worthy Sir, I send to you, To reade them, be not wearie: They may become JOHN HEWES his Lyre, Which oft at Powlsworth by the fire Hath made us gravely merry.
Beleeve it, he must have the Trick Of Ryming; with Invention quick, That should doe Lyricks well: But how I have done in this kind, Though in my selfe I cannot fine, Your Judgement best can tell.
Th' old British BARDS, upon their Harpes, For falling Flatts, and rising Sharpes, That curiously were strung; To stirre their Youth to Warlike Rage, Or their wyld Furie to asswage, In these loose Numbers sung.
No more I for Fooles Censures passe, Then for the braying of an Asse, Nor once mine Eare will lend them: If you but please to take in gree These Odes, sufficient 'tis to mee; Your liking can commend them. Yours, MICH. DRAYTON.
