Phoebus hath given thee both his bow, and Muse; With one thou slayst the Artizans of thunder, And to thy loose dost such a sound infuse, That gatherd storms therewith are blowne in sunder: The other decks her with her golden wings Spred beyond measure, in thy ample verse, Where she (as in her bowrs of Lawrell) sings Sweet philosophick strains that Feends might pierce, The soule of brightnes in thy darknes shines Most new, and deare: unstainde with forraine graces, And when aspiring sprights shall reach thy lines, They will not heare our trebble-termed bases. With boldnes then thy able Poems use Phoebus hath given thee both his bow and Muse.
