What ornament might I devise to fit Th' aspiring height of thy admired spirit? Or what faire Garland worthy is to fit On thy blest browes, that compasse in all merit; Thou shalt not crowned be with common-Bayes, Because for thee it is a crowne too low, Apolloes tree can yeeld thee simple prayse, It is too dull a vestive for thy brow; But with a wreath of starres shal thou be crown'd, Which when thy working temples doe sustaine, Will like the Spheares be ever mooving round, After the royall musick of thy braine. Thy skill doth equall Phoebus, not thy birth, He to heaven gives musick, thou to earth.
