And honour'd Willy, thou whose maiden straines Have sung so sweetly of the Vales and Plaines Of this our Ile, that all the men that be Thy hearers, are enforc'd to honour thee, Yea, and to fall in love with thee; I say, Let me intreate thee to transport thy Lay From earth to heav'n: for sure thy Muses bee So good, the Gods will fall in love with thee, As well as men: besides, 'tis fit thy Layes Should scorne all Crowns, save heav'n's eternall Bayes. Then bid the world farewell with Sydney, (he That was the Prince of English Poesie,) And joyne with me (the worst of all thy traine) To bring these times into a better straine.
