Sonnet

What lofty Trophyes of eternall Fame, England may vaunt thou do'st erect to her, Yet forced to confesse, (yea blush for shame,) That she no Honour doth on thee confer. How it would become her, would she learne to knowe Once to requite thy Heauen-borne Art and Zeale, Or at the least her selfe but thankfull showe Her ancient Glories that do'st still reueale: Sing thou of Loue, thy straines (like powerfull Charmes) Enrage the bosome with an amorous fire, And when againe thou lik'st to sing of Armes The Coward thou with Courage do'st inspire: But when thou com'st to touch our Sinfull Times, Then Heauen far more then Earth speakes in thy Rimes.