To The Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl Of Westmoreland.

You are a lord, an earl, nay more, a man Who writes sweet numbers well as any can; If so, why then are not these verses hurled, Like Sybil's leaves, throughout the ample world? What is a jewel if it be not set Forth by a ring or some rich carcanet? But being so, then the beholders cry: See, see a gem as rare as Belus' eye. Then public praise does run upon the stone, For a most rich, a rare, a precious one. Expose your jewels then unto the view, That we may praise them, or themselves prize you. Virtue concealed, with Horace you'll confess, Differs not much from drowsy slothfulness.