I. To His Very Friend, Ma. Rich. Martin.[180]

To whom shall I this dauncing Poem send, This suddaine, rash, half-capreol of my wit? To you, first mouer and sole cause of it, Mine-owne-selues better halfe, my deerest frend. O, would you yet my Muse some Honny lend From your mellifluous tongue, whereon doth sit Suada in Maiestie, that I may fit These harsh beginnings with a sweeter end. You know the modest Sunne full fifteene times Blushing did rise, and blushing did descend, While I in making of these ill made rimes, My golden howers unthriftily did spend: Yet, if in friendship you these numbers prayse, I will mispend another fifteene dayes.