Tho. Nash

Thus hath my penne presum'd to please my friend— Oh mightst thou lykewise please Apollo's eye. No, Honor brooke's no such impietie, Yett Ouids wanton Muse did not offend.

He is the fountaine whence my streames doe flowe— Forgive me if I speake as I was taught, A lyke to women, utter all I knowe, As longing to unlade so bad a fraught.

My mynde once purg'd of such lasciuious witt, With purifide words and hallowed verse, Thy praises in large volumes shall rehearce, That better maie thy grauer view befitt.

Meanewhile yett rests, you smile at what I write; Or, for attempting, banish me your sight.