Classic Poem

To the right noble, iuditious and ingenious sister of the neuer-too-much renowned Sir Philip Sidney. Mary Countesse Dawager of Pembrooke

Gods mee! how now, what present haue we here?
A booke that stood in perill of the presse;
But now its past those pikes, and doth appeare
To keepe the lookers on from heauinesse.
What stuffe containes it? Fustian, perfect spruce;
Wits gallimalfrey, or Wit fride in steakes
From whome came it, a God's name! from his Muse
(O do not tell) that still your fauour seekes
And who is that? Faith that is I. What I?
I per se I. Great I, you would say. No;
Great I (indeed) you well may say; but I
Am little i, the least of all the row
You cannot choose but know me now? no do!
I am the least in yours and worlds esteeme;
I am the same: Madam go to go to,
You know me now (I know) though strange you seeme
Not yet? Why then (great Lady) I am hee
That (maugre Fate) was, Is and still will bee
The triton of your praise.