Classic Poem

Most noble lord, that truest worthinesse
Which in thy nature and thy carriage shines,
Doth presse me now to make them passe the Presse
Led thereto by these too-slacke twisted lines
Thou art a subiect worthy of the Muse
When most she raignes in height of happinesse;
Into whose noble spright the heauens infuse
All guifts and graces gracing noblenesse.
In few, there are so many parts in thee
(All wholy noble) as thus fixt shall bee
On Fames wings when she past herselfe doth flee.