To the Right Honourable, Philip, Earle of Pembroke, and Montgomerie

How dull and dead are books, that cannot show
A Prince of Pembroke, and that Pembroke, you!
You, who are High born, and a Lord no lesse
Free by your fate, then Fortunes mightinesse,
Who hug our Poems (Honourd Sir) and then
The paper gild, and Laureat the pen.
Nor suffer you the Poets to sit cold,
But warm their wits, and turn their lines to gold.
Others there be, who righteously will swear
Those smooth-pac't Numbers, amble every where;
And these brave Measures go a stately trot;
Love those, like these; regard, reward them not.
But you my Lord, are One, whose hand along
Goes with your mouth, or do's outrun your tongue;
Paying before you praise; and cockring wit,
Give both the Gold and Garland unto it.
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