Deare S r , not for your name to tunes will sound
Of Rector — Arch — & prebendarie round;
Nor for some Mastership may chance to fall
Within the Close, close to your Cathedrall
(When êre it falls) Nor that you are in blood,
To that most exelent preist, lesse great then Good
Who in his highe & iust Meridian Light
Scatters the bold delusions of the night;
And strives t'vnblynd in all, as best he cann,
The Darkling papist: darling Puritann.
That Litle, but great Masterpeice of men
That achme of our Ioyes. Ô Macte then,
Crie Macte to his Grace, & honour too
Which (though he thinks not so) I sweare, I doe.
For ciuile, (no Ecclesiastick end)
This Course lame ragge of fustian verse I send,
Wherein playne dounright honest hartspunn words.
The Inside of a Louing heart affords.
And for I mist in London, where I drewe
And rung your bell an hop'd for enterveiwe,
This hasts to tell you; that I Loue you still,
And will; (for here I'aue absolute freewill.)
But more I cannot, for my Loue is such,
That putt the Word More to't, it Word's too much.
Yet too much Loue can take vp no manns hart
To him that is of infinite desert.