Most good, most faire. Or Thing as rare, To call you's lost; For all the cost Words can bestow, So poorely show Upon your prayse, That all the wayes Sense hath, come short: Whereby Report Falls them under; That when Wonder More hath seyzed, Yet not pleased, That it in kinde Nothing can finde, You to expresse: Neverthelesse, As by Globes small, This Mightie ALL Is shew'd, though farre From Life, each Starre A World being: So wee seeing You, like as that, Onely trust what Art doth us teach; And when I reach At Morall Things, And that my Strings Gravely should strike, Straight some mislike Blotteth mine ODE. As with the Loade, The Steele we touch, Forc'd ne'r so much, Yet still removes To that it loves, Till there it stayes; So to your prayse I turne ever, And though never From you moving, Happie so loving. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UPON THE LATE LAMENTABLE ACCIDENT OF FIRE ... by JOHN ALLISON (1645-1683) THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE; A LEGEND OF GLASGOW by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN HYMN OF FREEDDOM by MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY STOKLEWATH; OR, THE CUMBRIAN VILLAGE by SUSANNA BLAMIRE DIGGING POTATERS IN VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY (2) by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY |