To the Reader

Deare eye that doest peruse my Muses stile
With easie Censure deeme of my delighte
Give sobrest countnance leave sometyme to smyle
And gravest witts to take a breathinge flighte
Of myrth to make a trade may be a Cryme
But tyred sprites for mirth must have a tyme.

The loftye Eagle soares not still above
High flyghtes will force her from the winge to stoupe
And studious thoughtes at times men must remove
Lest by excesse before there tyme they droope
In courser studies tys a sweet repose
With Poets pleasing vayne to temper prose.

Prophaine conceites and fayninge fittes I flye
Such lawlesse stuffe doth lawlesse speeches fitt
With David verse to vertue I applie
Whose measure best with measured wordes doth sitt
It is the sweetest note that man can singe
When grace in Vertews keye tunes natures stringe.