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Poem by Francis Beaumont
In Laudem Authoris
Like to the weake estate of a poore friend, To whom sweet fortune hath bene euer slow, VVhich dayly doth that happy howre attend, VVhen his poore state may his affection shew: So fares my loue, not able as the rest, To chaunt thy prayses in a lofty vayne, Yet my poore Muse doth vow to doe her best, And wanting wings, shee'le tread an humble strayne. I thought at first her homely steps to rayse, And for some blazing Epithites to looke, But then I fear'd, that by such wondrous prayse, Some men would grow suspicious of thy booke: For hee that doth thy due deserts reherse, Depriues that glory from thy worthy verse.
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