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.