How dull and dead are books, that cannot show A Prince or Pembroke, and that Pembroke, you! You, who are High born, and a Lord no lesse Free by your fate, then Fortunes mightinesse, Who hug our Poems (Honourd Sir) and then The paper gild, and Laureat the pen. Nor suffer you the Poets to sit cold, But warm their wits, and turn their lines to gold. Others there be, who righteously will swear Those smooth-pac't Numbers, amble every where; And these brave Measures go a stately trot; Love those, like these; regard, reward them not. But you, my Lord, are One, whose hand along Goes with your mouth, or do's outrun your tongue; Paying before you praise; and cockring wit, Give both the Gold and Garland unto it. |