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