by William Alexander
I rage to see some in the scroules of fame,
Whose louers wits, more rare then their deserts,
Do make them prais'd for many gallant parts,
The which doth make themselues to blush for shame:
Where thou whom euen thine enemies cannot blame,
Though famous in the center of all hearts;
Yet to the world thy worth no pen imparts:
Which iustly might those wrong-spent praises claime.
But what vaine pen so fondly durst aspire,
To paint that worth which soares aboue each wit,
Which hardly highest apprehensions hit,
Not to be told, but thought of with desire:
For where the subiect doth surmount the sence,
We best by silence show a great pretence.
Last updated January 14, 2019