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.

1. To My Friend Mr. John Fletcher, upon His Faithful Sheperdess
2. A Funeral Elegy on the Death of the Lady Penelope Clifton
3. Mr. Francis Beaumont's Letter to Ben Jonson
4. The Glance
5. Ad Comitissam Rutlandiæ

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