Poem by Thomas Nashe

To the Right Honorable the Lord S.

Pardon, sweete flower of Matchles poetrie,
And fairest bud the red rose euer bare;
Although my Muse, devorst from deeper care,
Presents thee with a wanton Elegie.

Ne blame my verse of loose unchastitie
For painting forth the things that hidden are,
Since all men acte what I in speache declare,
Onlie induced with varietie.

Complants and praises euery one can write,
And passion out their pangu's in statlie rimes;
But of loues pleasures none did euer write,
That have succeeded in theis latter times.

Accept of it, Deare Lord, in gentle gree,
And better lynes, ere long, shall honor thee. 

1. Fair Summer Droops
2. Autumn
3. Spring
4. In Time of Pestilence

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