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Normale Version: To his very Friend, Ma. Rich: Martin.
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To his very Friend, Ma. Rich: Martin.


TO whom shall I this dauncing Poeme send,
This suddaine, rash, halfe-capreol of my wit?
To you, first mouer and sole cause of it
Mine-owne-selues better halfe, my deerest frend.
O would you yet my Muse some Honny lend
From your mellifluous tongue, whereon doth sit
Suada in maiestie, that I may fit
These harsh beginnings with a sweeter end.
You know, the modest Sunne full fifteene times
Blushing did rise, and blushing did descend,
While I in making of these ill made rimes,
My golden bowers vnthriftily did spend.
Yet if in friendship you these numbers prayse,
I will mispend another fifteene dayes.
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