LXXXI. Or I fhall live your epitaph to make, Or you furvive when I in earth am rotten; You still shall live-such virtue hath my pen- of men. LXXXII. I grant thou wert not married to my Mufe, In true plain words by thy true-telling friend; LXXXIII. I never faw that you did painting need, And therefore have I flept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show When others would give life and bring a tomb. Than both your poets can in praise devise. LXXXIV. Who is it that fays most? which can say more Which should example where your equal grew. Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praifes worse. LXXXV. My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her ftill, While comments of your praise, richly compiled, Referve their character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilft other write good words, In polish'd form of well-refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say ""Tis fo, 'tis true,' Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. |