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And Silvester who from the French more weak,
Made Bartas of his six days labour speak
In natural English, who, had he there stayed,
He had done well, and never had bewray’d
His own invention, to have bin so poor
Who still wrote less, in striving to write more.

Then dainty Sands that hath to English done,
Smooth sliding Ovid, and hath made him run
With so much sweetness and unusuall grace,
As though the neatness of the English pace,
Should tell the Jetting Lattin that it came
But slowly after, as though stiff and lame.

So Scotland sent us hither, for our own
That man, whose name I ever would have known,
To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,
My Alexander, to whom in his right,
I want extremely, yet in speaking thus
I do but show the love, that was twixt us,
And not his numbers which were brave and high,
So like his mind, was his clear Poesy,
And my dear Drummond to whom much I owe
For his much love, and proud I was to know,
His poesy, for which two worthy men,
I Menstry still shall love, and Hawthorn-den.
Then the two Beamounts and my Brown arose,
My dear companions whom I freely chose
My bosom friends; and in their several ways,
Rightly born Poets, and in these last days,
Men of much note, and no less nobler parts,
Such as have freely told to me their hearts,
As I have mine to them; but if you shall
Say in your knowledge, that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform’d that I
Only myself, to these few men do tie,
Whose works oft printed, set on every post,
To public censure subject have bin most;
For such whose poems, be they ne’er so rare,
In private chambers, that encloistered are,
And by transcription daintyly must go;
As though the world unworthy were to know,
Their rich composures, let those men that keep
These wonderous relics in their judgement deep;
And cry them up so, let such Pieces be
Spoke of by those that shall come after me,
I pass not for them: nor do mean to run,
In quest of these, that them applause have won,
Upon our Stages in these latter days,
That are so many, let them have their bays
That do deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Those public circuits, let them freely chant
Their fine Composures, and their praise pursue
And so my dear friend, for this time adieu.