Sweet Lady yet, grace this poore Muse of mine,
Whose Faith, whose Zeal, whose Life, whose All is thine.

The next that I shall mention, is taken out of an ingenious Poem,
entituled, _The Tale of the Swans_, written by _William Vallans_ in
blank Verse in the time of Queen _Elizabeth_; for the reprinting of
which, we are obliged to that ingenious and most industrious Preserver
and Restorer of Antiquities, Mr. _Thomas Hearne_ of _Oxford_;

Among the which the merrie Nightingale
With swete, and swete (her Brest again a Thorne.)

In another Place,

And in the Launde, hard by the Parke of _Ware_

Afterwards,

To _Ware_ he comes, and to the Launde he flies.

Again,

And in this Pompe they hie them to the Head.

I come now to the incomparable _Spencer_, against whose Judgment and
Practice, I believe scarce any Man will be so bold as to oppose himself;

Assure your self; it fell not all to Ground;
For all so dear as Life is to my Heart,