SONNETS

[from the Edition of 1594]

To the deere Chyld of the Muses, and
_his euer kind_ Mecænas, _Ma._ Anthony
Cooke, Esquire


Vovchsafe to grace these rude vnpolish'd rymes,
Which long (dear friend) haue slept in sable night,
And, come abroad now in these glorious tymes,
Can hardly brook the purenes of the light.
But still you see their desteny is such,
That in the world theyr fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name, theyr gracious liuery.
Yet these mine owne: I wrong not other men,
Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,
Nor filch from _Portes_, nor from _Petrarchs_ pen,
A fault too common in this latter time.
Diuine Syr Phillip, I auouch thy writ,
I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.
Yours deuoted,
M. DRAYTON.