Ïðî÷èòàíèé :  134
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Êðèòèêà
In prayse of a Countesse
Desire of Fame would force my feeble skill,
To prayse a Countesse by hir dew desert:
But dread of blame holds backe my forward will,
And quencht the coales which kindled in my hart.
Thus am I plongd twene dread and deepe desire,
To pay the dew which dutie doth require.
And when I call the mighty Gods in ayd
To further forth some fine invention:
My bashefull spirits be full ill afrayd
To purchase payne by my presumption.
Such malice reignes (sometimes) in heavenly minds,
To punish him that prayseth as he finds.
For Pallas first, whose filed flowing skill,
Should guyde my pen some pleasant words to write,
With angry mood hath fram'd a froward will,
To dashe devise as oft as I endite.
For why? if once my Ladies gifts were knowne,
Pallas should loose the prayses of hir owne.
And bloudy Mars by chaunge of his delight
Hath made Joves daughter now mine enemie:
In whose conceipt my Countesse shines so bright,
That Venus pines for burning jelousie:
She may go home to Vulcane now agayne,
For Mars is sworne to be my Ladies swayne.
Of hir bright beames Dan Phþbus stands in dread,
And shames to shine within our Horizon:
Dame Cynthia holds in hir horned head,
For feare to loose by like comparison:
Lo thus shee lives, and laughes them all to skorne,
Countesse on earth, in heaven a Goddesse borne.
And I sometimes hir servaunt, now hir friend,
Whom heaven and earth for hir (thus) hate and blame:
Have yet presumde in friendly wise to spend,
This ragged verse, in honor of hir name;
A simple gift compared by the skill,
Yet what may seeme so deere as such good will.
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