How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
Some say thy fault is youth, some
Then others for the breath of words respect,
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Grows fairer than at first, more
strong, far greater.
Of their fair subject, blessing every boon.
For as the sun is daily new and old,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And I am still
with them and they with thee;
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Like feeble Age, he reeleth
from the day,
I think good thoughts whilst others write good words,
That on himself such murderous shame commits.