LXIII. William Drummond

OF this fair volumne, which wee World doe name,

If we the sheetes and leaues could turne with care,

Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,

Wee cleare might read the art and wisedome rare;

Finde out his power, which wildest pow’rs doth tame,

His prouidence extending euery where,

His iustice, which proud rebels doth not spare,

In euery page, no period of the same:

But sillie wee, like foolish children, rest

Well pleased with coloured velumne, leaues of gold,

Faire dangling ribbones, leauing what is best,

Of the great writer’s sense ne’er taking hold;

Or if by chance we stay our mindes on ought,

It is some picture on the margine wrought.