To M[r]. I. L.

OF that short roll of friends writ in my heart,

Which with thy name begins, since their depart,

Whether in th’ English provinces they be,

Or drink of Po, Sequane, or Danuby,

There’s none that sometime greets us not, and yet

Your Trent is Lethe; that past, us you forget.

You do not duties of societies,

If from th’ embrace of a loved wife you rise,

View your fat beasts, stretch’d barns, and labour’d fields,

Eat, play, ride, take all joys which all day yields,

And then again to your embracements go.

Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow

Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent;

I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent.