To M[r]. I[zaak] W[alton]

ALL hail, sweet poet, more full of more strong fire,

Than hath or shall enkindle my dull spirit;

I loved what nature gave thee, but thy merit

Of wit and art I love not, but admire.

Who have before or shall write after thee,

Their works, though toughly laboured, will be

Like infancy or age to man’s firm stay,

Or early and late twilights to mid-day.

Men say, and truly, that they better be

Which be envied than pitied; therefore I,

Because I wish thee best, do thee envy;

O, wouldst thou, by like reason, pity me.

But care not for me; I, that ever was

In nature’s, and in fortune’s gifts, alas

—But for thy grace, got in the Muses’ school—

A monster and a beggar, am a fool.

Oh, how I grieve that late-born modesty

Hath got such root in easy waxen hearts,

That men may not themselves their own good parts

Extol, without suspect of surquedry.

For, but thyself, no subject can be found

Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound

Thy worth but thine; how good it were to see

A poem in thy praise, and writ by thee.

Now if this song be too harsh for rhyme, yet, as

The painters’ bad god made a good devil,

’Twill be good prose, although the verse be evil.

If thou forget the rhyme as thou dost pass,

Then write; then I may follow, and so be

Thy debtor, thy echo, thy foil, thy zany;

I shall be thought—if mine like thine I shape—

All the world’s lion, though I be thy ape.