Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

To the Lady L. S.

BRIGHT star of beauty, on whose eye-lids sit

A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,

The goddesses of memory and wit,

Which in due order take their several places;

In whose dear bosom, sweet, delicious Love

Lays down his quiver, that he once did bear;

Since he that blessed paradise did prove,

Forsook his mother’s lap to sport him there.

Let others strive to entertain with words,

My soul is of another temper made;

I hold it vile that vulgar wit affords,

Devouring time my faith shall not invade:

Still let my praise be honoured thus by you,

Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.