TO THE READER. EAR eye, that dost peruse my muses still, And gravest wits to take a breathing flight: The lofty eagle soars not still above, High flights will force her from the wing to stoop; Prophane conceits and feignèd fits I fly; Whose measure best with measured words doth fit: It is the sweetest note that man can sing When grace in virtue's key tunes nature's string. EAR eye, that deignest to let fall a look On these sad memories of Peter's plaints, [brook ; Muse not to see some mud in clearest They once were brittle mould that now are saints. Their weakness is no warrant to offend; Learn by their faults what in thine own to mend. If Justice' even hand the balance held, Where Peter's sins and ours were made the weights,- This makes my mourning muse dissolve in tears, This themes my heavy pen,-too plain in prose; Christ's thorn is sharp, no head his garland wears; Still finest wits are 'stilling Venus' rose: In paynim toys the sweetest veins are spent ; To Christian works few have their talents lent. Licence my single pen to seek a phere; |