Good brother _Philip_ I have forborne you long, I was content you should in favour creepe, While craftely you seemed your Cut to keepe, As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong: I beare with envy, yet I heare your song, When in hir necke you did love ditties peepe, Nay, (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe, In lillies nest where Loves selfe lies a long, What? doth high place ambitious thoughts augment? Is saucines reward of curtesie? Cannot such grace your silly selfe content, But you must needes with those lips billing be? And through those lips drinke Nectar from that tung, Leave that _Syr Phipp_ lest off your necke be wrung. High way since you my chiefe _Pernassus_ be, And that my Muse to some eares not unmeete, Tempers her words to trampling horses feete, More often than to a Chamber melodie, Now blessed you beare onwards blessed me, To her where I my heart safeliest shall meete, My Muse and I must you of duetie greete, With thanks and wishes wishing thankfully; Be you still carefull kept by publike heede, By no encrochment wrongd, nor time forgot, Nor blam’d for bloud, nor sham’d for sinfull deede, And that you know I envie you no lot, Of highest wish, I wish you so much blisse, Hundreds of yeares you _Stellas_ feete may kisse. I see the house my harte thy selfe containe, Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge, Least joy by nature apt, (spirites to enlarge) Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine, Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine, Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge, While every office themselves will discharge, With doing all leave nothing done but paine, But give apt servants their due place; let eye See beauties totall summe summ’d in their face, Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye, Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbrace The Globe of weale, lipps Lov’s Indentures make. Thou but of all the kingly tribute take. Alas whence comes this change of lookes? If I have chang’d desert, let mine owne conscience be A still felt plague to selfe condemning mee: Let woe grype on my heart, shame load mine eye: But if all faith like spotles _Ermine_ lye Safe in my soule (which onely doth to thee As his sole object of felicitie With wings of Love in aire of wonder flie.) O case your hand, treat not so hard your slave, In Justice, paines come not till faults do call: Or if I needs (sweet Judge) must torments have, Use something else to chasten mee withall, Than those blest eyes where all my hopes do dwell, No doome shall make ones Heaven become his Hell.