An Amovret Anacreontick

Most good, most faire,
Or Thing as rare,
To call you's lost;
For all the cost
Words can bestow,
So poorely show
Vpon your prayse,
That all the wayes
Sense hath, come short:
Whereby Report
Falls them vnder;
That when Wonder
More hath seyzed,
Yet not pleased,
That it in kinde
Nothing can finde,
You to expresse:
Neuerthelesse,
As by Globes small,
This Mightie ALL
Is shew'd, though farre
From Life, each Starre
A World being:
So wee seeing
You, like as that,
Onely trust what
Art doth vs teach;
And when I reach
At Morall Things,
And that my Strings
Grauely should strike,
Straight some mislike
Blotteth mine ODE.
As with the Loade,
The Steele we touch,
Forced ne'r so much,
Yet still remoues
To that it loues,
Till there it stayes;
So to your prayse
I turne euer,
And though neuer
From you mouing,
Happie so louing.