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Title: An Amovret Anacreontick
Author: Michael Drayton [
More Titles by Drayton]
Most good, most fair,
Or Thing as rare,
To call you's lost;
For all the cost
Words can bestow,
So poorly show
Upon your praise,
That all the ways
Sense hath, come short:
Whereby Report
Falls them under;
That when Wonder
More hath seized,
Yet not pleased,
That it in kind
Nothing can find,
You to express:
Nevertheless,
As by Globes small,
This Mighty ALL
Is shew'd, though far
From Life, each Star
A World being:
So wee seeing
You, like as that,
Onely trust what
Art doth us teach;
And when I reach
At Moral Things,
And that my Strings
Gravely should strike,
Straight some mislike
Blotteth mine ODE.
As with the Load,
The Steel we touch,
Forced ne'r so much,
Yet still removes
To that it loves,
Till there it stays;
So to your praise
I turn ever,
And though never
From you moving,
Happy so loving.
[The end]
Michael Drayton's poem: Amovret Anacreontick
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