Reader,

My Author vow'd to prattle forth his Loves,
And fill the azure skyes with watry clouds:
My Author vow'd to dwell in shady groves,
And paint his Fortune in Diana's shrouds.
For the best Artist that the world admires,
Was but the Artist of his own Desires.
You must not then expect a curious straine,
That best befits the queintness of his story,
No, that's a shadow for a riper brain,
Let them report it, that have had the glory,
The guilded tresses of the clearest shining,
Have neither force in rising nor declining.
Then take the branches of his tender vine,
Which here you have presented, though he fears,
You'l draw his meaning by too strict a line,
For yet he ne'r attain'd to thrice seven years.
Yet let me pass, and e're his day see's night,
His Hawk may please you with a fairer flight.
Arcadius