| MY tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still | |
| Whilst comments of your praise, richly compil’d, | |
| Deserve their character with golden quill, | |
| And precious phrase by all the Muses fil’d. | |
| I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words, | 5 |
| And, like unletter’d clerk, still cry ‘Amen’ | |
| To every hymn that able spirit affords, | |
| In polish’d form of well-refined pen. | |
| Hearing you prais’d, I say ‘’Tis so, ’tis true,’ | |
| And to the most of praise add something more; | 10 |
| But that is in my thought, whose love to you, | |
| Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. | |
| Then others for the breath of words respect, | |
| Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. |