The humble Socke that true Comedians weare,
Our Muse hath don'd, and, to your fav'ring eyes,
In lowest Plaine-song, doth herselfe appeare,
Borrowing no colours from a quaint disguise:
If your faire fauours cause her spirite to rise,
Shee to the highest pitch her wings shall reare,
And prowd quothernicke action shall deuise,
To winne your sweet applause she deemes so deare.
Meane while, shore up our tender pamping twig,
That yet on humble ground doth lowely lie—
Your fauour's sunneshine guilding once this sprig,
It may yeeld Nectar for the gods on hie;
Though an Inuention lame, imperfect be,
Yet giue the Cripple almes for charitie.