Igave, when last I was about to die; The Poets of this Isle a Legacie; Each so much wealth, as a long union brings T'industrious States, or Victorie to Kings: So much as Hope's clos'd Eies, could wish to see, Or tall Ambition reach; I gave them thee. But as rich Men, who in their sicknesse mourne That they must goe, and never more returne, To be glad Heires unto themselves, to ⟨take⟩ Againe, what they unwillingly forsake; As these bequeath, their treasure, when they dye, Not out of love, but sad necessitie; So I (they thought) did cunningly resigne Rather than give, what could no more be mine: And they receiv'd thee not, from bounteous Chance, Or mee; but as their owne inheritance. This, when I heard, I cancell'd my fond Will; Tempted my faith to my Physitians skill; To purchase health, sung prayses in his Eare, More than the Living of the Dead would heare. For though our gifts, buy care, nought justly payes Physitians love, but faith, their art, but prayse: Which I observ'd; now walke, as I should see A death of all things, save thy memorie. But if this early Vintage shall create New wishes in my blood, to celebrate Thee Endimion, and thy Muse, thy large heart, Thy wisdome that hath taught the world an art How (not enform'd by Cunning,) courtship may Subdue the minde, and not the Man betray: If mee (thy Priest) our curled Youth assigne, To wash our Fleet-street Altars with new Wine; I will (since 'tis to thee a Sacrifice) Take care, that plenty swell not into vice: Lest, by a fiery surfet I be led, Once more to grow devout in a strange bed: Lest through kind weaknesse in decay of health, Or vanity to shew my utmost wealth; I should againe bequeath thee when I die, To haughtie Poets as a Legacie.
