[To John Donne. _1650-69, following the_ Hexastichon ad
Bibliopolam.]
To LUCY, COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD, with M. DONNES Satyres.
_Lucy_, you brightnesse of our Spheare, who are
Life of the _Muses_ day, their morning Starre!
If works (not th'Authors) their own grace should look
Whose poems would not wish to be your book?
But these, desir'd by you, the makers ends
Crown with their own. Rare Poems ask rare friends.
Yet, _Satyres_, since the most of mankind bee
Their unavoided subject, fewest see:
For none ere took that pleasure in sins sense,
But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence.
They, then, that living where the matter is bred,
Dare for these Poems, yet, both ask, and read,
And like them too; must needfully, though few,
Be of the best: and 'mongst those best are you;
_Lucy_, you brightnefle of our Spheare, who are
The _Muses_ evening, as their morning-Starre.