To The Right Honourable Anthonie Browne Poem by Anthony Copley

Flie vale-bred Muse to heauen-high Mont-ague
Honoring thy playnesse with so quaint aspire
It is a baggard Hawke that neuer knew
The Fawlkoners fist; It is a drowsie fire
That yeelds nor flame nor fume; It is an idle voyce
That nere was hard to tune nor sound, nor note nor noise.
Great Mont-ague; thrise great in Vertues glorie
And therfore dulie great in my affections,
Whom not a Pick-thanke spirit of flatterie
But well aduised zeale to your perfections
Mooues to instile you so Though likewise so you be
In the sublimitie of your blood and Vicomptie.
Daigne in your grace the spirit of a man
Disastred for vertue; if at least it be
Disaster to be winnowed out Fortunes Fan
Into the Fan of Grace and Sionrie
Wherin repurify'd to Gods eternall glorie
The Deuill rues in man old Adams injurie.
Though meane and merit-lesse the Muse may seeme
To your aduice; as not from Helicon,
Yet well I hope the matter will redeeme
That fraile default, as spirited from Sion
If Sions holie name be gracious to your eare
Hold it in gree; els for the zeale to you I beare,
At least your happie Names faire liuerie let it weare.