To His Esteemed Friend
W.B.
Not for our friendship, or for hope of gaine
Doth my pen run so swiftly in thy praise:
Court-seruile flatterie I doe disdaine,
“Enuie like Treason, stil it selfe betraies.
This worke Detractions sting, doth disinherit:
He that giues thee all praise, giues but thy merrit.
Lewes Machin.