Nature, nor art, (should both contest)
Can help me now, my thoughts fly higher
Then the rash Phaetons request,
Or bold Prometheus for his fier.
Such his attempt that would confine
In numbers, what is numberles;
Yet this not alters my designe,
Or makes your merit ere the lesse.
For tis allow'd by full consent,
That good intentions are no sin;
Judge we must not by the event,
What the servise ought t' have bin.
Heere plenty only makes me poore,
Commands me speake, and hold my peace;
When all is saide, yet you have more
Perfections as your dayes increase.
This satisfaction I pretend;
Since I your vertues would have showne.
That though I cannot gaine my end,
I have that I would have them knowne.