Sonnet, I.

WHy should my Pen presume to write his praise,
And hee in perfect mould of Vertue framde?
Why should my Muse sing of his happie daies,
And he the marke, at which Dame Nature framde?
Why rather should I not such vertues show,
That such pure golde from drosse each man may know?
But cease my Muse, why dost thou take in hand so great a Taske:
Which to performe a greater wit, than Mercuries would aske?
For iudgement Ioue, for Learning deepe, he still Apollo seemde:
For floent Tongue, for eloquence, men Mercury him deemde.
For curtesie suppose him Guy, or Guyons somewhat lesse:
His life and manners though I would, I cannot halfe expresse.
Nor Mouth, nor Minde, nor Muse can halfe declare,
His Life, his Loue, his Laude, so excellent they were.