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O draw no enuy (Shakepeare) on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame: While I confee thy writings to be uch,
 * As neither Man, nor Mue, can praie too much.

'Tis true, and all mens uffrage. But thee wayes
 * Were not the paths I meant onto thy praie:

For eeliet Ignorance on thee may light,
 * Which, when it ounds at bet, but eccho's right;

Or blinde Affection, which doth ne're aduance
 * The truth, but gropes, and vrgeth all by chance;

Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praie,
 * And thinke to ruine, where it eem'd to raie.

Thee are, as ome infamous Baud, or Whore,
 * Should praie a Matron, What could hurt her more?

But thou art proofe againt them, and indeed
 * Aboue th'ill fortune of them, or the need.

I, therefore will begin. Soule of the Age!
 * The applaue! delight! the wonder of our Stage!

My Shakepeare, rie; I will not lodge thee by
 * Chaucer, or Spener, or bid Beaumont lye

A little further, to make thee a roome:
 * Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe,

And art aliue till, while thy Booke doth liue,
 * And we haue wits to read, and praie to giue.

That I not mixe thee o, my braine excues;
 * I meane with great, but diproportion'd Mues:

For, if I thought my iudgement were of yeeres,
 * I hould commit thee urely with thy peeres,

And tell, how farre thou didstt our Lily out-hine,
 * Or porting Kid, or Marlowes mighty line.

And though thou hadt mall Latine, and lee Greeke,
 * From thence to honour thee, I would not eeke

For names; but call forth thund'ring Æchilus,
 * Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Paccuuius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead,
 * To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread,

And hake a Stage: Or, when thy Sockes were on,
 * Leaue thee alone, for the comparion

Of