An Amovret Anacreontick

Most good, most faire,     Or Thing as rare,     To call you's lost;     For all the cost     Words can bestow,     So poorely show     Vpon your prayse,     That all the wayes     Sense hath, come short:     Whereby Report     Falls them vnder;     That when Wonder     More hath seyzed,     Yet not pleased,     That it in kinde     Nothing can finde,     You to expresse:     Neuerthelesse,     As by Globes small,     This Mightie ALL     Is shew'd, though farre     From Life, each Starre     A World being:     So wee seeing     You, like as that,     Onely trust what     Art doth vs teach;     And when I reach     At Morall Things,     And that my Strings     Grauely should strike,     Straight some mislike     Blotteth mine ODE.     As with the Loade,     The Steele we touch,     Forced ne'r so much,     Yet still remoues     To that it loues,     Till there it stayes;     So to your prayse     I turne euer,     And though neuer     From you mouing,     Happie so louing.