To Mr Jonson
Ben: the world is much in debt and though it may
Some petty reck'nings to small Poets pay:
Pardon if at thy glorious summe they stick,
Being too large for their Arithmeticke.
If they could prize the Genius of a Scene,
The learned sweat that makes a language cleane,
Or understand the faith of ancient skill,
Drawn from the Tragick, Comick, Lyrick quill:
The Greek and Roman denison'd by thee,
And both made richer in thy Poetry.
This they may know, and knowing this still grudge:
That yet they are not fit of thee to judge.
I prophesie more strength to after time,
Whose joy shall call this Isle the Poets Clime,
Because 'twas thine, and unto thee returne
The borrowed flames, with which thy Muse shal burn.
Then when the stocke of others Fame is spent,
Thy Poetry shall keep its owne old rent.

(sig. A10r)