As Poet I am neither borne, nor bred,
But to a witty Poet married:
Whose Braine is Fresh, and Pleasant, as the Spring,
Where Fancies grow, and where the Muses sing.
There oft I leane my Head, and list'ning harke,
To heare his words and all his Fancies mark;
And from that Garden Flowers of Fancies take,
Whereof a Posie up in Verse I make.
Thus I, that have no Garden of mine owne,
There gather Flowers that are newly blowne.
Great Nature she doth clothe the soul within,
A fleshy garment which the Fates do spin.
And when these garments are grown old, and bare,
With sickness torn, Death takes then off with care.
And folds them safe within an earthly chest.
Then scours them, and makes them sweet and clean,
Fit for the soul to wear those clothes again.