To The Ryght Worthe Poem by Patrick Gordon

Madame, if I should smouther vp thy praise
For most ingrate, thow iustlye might me blame
All eyes should sie, all tongues to heau'ne should raise
My staine, my blote, my neuer deing shame
In me, poore me, if ony vertue growes
In the it leius, frome the it springs, it flowes.


For lo thyne was the seid, thyne was the tree,
Goode reasone wer't that thine should be the gaine,
Thin the rncrease, the haru'st, the fruct must bee,
Zit reapts thoow to to lytle for thy paiue
But much it is, in such a barten soyle
If thow receaue the seid, for al thy toyle.


And thought vnhappie I, could nothing kno,
Noir paint of thy great graces could haue gain'd
Me by thy sweit example did thow sho,
Of thy thryce happie lyfe, pure, cleir vnstam'd
My ill my owne, if goode I haue in stoir
Thyne be the thanks, thyne be the prais, the gloir.


Eu'ne as the Eggle learn's her burds tho flie
First how, then mean than, heigher still to ryis
Till far aboue al vther, foulls they be
With loftie soaring wings in asure skyis,
On Phoebus than, their eyes she maks yame set,
Nor his bright birning beam's yair sight mey let.


So Eggle lyk thow taught me as thy chyld
To mount to vertue, wisdome, grace deuyne
But I thy precept's wyse, sweit, easie, myld
Could not conceaue, so grosse was my ingyne
Whill Phoebus lyke, vpone my face thow stream's
Thy vertues rayes, & wisdomes goldin beam's.


And thus thow proues my loftie Eggle fair,
But I, poore I, I hade no wings to flie,
My Phoebus als thow shynes with vertues rair,
Zit Eggle lyke, I daris not looke on the,
Then Quene of fowles, & light of sterr's aboue
My Eggle, and my Phoebus bothe still proue.


And what I haue, eu'ne yat should thow receaue,
As propre thyne, and only due to the,
Myne be the fault, the wrong, the ill I haue
Thyne be the goode, if onie good their be
If none, as muche me fears, their's none but ill
Zit for thy pain's, i'le praise, the, serue ye, still.