long concealed woe,
From darke obliuion now I bring to light;
That (though it helpe her not) the world may know,
The cause she sobbeth out her notes by night:
Which to you (greatest Lady) I present,
Fruit of some houres I with the Muses spent.
It is well knowne honour hath beene had
By Patronizing of a worke of worth,
Whilst skilfull Art did cunningly o're-shade
The Patrones weaknesse, and his praise point forth:
Here it's not so, my work meane, your worth main,
Hereby I honour may, you none attaine.
For such are you, whom Nature, beautie, grace,
So faire hath fram'd, adorn'd, so well indu'd:
As if those three contended had to place
In you perfection, which their store hath shew'd:
With whom vertue hath ioyn'd & mak'st appeare,
Deseruedly you moue first in this sphere.
So as thou canst not by a learn'der quill
Be honour'd, or receiue an equall praise
Vnto thy merits, they each presse should fill,
Should goe about with words thy worth to raise:
In it I'le rest: thy name which doth adorne
This frontispice, is my birds Aprill morne.
If that your Grace doe but my labours grace,
Each Lady's lodging shall a groue be thought:
The Nightingale shall sing in euery place;
Nay, thereby shall a miracle be wrought:
For if you but my Philomela cheare,
Her singing-spring-tide shall last all the yeare.
Euer most humbly deuoted to your Graces seruice, Patrick Hannay.
Sorrow turns the stars into mourners, and every wind of heaven into a dirge.