To Francis Beaumont

 E  P  I  G  R  A  M  S .
  

LV.
 — TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
 How I do love thee, BEAUMONT, and thy Muse,
 That unto me dost such religion use !
 How I do fear myself, that am not worth
 The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth !
 At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st ;
 And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st !
 What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves ?
 What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives ?
 When even there, where most thou praisest me,
 For writing better, I must envy thee.

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