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Poem	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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