Were'T Not For You, Here Should My Pen Have Rest And Take A Long Leave Of Sweet Poesy; Britannia'S Swains, And Rivers Far By West, Should Hear No More Mine Oaten Melody; Yet Shall The Song I Sung Of Them Awhile Unperfect Lie, And Make No Further Known The Happy Loves Of This Our Pleasant Isle; Till I Have Left Some Record Of Mine Own. You Are The Subject Now, And, Writing You, I Well May Versify, Not Poetize: Here Needs No Fiction: For The Graces True And Virtues Clip Not With Base Flatteries. Here Could I Write What You Deserve Of Praise, Others Might Wear, But I Should Win The Bays.