To Mr. Rowland Woodward

Zealously my Muse doth salute all thee,
  Enquiring of that mystic trinity
Whereof thou, and all to whom heavens do infuse
Like fire, are made; thy body, mind, and Muse.
Dost thou recover sickness, or prevent?
Or is thy Mind travailed with discontent?
Or art thou parted from the world and me,
In a good scorn of the world’s vanity?
Or is thy devout Muse retired to sing
Upon her tender elegiac string?
Our minds part not, join then thy Muse with mine
For mine is barren thus divorced from thine.