Tomicki, if they'd not chide him
Who lights a praising lamp to Light
Praised, sacred and boundless Itself,
Whence every light's glow doth stem,
Then by none I'd be called fickle
If I sing virtue's beauty in thee
That's enlightened all. But learned,
Water I've sipped little, so daren't try.
Take well my wish, God marks it so;
Should the Muses tho with my lack comply,
Thy pluck, firm'ty, wisdom and manners,
Which thy state (high itself) far excede,
Shall for my verse sport unending
Be. What? True glory they'd be!
