My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compil’d,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil’d.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry ‘Amen’
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish’d form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ‘’tis so, ’tis true,’
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
In plain English
The speaker stays silent out of respect while others shower the young man with elaborate, beautifully written tributes. They think admiring thoughts, but can't match the eloquence of these rival writers—they just say 'yes, that's right' to every polished compliment.
When hearing praise, the speaker agrees and wants to add more, but it all stays locked inside. Their love for the young man is real and deep, even though it comes out as silence rather than fancy words.
So let others be valued for their verbal skill. The speaker asks to be valued instead for the depth of feeling behind their quiet—a love that speaks through silence itself.
