R, whose more heauie hearted saint
in nought but notes of rufull plaint,
is melting Muse with sollem teares,
some drerie fates of lucklesse peeres.
ings he vp some branded whining ghost,
how old misfortunes had him tost:
ust he ban the guiltlesse fates aboue,
ne fraile, or vnrewarded loue.
en he hath parbrak'd his grieued minde,
s him downe where earst he did him find, 10 one penie to pay Charons hire,
iteth for the wandring ghosts retire.
ER Scorns the home-spun thred of rimes,
with the loftie feete of elder times.
e the numbred verse that Virgill sung,
gill selfe shall speake the English toung;
d and garboiles shall he chaunt with chaunged eete,
d-strong dactils making musicke meete. ble dactils striuing to out-go
wling spondees pacing it below.
gring spondees, labouring to delay
ath-lesse dactils with a sodaine stay.
Who euer saw a colte wanton and wilde,
Yoakt with a slow-foote oxe on fallow field,
Can right areed how handsomely besets
Dull spondees with the English dactilets?
If love speake English in a thundring cloud,
Thwick thwack, and riffe raffe, rores he out aloud.
Fie on the forged mint that did create
New coyne of words neuer articulate.
GREAT is the folly of a feeble braine,
Ore-rulde with loue, and tyrannous disdaine;
For loue, how-euer in the basest brest,
It breedes high thoughts that feed the fancie best;
Yet is he blinde, and leades poore fooles awrie,
While they hang gazing on their mistresse eye.
The loue-sicke poet, whose importune prayer
Repulsed is with resolute despaire,
Hopeth to conquer his disdainfull dame,
With publike plaints of his conceiued flame.
Then powres he foorth in patched sonettings,
His loue, his lust, and loathsome flatterings;
As tho the staring world hangd on his sleeue,
When once he smiles, to laugh; and when he sighs,
Careth the world, thou loue, thou liue, or die? 15 Careth the world how faire thy faire one be?
Fond wit-wal that wouldst lode thy wit-lesse head
With timely hornes, before thy bridall bed.
Then can he terme his durtie ill-fac'd bride
Ladie and queene, and virgin deified;
Be shee all sootie-blacke, or berie-browne,
Shee's white as morrows milk, or flakes new blowne
And tho shee be some dunghill drudge at home,
Yet can he her resigne some refuse roome
Amids the well-knowne stars; or, if not there,
Sure will he saint her in his calendere.
HENCE, ye prophane, mell not with holy things,
That Sion muse from Palestina brings.
Parnassus is transform'd to Sion-hill,
And Iury-palmes her steepe ascents done fill.
Now good S. Peter weepes pure Helicon,
And both the Maries make a musicke mone;
Yea and the prophet of the heauenly lire,
Great Solomon, sings in the English quire,
And is become a new found sonetist,
Singing his loue, the holy spouse of Christ;
Like as she were some light-skirts of the rest,
In mightiest ink-hornismes he can thither wrest.
Ye Sion Muses shall by my deare will,
For this your zeale, and farre-admired skill,
Be straight transported from Ierusalem,
Vnto the holy house of Bethleem.
ENUIE ye Muses, at your thriuing mate,
Cupid hath crowned a new laureat :
I saw his statue gayly tyr'd in greene,
As if he had some second Phoebus beene.
His statue trimd with the venerean tree,
And shrined faire within your sanctuarie.
What he, that earst to gaine the riming goale,
The worne recitall-post of capitol,
Rimed in rules of stewish ribaldrie,
Teaching experimentall bauderie;
Whiles th'itching vulgar tickled with the song,
Hanged on their vnreadie poets tongue.
Take this, ye patient Muses; and foule shame
Shall waite vpon your once prophaned name.
Take this, ye Muses, this so high despight,
And let all hatefull lucklesse birds of night,
Let scriching owles nest in your razed roofes,
And let your floore with horned satyres hoofes
Be dinted and defiled euerie morne ;
And let your walles be an eternall scorne.
What if some Shordich furie should incite
Some lust-stung letcher; must he needes indite
The beastly rites of hyred venerie,
The whole worlds vniuersall bawd to be?
Did neuer yet no damned libertine,
Nor elder heathen, nor new Florentine,
Tho they were famous for lewd libertie,
Venture vpon so shamefull villanie.
Our epigrammatarians, olde and late,
Were wont be blam'd for too licentiate.
Chast men, they did but glance at Lesbias deed,
And handsomely leaue off with cleanly speed.
But arts of whoring, stories of the stewes,
Ye Muses, will ye beare, and may refuse?
Nay, let the diuell and Saint Valentine
Be gossips to those ribald rimes of thine.
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