|
| Men say, and truly, that they better be |
| Which be envy'd than pitied: therefore I, |
| Because I wish the best, do the envy: |
| O wouldst thou by like reason, pity me, |
| But care not for me, I, that ever was |
| In Natures, and in fortunes gifts, alas, |
| (But for thy grace got in the Muses School) |
| A Monster and a begger, am a fool. |
|
| Oh how I grieve, that late born modesty |
| Hath got such root in easie waxen hearts, |
| That men may not themselves their own good parts |
| Extoll, without suspect of surquedry, |
| For, but thy self, no subject can be found |
| Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound |
| Thy worth but thine: how good it were to see |
| A Poem in thy praise, and writ by thee! |
|
| Now if this song be too 'harsh for rime, yet, as |
| The Painters bad god made a good devil, |
| 'Twill be good prose, although the verse be evill. |
| If thou forget the rime as thou dost pass, |
| Then write, that I may follow, and so be |
| Thy eccho, thy debtor, thy foyl, thy zanee. |
| I shall be thought (if mine like thine I shape) |
| All the worlds Lyon, though I be thy Ape. |
|
| To M. T. W. |
|
| Hast thee harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure |
| Will give thee leave, to him; My pain and pleasure |
| I have given thee, and yet thou art too weak, |
| Feet and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak.
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[CW: Tell] |
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