With what a fury have I known you feed Upon a contract and the hopes 't might speed! Not the fair bride, impatient of delay, Doth wish like you the beauties of that day; Hotter than all the roasted cooks you sat To dresse the fricace of your alphabet, Which sometimes would be drawn dough anagrame,<90.14> Sometimes acrostick parched in the flame;<90.15> Then posies stew'd with sippets, mottos by: Of minced verse a miserable pye. How many knots slip'd, ere you twist their name With th' old device, as both their heart's the same! Whilst like to drills the feast in your false jaw You would transmit at leisure to your maw; Then after all your fooling, fat, and wine, Glutton'd at last, return at home to pine. Tell me, O Sun, since first your beams did play To night, and did awake the sleeping day; Since first your steeds of light their race did start, Did you ere blush as now? Oh thou, that art The common father to the base pissmire, As well as great Alcides, did the fire From thine owne altar which the gods adore, Kindle the souls of gnats and wasps before? Who would delight in his chast eyes to see Dormise to strike at lights of poesie? Faction and envy now are<90.16> downright rage. Once a five-knotted whip there was, the stage: The beadle and the executioner, To whip small errors, and the great ones tear; Now, as er'e Nimrod the first king, he writes: That's strongest, th' ablest deepest bites. The muses weeping fly their hill, to see Their noblest sons of peace in mutinie. Could there nought else this civil war compleat, But poets raging with poetic heat, Tearing themselves and th' endlesse wreath, as though Immortal they, their wrath should be so, too? And doubly fir'd Apollo burns to see In silent Helicon a naumachie. Parnassus hears these at his first alarms; Never till now Minerva was in arms. O more then conqu'ror of the world, great Rome! Thy heros did with gentleness or'e come Thy foes themselves, but one another first, Whilst envy stript alone was left, and burst. The learn'd Decemviri, 'tis true, did strive, But to add flames to keep their fame alive; Whilst the eternal lawrel hung ith' air: Nor of these ten sons was there found one heir. Like to the golden tripod, it did pass From this to this, till 't came to him, whose 'twas. Caesar to Gallus trundled it, and he To Maro: Maro, Naso, unto thee? Naso to his Tibullus flung the wreath, He to Catullus thus did bequeath. This glorious circle, to another round, At last the temples of their god it bound. I might believe at least, that each might have A quiet fame contented in his grave, Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite: For after death all men receave their right.<90.17> If it be sacriledge for to profane Their holy ashes, what is't then their flame? He does that wrong unweeting<90.18> or in ire, As if one should put out the vestal fire. Let earths four quarters speak, and thou, Sun, bear Now witnesse for thy fellow-traveller. I was ally'd, dear Uncle,<90.19> unto thee