But I pray thee proceed briefly in thy censure, that I may be proud of myself, as in the first, so in the last, my censure may jump with thine. Henry Constable, Samuel Daniel, Thomas Lodge, Thomas Watson. _Jud._ Sweet Constable doth take the wondering ear, And lays it up in willing prisonment: Sweet honey-dropping Daniel doth wage War with the proudest big Italian, That melts his heart in sugar’d sonnetting. Only let him more sparingly make use Of others’ wit, and use his own the more, That well may scorn base imitation. For Lodge and Watson, men of some desert, Yet subject to a critic’s marginal: Lodge for his oar in every paper boat, He that turns over Galen every day, To sit and simper Euphues’ legacy. _Ing._ Michael Drayton. _Jud._ Drayton’s sweet Muse is like a sanguine dye, Able to ravish the rash gazer’s eye. _Ing._ However, he wants one true note of a poet of our times; and that is this, he cannot swagger in a tavern, nor domineer in a hot-house. John Davis— _Jud._ Acute John Davis, I affect thy rhymes, That jerk in hidden charms these looser times: Thy plainer verse, thy unaffected vein, Is graced with a fair and sweeping train. John Marston— _Jud._ What, Monsieur Kinsayder, put up man, put up for shame, Methinks he is a ruffian in his style, Withouten bands or garters’ ornament. He quaffs a cup of Frenchman’s helicon, Then royster doyster in his oily terms Cuts, thrusts, and foins at whomsoe’er he meets, And strews about Ram-alley meditations. Tut, what cares he for modest close-couch’d terms, Cleanly to gird our looser libertines? Give him plain naked words stript from their shirts, That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine. _Ing._ Christopher Marlowe— _Jud._ Marlowe was happy in his buskin’d Muse; Alas! unhappy in his life and end. Pity it is that wit so ill should dwell, Wit lent from heaven, but vices sent from hell. _Ing._ Our theatre hath lost, Pluto hath got A tragic penman for a dreary plot. Benjamin Jonson. _Jud._ The wittiest fellow of a bricklayer in England. _Ing._ A mere empirick, one that gets what he hath by observation, and makes only nature privy to what he endites: so slow an inventor, that he were better betake himself to his old trade of bricklaying, a blood whoreson, as confident now in making of a book, as he was in times past in laying of a brick. William Shakespear. _Jud._ Who loves Adonis’ love, or Lucrece’ rape, His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life, Could but a graver subject him content, Without love’s lazy foolish languishment.’