But now thy riddles all men do neglect, Thy rugged lines of all do lie forlorn. Unwelcome rymes that rudely do detect The Readers ignorance. Men holden scorn To be so often non-plusd or to spell, And on one stanza a whole age to dwell. Besides this harsh and hard obscuritie Of the hid sense, thy words are barbarous And strangely new, and yet too frequently Return, as usuall plain and obvious, So that the show of the new thick-set patch Marres all the old with which it ill doth match. But if thy haughty mind, forsooth, would deign To stoop so low to hearken to my lore, Then wouldst thou with trim lovers not disdeign To adorn the outside, set the best before. Nor rub nor wrinkle would thy verses spoil Thy rymes should run as glib and smooth as oyl. If that be all, said I, thy reasons slight Can never move my well establishd mind. Full well I wote alwayes the present sprite, Or life that doth possesse the soul, doth blind, Shutting the windows ’gainst broad open day Lest fairer sights its uglinesse bewray. The soul then loves that disposition best Because no better comes unto her view. The drunkard drunkennesse, the sluggard rest, Th’ Ambitious honour and obeisance due. So all the rest do love their vices base ’Cause virtues beauty comes not into place. And looser love ’gainst Chastitie divine Would shut the door that he might sit alone. Then wholly should my mind to him incline: And woxen strait, (since larger love was gone) That paultrie sprite of low contracting lust Would fit my soul as if ’t were made for ’t just. Then should I with my fellow bird or brute So strangely metamorphis’d, either ney Or bellow loud: or if ’t may better sute Chirp out my joy pearch’d upon higher spray. My passions fond with impudence rehearse, Immortalize my madnesse in a verse. This is the summe of thy deceiving boast That I vain ludenesse highly should admire, When I the sense of better things have lost And chang’d my heavenly heat for hellish fire, Passion is blind, but virtues piercing eye Approching danger can from farre espie. And what thou dost Pedantickly object Concerning my rude rugged uncouth style, As childish toy I manfully neglect, And at thy hidden snares do inly smile. How ill alas! with wisdome it accords To sell my living sense for livelesse words. My thought ’s the fittest measure of my tongue, Wherefore I’ll use what’s most significant, And rather then my inward meaning wrong Or my full-shining notion trimly scant, I’ll conjure up old words out of their grave, Or call fresh forrein force in if need crave. And these attending on my moving mind Shall duly usher in the fitting sense. As oft as meet occasion I find. Unusuall words oft used give lesse offence; Nor will the old contexture dim or marre, For often us’d they’re next to old, thred-bare.