Fly, merry Muse, unto that merry town,
Where thou mayst plays, revels, and triumphs see;
The house of fame, and theatre of renown,
Where all good wits and spirits love to be.
Fall in between their hands that praise and love thee,
And be to them a laughter and a jest:
But as for them which scorning shall reprove thee,
Disdain their wits, and think thine own the best.
But if thou find any so gross and dull,
That thinks I do to private taxing lean,
Bid him go hang, for he is but a gull,
And knows not what an epigram doth mean,
Which taxeth, under a particular name,
A general vice which merits public blame.