Peace, idle Muse, have done! for it is time,
Since lousy Ponticus envies my fame,
And swears the better sort are much to blame
To make me so well known for my ill rhyme.
Yet Banks his horse is better known than he;
So are the camels and the western hog,
And so is Lepidus his printed dog:
Why doth not Ponticus their fames envy?
Besides, this Muse of mine and the black feather
Grew both together fresh in estimation;
And both, grown stale, were cast away together:
What fame is this that scarce lasts out a fashion?
Only this last in credit doth remain,
That from henceforth each bastard cast-forth rhyme,
Which doth but savour of a libel vein,
Shall call me father, and be thought my crime;
So dull, and with so little sense endued,
Is my gross-headed judge the multitude.