Classic Poem

31

Me thinkes I see some crooked Mimicke jeere,
And taxe my Muse with this fantasticke Grace,
Turning my Papers, askes, What have we heere?
Making withall some filthy Antike Face.
I feare no censure, nor what thou canst say,
Nor shall my Spirit one jot of vigour lose.
Think'st thou, my Wit shall keepe the pack-Horse Way,
That ev'ry Dudgen low Invention goes?
Since Sonnets thus in Bundles are imprest,
And ev'ry Drudge doth dull our satiate Eare;
Think'st thou my Love shall in those Ragges be drest,
That ev'ry Dowdy, ev'ry Trull doth weare?
 Up, to my Pitch, no common Judgement flyes,
 I scorne all Earthly Dung-bred Scarabies.