Bastard , thine Epigrams to sport inclines;
Yet I protest that one delights me best
Which saith the Reader soone deuoures thy lines,
Which thou in many houres couldst scarce digest:
So fares it twixt the Reader and my Muse;
For that which she compiles with paine (God wot):
This word she chooseth, that she doth refuse:
This line she enterlines, that she doth blot:
Heere's too much ornament and there it lackes;
This figure's farre fetcht, out with it againe;
That phrase of affectation too much smackes;
This reason, rime doth racke and too much straine;
That simil's improper, mend the same;
This application's harsh, harmonious make it:
Fye, out vpon't, this verses foote is lame
Let it goe vpright, or a mischiefe take it;
Yet it runnes ill, the cadence crabbèd is,
Away with it, for shame, it marres the rest;
Giue it sweet accent; Fy, fy yet I misse:
Store makes me scarce I know not which is best
Heere is a bodge, bots on't: farwell my pen,
My Muse is dull'd, another time shall serue:
To-morrow she (perhaps) shall too't agen;
And yet to-morrow she (perhaps) may swerue.
Well yet at last the poem being pend
The Printer it presents to Readers view;
Some foule-mouth'd Readers then (which God amend)
So slop them vp that it would make one spew,
To see how rudely they deuoure at once
More wit then ere their head peece held perchance:
As if my wit were mincèd for the nonce,
For them with ease to swallow with a vengeance.
Yet preethee Reader be not so vnkinde,
(Though I am bold with thee) to eate me too;
I beg (being thy poore cooke) but thy best winde;
If thou wilt not do this thou'lt little doo;
But f[y], I shall not be beholden to thee
A rough ryme choake thee; eate and much good do thee.