Classic Poem

LIB. III.

Prologue.

Some say my Satyrs ouer-loosely flow,
Nor hide their gall inough from open show:
Not ridle-like obscuring their intent:
But packe-staffe plaine vttring what thing they ment:
Contrarie to the Roman ancients,
Whose wordes were short, & darkesome was their sence;
Who reads one line of their harsh poesies,
Thrise must he take his winde, & breath him thrise,
My Muse would follow them that haue forgone,
But cannot with an English pineon,
For looke how farr the ancient Comedie
Past former Satyrs in her libertie:
So farre must mine yeeld unto them of olde,
T'is better too be bad, then be to bold.