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Epig. V. Ad Librum.

Let not his dreadfull censure feareful make thee,
Who scarse can read; yet in his hand will take thee,
And with an humerous humh, a nod, a no,
Will say this slight, this scuruie, this so so.
Nor his, who reading thee with eye-browes knit,
Contracting to his brain the whole worlds wit,
As out of deeper iudgment thee disdaining,
Will cast thee downe, and leaue thee thus complaining,
Tush 't hath no pith, tis harsh and yet to plaine,
I loath these lines, that sauour not of braine;
Feare neyther these, nor partially spare those,
Whom to the Furies whips thou canst expose,
What can they doe; thou doing my desire?
They can but cast my rod into the fire.