 | The poems of John Marston |  |
127
Proemium in librum secundum.
I cannot quote a mott Italienate.
Or brand my Satyres with som Spanish terme.
I cannot with swolne lines magnificate,
Mine owne poore worth, or as immaculate
Task others rimes, as if no blot did staine,
No blemish soile, my young Satyrick vaine.
Or brand my Satyres with som Spanish terme.
I cannot with swolne lines magnificate,
Mine owne poore worth, or as immaculate
Task others rimes, as if no blot did staine,
No blemish soile, my young Satyrick vaine.
Nor can I make my soule a merchandize,
Seeking conceits to sute these Artlesse times.
Or daine for base reward to Poetize:
Soothing the world, with oylie flatteries.
Shall mercenary thoughts prouoke me write?
Shall I for lucar be a Parasite?
Seeking conceits to sute these Artlesse times.
Or daine for base reward to Poetize:
Soothing the world, with oylie flatteries.
Shall mercenary thoughts prouoke me write?
Shall I for lucar be a Parasite?
Shall I once pen for vulgar sorts applause?
To please each hound? each dungie Scauenger?
To fit some Oystar-wenches yawning iawes?
With tricksey tales of speaking Cornish dawes?
First let my braine (bright hair'd Latonas sonne)
Be cleane distract with all confusion.
To please each hound? each dungie Scauenger?
To fit some Oystar-wenches yawning iawes?
With tricksey tales of speaking Cornish dawes?
First let my braine (bright hair'd Latonas sonne)
Be cleane distract with all confusion.
What though some Iohn-á-stile will basely toile,
Onely incited with the hope of gaine,
Though roguie thoughts doe force some iade-like Moile
Yet no such filth my true-borne Muse will soile.
O Epictetus, I doe honour thee,
To thinke how rich thou wert in pouertie.
Onely incited with the hope of gaine,
Though roguie thoughts doe force some iade-like Moile
Yet no such filth my true-borne Muse will soile.
O Epictetus, I doe honour thee,
To thinke how rich thou wert in pouertie.
| The poems of John Marston | |