 | Wits Bedlam, Where is had, Whipping-cheer, to cure the Mad |  |
To my much honored and intirely beloued Sir William Alexander Knight.
Epi. 378.
Thy Pen, which from some Angel is acquir'd,With heauenly Grace to shew thy Wit & skil,
So farre out-shines my poore Rookes ruder Quil,
That, in it's beames mine seemes a Cole vnfir'd;
But, let them lie till they become intir'd,
Then, thine shall mine with equall glory fill;
Yet so as, knowne, t'was so by thine attir'd,
That all the Glory thine may merit still:
Yet, here my lauish Pen runs o're so much
With blurring inck, be blotting blacker Crimes,
That (loosly) it, the Times too neere doth touch;
That is; too broadly blots these looser Times:
But, sooth to say; my Muse became thus loose
Through vice; at which she hisseth like a goose.
| Wits Bedlam, Where is had, Whipping-cheer, to cure the Mad | |