 | New Epigrams, and a Satyre |  |
The Author in answere to his friend.
Were I the fowle whom thou wold'st haue transformdFrom a black night bird, to a Nightingale:
Or were my youth with those sweet notes adorn'd,
Which any censure should delicious call,
Or that my barren Muse deseru'd thy praise
But tis thy skill, each ill conformed matter,
So neere perfection as thou canst to raise,
And herein art thou knowne a Cooke compleate,
In making sweet sauce for vnsauory meate.
| New Epigrams, and a Satyre | |