 | The Transformed Metamorphosis |  |
The Author to his Booke.
O were thy margents, cliffes of itching lust;Or quotes to chalke out men the way to sinne;
Then were there hope, that multitudes wold thrust
To buy thee: but sith that thou dost beginne
To pull the curtaines backe, that closde vice in;
Expect but flowts: for t'is the haire of crime,
To shunne the breath that doth discloude it sinne.
What? (will he say) a recluse from the time?
Nor canst thou hope that thy weake ioynted rime
Shall please the more, because it shrowdes it selfe
Vnder his shade, whose mighty armes do clime,
Eu'n to the highest hoau'n; disdaining pelfe:
For heau'nly mindes, the brightlier they do shine:
The more the world doth seeke to worke their tine:
This onely be thy hope; to please the best:
And to be safe from malice of the rest.
| The Transformed Metamorphosis | |