 | To Rash Iudgement, Tom Foole, and his fellowes |  |
A flattering Fooles Bolt.
The fawning Foole, that hath an expectation,To helpe his needy wantes by dedication;
And to no other leuell euer lookes,
Then get some money by his flatt'ring Books:
Sends foorth his Bolts to euery patrone flying,
Shot at Come some-thing, though it hitt with lying;
Guildes o're this rusty Iron age of follyes:
And thunders out his shot of smoaking vollyes:
Be it proud Hamon of a Courtly traine,
Or churlish Nabell, horder vp of graine;
Or Cittie Diues, in Purple Roabe:
Nay, Bee't the Diuell, that tormented Iob:
Heele wright in's prayse for Gold or Siluer pay:
Such bribing Poets hath the world this day:
But they are base, and a free-bred Muse,
Their memories, but in contempt, will vse:
Our best and worthy witts being true diuine,
Will not be brib'd, to wright a lying lyne
For Honours changling, nor for Monyes slaue,
But as they merit, so their worth shall haue.
| To Rash Iudgement, Tom Foole, and his fellowes | |