 | Philogamus |  |
The Prayse of the Meter.
O meter passing measureO treatise of hygh treasure
So Typycal in fygure
None suche from lyn to lygure
Lapte vp in suche fyne latyn
As passeth both syls and satyn
O Homer so Heroicall
And Percius Satyricall
Where are your workes Poetycal?
O Horace where art thou
Uyrgyll and Ouide now
And all the rest of you
Let se who dare auow
One suche a worke to shew
No no, ful wel I know
Take al you on a rowe
Ye cannot do it I trow
Not one of you that wrote
Suche Satyres wel I wot
Yf he your bokes had sene
He wolde haue shamed them clene
You had no Peers you wene
Because wyth lawrel grene
Crowned you were by ryght
Be crowned wyth the Uyne
And Garland Canabyne
For engyne and for wytt
The muses dyd admytt
Not onely hym to yt
But gaue hym so muche grace
That yf he vewe the face
Of one In any place
He maye make hym wyth spede
A Poete to procede.
The profe therof indede
Ful playnly dyd appere
Wythin thys halfe yere
For one that was a Smytthe
A forger at the stytthe
A myghtye man of pytthe
And stronge of lym and lytthe
When he had bene hym wythe
And talked but a whyle
He wrote so hygh a style
As none wythin a myle
Coulde fashyon wyth a fyle
Wel wel for all ye smyle
Certes I tel you treuth
A lack yt is greate ruth
That men wyl not beleue
The gyftes that Muses geue
Besyde all thys hys Smythery
Uulcanus taught hym certanly
Wherwt he wroughe right curyously
As ye may se yt euydently
Conteyned in the testymony
And latter wylle of Heresy.
For there He sheweth Poetry
Hyghly professyng Romery
Lo now I say therfore
Your bokes we nede no more
They maye be rent and tore
What though ye crye and rore
We nede not now your lore
For yf thys arte were drownd
Agayne it may be found
Euen by the very sound
Of these new Poetes Tooles
If they be red In scholes
You may syt downe on stooles
And so to take your rest
As I suppose it best.
But well ye thyncke I Geyst
By cocke for all your lokes
You maye claspe vp your bookes
And then go kepe the roockes
Or els wyth hangle hookes
Go fyshe and take some flookes
For cleane your cleargy crookes
And goeth no more on ryght
Synce these beganne to wryght
Ye haue no more no might
To florysh in theyr syght
But thys I wyll you tell
The Mason doth excell
Wherfore he may full well
Aboue all beare the Bell
Wherfore wyth all my power
I wyll eche daye and hower
Aduaunce hys hyghe honour
Wyth Hellicons Lauacre
To washe me by theyr ayde
To do as I haue saide.
| Philogamus | |