[Needs must I write, & know not what]
A Gentleman beeing in his friends house,
in the Country, was by him earnestly
intreated after Dinner, before his departure,
to make him some verses. But
would giue him no theame to write
vpon: he, not knowing what to write
that best mought like his fancie, yet
willing to graunt his request, wrote as
followeth.
Needs must I write, & know not what:
why then euen as it is,
Accept the same, and blame me not,
if ought you find amis.
On bushy bankes what else,
but thornes and bryars grow?
What looke you for, but raine,
when stormy winds gin blowe?
What looke you for, of me,
some learned kinde of verse?
You are deceaude: I cannot I,
but ragged rimes rehearse.
But what? me thinkes you say,
I make too much adoo,
Considering how little yet,
I haue done hetherto:
And since I graunted haue
so little time to write,
Some pithy shorter sentence, would
a wiser man indite.
In deede syr, true it is,
my fault I do confesse,
And since I haue no longer time
my meaning to expresse,
Remaine in doubt what I would doo,
if I had longer time:
And so, with thanks for my good cheare,
I rudely end my rime.
But if so be you haue
some prety kinde of stile,
Whereon you doo desire some verse,
if you will stay a while,
A day or two, or so,
or till I come againe,
Then you shall see, that I in time
will temper so my braine,
And whet my wittes a new,
that I will promise you,
Some prety peece of verse thereon,
more then I can doo now.
And thus, I leaue you here,
vntil I come againe,
This rude and ragged rime to reade:
and so, in rest remaine.
