Follies Anatomie :: :: University of Virginia Library

Write, Poetaster: fy for shame, your dayes
Wil dy without remembrancers of praise.
Tis pitty, such a pregnant witty verse
Should be intombed in the fatall herse.
Confine your Muse some tractates to compile,
In scanned Metre, or condigner stile;
That Earth's milde censure may applauding blaze
Your Phœnix quill, with volleys of great prayse.

Why art so slowe? the Trophies will bee lost,
Vnlesse you wright, all Fortunes shall be crost.
What canst thy stile prohibit? gazing mute,
Where Earth 's contending for the golden fruite
You vilisie your selfe with endlesse shame,
Imposing scandall to each Poets name.
I grieue he should be silent, in despite
Of all the Muses, which Sarcasmies write.
He doth resemble Minstrells in each thing;
Inuited once, hee'l neyther play, nor sing;
Vnbidden, will inuey against each friend,
Incessant write great volumes without end.
The amorist which doth your wardrobe keepe,
Admires your sluggish Muse is yet asleepe.
He should a riming Madrigall compose;
And wanting you, must tell his griefs in prose.
The wenches they exclayme, cry out, and call
For Poetasters workes extemporall.
The alehouse tippler, he protests, your Muse
Greatly dishonours him, with grosse abuse,
Infringing promise: which you lately made,
Concerning Libells, that should touch the trade
He gaue you earnest after you were wooed,
A dozen of strong liquor he bestowed,
To bathe your Muse, to make your fluent vain,
Apt to despise a Satyres taxing braine.
The idle Minstrell, he cries out of wrong,
Because you doe his sonnets still prolong.

You iniure much his treble squeaking note,
Depriues him of the townships armes, red coate.
Such wrongs may not passe free: inuent a theam,
Rouze vp your Muse from her conceited dreame.
Giue him a cup of Ale, a pipe of To:
And let him to his priuate study go.
Hee'l breake a iest, when he has drunke a glasse,
Which shal for currant mongst the tapsters passe,
And rime to any word you can propound,
Although a Metre for it, nere were found,
Wright Panegyricks in the praise of's friend,
Make compleat verses, on his fingers end.
He has a subiect he did late inuent,
Will shame the riming sculler, Iack a Lent.
'Tis writ in print; perhaps you'l see't anon,
'Twas made of Robin Hood and little Iohn.
'Twil be discouerd er 't be long; and ly
Vnder the bottome of a pippin-py,
Be pind to Capons backs to shroude the heate,
Fixt to some solid ioynt of Table meate.
Wish it be put to no worse seruice, then
To shelter the scorcht Caponet or Hen.
I pray 't may haue such office, worthy place,
Yet feares 'tmust suffer vile rebuke, disgrace.
Iack out of office wee 't ere long shall finde
'lth house of office, being mew'd, confinde.
Well though it be, yet for the Muses sakes,
Hee'l pen a pithie tractate of A-iax.

I wish he would reserue A-iax in minde,
Twill serue but for A-iax and come behinde:
For men adiudge the volumes of this foole,
Worthie no chayre, scarce to deserue the stoole.
Let cease the clamor of thy hotchpot verse,
The stupid pots, or sencelesse streetes to pearce.
The doggrell discord of thy long leg'd rime,
Defameth Poets, scandalize the time.
Your mock-verse Muse deserueth nought but fire
The beggers whipstock, or the Gallowes hire.
In silence spend the reliques of your dayes:
For being mute you will attaine most prayse.
Auoide each Satyres lash, censures of times,
Which doe deriding read pot-Poets rimes.