 | Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies |  |
To a Detractor.
Thou still art darting (like a Porcupine)Thy quils against me, faulting every line
That my hand draws, and with the frost-like power
Of thy benummed verse, would nip the flower
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More favour to thy self, than thus to blow
Sparks in thine eyes. Art thou not (slave) afeard
To pluck a couchant Lyon by the beard,
That rouz'd will rend thee? thou but shootst in vain
Thy bolts of folly, that rebound again
From my unpierced Muse, whose lofty rime
Shall (Dial-like) stand in the face of time,
And look it down, when thou and thine shall lie
Damn'd up with dust in blind obscuritie.
| Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | |