31
To the Criticke
To the Criticke
Me thinkes I see some crooked Mimicke ieere,
And taxe my Muse with this fantasticke Grace,
Turning my Papers, askes, What haue we heere?
Making withall some filthy Antike Face.
I feare no censure, nor what thou canst say,
Nor shall my Spirit one iot of vigour lose.
Think’st thou, my Wit shall keepe the pack-Horse Way,
That eu’ry Dudgen low Inuention goes?
Since Sonnets thus in Bundles are imprest,
And eu’ry Drudge doth dull our satiate Eare;
Think’st thou my Loue shall in those Ragges be drest,
That eu’ry Dowdy, eu’ry Trull doth weare?
Vp, to my Pitch, no common Iudgement flyes,
I scorne all Earthly Dung-bred Scarabies.