Thou Leaden Braine, which censur’st what I write,
And say’st, my Lines be dull, and doe not moue;
I maruell not, thou feel’st not my Delight,
Which neuer felt’st my fierie touch of Loue:
But thou, whose Pen hath like a Packe-Horse seru’d,
Whose Stomack vnto Gall hath turn’d thy Food,
Whose Senses, like poore Pris’ners, hunger-staru’d,
Whose Griefe hath parch’d thy Body, dry’d thy Blood;
Thou which hast scorned Life, and hated Death,
And in a moment Mad, Sober, Glad, and Sorrie;
Thou which hast bann’d thy Thoughts, and curst thy Birth,
With thousand Plagues, more then in Purgatorie:
Thou, thus whose Spirit Loue in his fire refines,
Come thou and reade, admire, applaud my Lines.