VVHo'd not at venture Write? So many waies A man may proue a Poet now a daies? Does Nature witt afford to breake a Ieft? This is a Poet: and his friends protest He is to blame he Writes not: when (indeed,) Th'Illiterate Gull can neither write nor read. Let Nature faile! Takes he but so much Paine, To write obscurely: adding so much Braine. As end his crabbed sencelesse verse in Rime: This might a Poet beene in Perseus time. And more! (Though Horace in his book reherses) (Nature and Arte are both requir'd in Verses.) There are those, of their Poetry will vaunt, Which do (God wot) both Wit & Learning want: I know them! Such as they at Table sit Each Iest you speake, will to a Metre fit. And thus your Witt's sell for their priuate gaine And bee accounted Poets for their paine. Others there are, that Others workes suruay, And must from all thinges some thing filtch away, Who if to weaker Braines they can vnfolde A Learned Author: nick a Phrase thats olde: Or change but one word in a line or two: Straight all's their owne, they write, who doubts it so? When I wood scarce beleeu't, though they, in fine, To euery Verse subscribe: By Ioue 'tis mine. Nor is't[...]inough they this in priuate show, But these are Poets, all the world must know. Tis strange to see what stretching is of Wits, What spare of speech this plentious Presse begets. Some (if you keepe them company) you'l finde As choise to breake a Iest as to bteake winde. And what's the reason thinke ye? Onely this: All they can speak's too little for the Presse. Where 'tis not losse of Friend, Life, Libertie, Shall cause them keepe a Iest in secrecy. Others haue helpes: when their Inuention faile, Straight they begin abusiuely to raile. Then out comes Whelps of the olde Dog: for sport: Shall barke at Great ones: bite the meaner sort: When the On-setters (after all their paine: For feare, woo'd gladly call them in againe. And these will Poets bee accounted too: Because they Dare doe more then others doe. Though they their Verses write, (a man may say:) As Clown's get Bastards, and straight runne away. Montanus needes will bee a Poet! why? Because the Muses on a Mountaine hy Inhabited. Peto for that his Name Denotes him Poet in the Anagrame: And Quaint Castilio: (since his Father dy'd!) Who many Volumes publish't: and beside Diuers neglected, Left vnto his Son: Which dubbes him Poet, by praescription. True! And Castilio will approued bee, Or he will Print his Fathers Legacy. And marke Crisippo, but what shifts he'l finde, Ere he'l bee counted once to come behinde, In euery Booke he will bespeake afore: The comming out, roome for halfe a score Or a dozen Verses, which he'l hugely puffe With commendations of the Authors stuffe. And in Hyperbolyes his Name extoll Yond Homer, Virgill, Ouide, Iuuenall. Vouching no better Volume, ere was Writ, And that himselfe hath had a Hand in it. Oh this vaine-Praise-Affecting Poetry Is a bewitching-itching Leoprosie: That makes men Rub, scrub, rouz and touz their Braine, Pump their Pates dry for Iests: and all to gaine So much Report: might serue to make them vaunt, They are Applauded (though of Ignorant.) They'l snatch, and scratch, and scrape (though nere so ill) And rather smart then holde their fingers still: Be there a Citty show: or sight at Court: Of Acts Heroicke: or of Princely sport: (which right to write of, or in Type to tell: Might taxe a Daniels or a Spencers quill.) Marke how these hungerbit Inuentions scud To eye! to spy! All for no other good Then onely this! poore this! But to obtaine: Some sodder for their needy greedy straine. See then how (Enuy) gin's her eyes to fat On dainties plenty, and repines there at! How muttering Momus (that knowes not to bite, Grumbles and mumbles mouthfuls out of spite. How currish (Critticks) most seuerely harke: Ready at each sound of applause to barke. How all together, and how each a part Stretch, retch, faine, strain, Inuention, Iudgement Art Raile, Lybell: what not? Rather then labour loose Iest on your Gesture: or be-lye your cloathes. A subiect fitter for a Beadles fist Then the tart lines of a smart Satyrist. Let Natures causes (which are too profound For euery blockish sottish Pate to sound) Produce some monster: some rare spectacle: Some seauen yeares Wonder: Ages miracle: Bee it a worke of nere so sleight a waight, It is recorded vp in Metre straight, And counted purchase of no small renowne, To heare the Praise sung in a Market-towne. How many Volumes lye neglected thrust In euery Bench-hole? euery heape of dust? Which from some Gowries practise, Powder plot, Or Tiburne Lectur's, all their substance got: Yet tosse our Time-stalles youll admire the rout Of carelesse fearelesse Pamphlets flye about. Bookes, made of Ballades: Workes, of Playes, Sightes, to be Read of my Lo: Maiors day's: Post's, lately set forth: Bearing (their Backe at) Letters, of all sorts: An intollerable Packet. Villains discouery, by Lanthorn and Candle-light: (strange if the author should not see it to hadle right) A Quest of Inquirie: (Iacke a Douer's) The Iests of Scoggin: and diuers others (which no man Better the Stationer knowes) Wonderfull Writers; Poets in Prose. What poste pin'd Poets that on each base Theame, With Inuocations vexe Apollo's name. Springes for Woodcockes: Doctor Merriman: Rub and a good Cast: Taylor the Terriman. Fennor, with his Vnisounding Eare word; The vnreasonable Epigramatist of Hereford: Rowland with his Knaues a murniuall; Non worth the calling for, a fire burne em all; And number numberlesse that march (vutolde) Mongst Almanacks and Pippins, to be solde.

My liege! why writers little claim your thought I guess, and, with their leave, will tell the fault. We Poets are (upon a poet’s word) Of all mankind the creatures most absurd: The season when to come, and when to go, To sing, or cease to sing, we never know;