Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer,
And tax my muse with this fantastic grace;
Turning my papers, asks, What have we here?
Making withal some filthy antic face.
I fear no censure, nor what thou canst say,
Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigor lose
Think'st thou my wit shall keep the pack-horse way
That ev'ry dudgeon low invention goes?
Since sonnets thus in bundles are impressed,
And ev'ry drudge doth dull our satiate ear,
Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be dressed
That ev'ry dowdy, ev'ry trull doth wear?
Up to my pitch no common judgment flies,
I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.
And tax my muse with this fantastic grace;
Turning my papers, asks, What have we here?
Making withal some filthy antic face.
I fear no censure, nor what thou canst say,
Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigor lose
Think'st thou my wit shall keep the pack-horse way
That ev'ry dudgeon low invention goes?
Since sonnets thus in bundles are impressed,
And ev'ry drudge doth dull our satiate ear,
Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be dressed
That ev'ry dowdy, ev'ry trull doth wear?
Up to my pitch no common judgment flies,
I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.