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 every dudgen low invention goes? Since sonnets thus in bundles are imprest And every drudge doth dull our satiate ear, Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be drest That every dowdy, every trull, doth wear? Up to my pitch no common judgement flies; I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY BOOKSELLER by BEN JONSON LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT by GEORGE MEREDITH CORYDON - A PASTORAL by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE BUBBLE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM AMBITION by MILDRED TELFORD BARNWELL SONNET (2) by JOACHIM DU BELLAY TO MR. BLEECKER, ON HIS PASSAGE TO NEW YORK by ANN ELIZA BLEECKER |