GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 6 by RICHARD BARNFIELD

Of Tel-tales tell my muse,
Of such as love to lie:
Of such as use, for to abuse,
Their friends and no cause why.
Of such and none but such,
My pen shall write his pleasure:
And them at large I meane to tuch,
When I have time and leasure.
My rime is rude, what then?
Yet will it serve the turne:
To notifie such wicked men,
As doe deserve to burne.
As doe deserve to burne said I?
Nay worse: that ought to feele,
The raging force and crueltie:
Of old Ixions wheele.
But least I should this mourning Muse retaine:
Ile fall into an other kinde of vaine.

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