Enuie ye Muses, at your thriuing Mate, @3Cupid@1 hath crowned a new @3Laureat:@1 I saw his @3Statue@1 gayly tyr'd in greene, As if he had some second @3Phoebus@1 beene. His @3Statue@1 trim'd with the Venerean tree, And shrined faire within your sanctuarie. What, he, that earst to gaine the ryming Goale The worne @3Recitall-post@1 of @3Capitolle,@1 Rymed in rules of Stewish ribaldry, Teaching experimentall Baudery? Whiles th'itching vulgar tickled with the song, Hanged on their vnreadie Poets tongue. Take this ye patient Muses: and foule shame Shall waite vpon your once prophaned name. Take this ye muses, this so high dispight, And let all hatefull lucklesse birds of night: Let Scriching Oules nest in your razed roofes, And let your floore with horned Satyres hoofe Be dinted and defiled euery morne: And let your walles be an eternall scorne: What if some @3Shordich@1 furie should incite Some lust-stung letcher, must he needs indite The beastly rites of hyred Venerie, The whole worlds vniuersall baud to bee? Did neuer yet no damned @3Libertine,@1 Nor elder @3Heathen,@1 nor new @3Florentine,@1 Tho they were famous for lewd libertie, Venture vpon so shamefull villanie. Our @3Epigrammatarians@1 olde and late, Were wont be blam'd for too licentiate. Chast men, they did but glance at @3Lesbias@1 deed, And handsomely leaue off with cleanly speed. But Artes of Whoring: stories of the Stewes, Ye Muses can ye brooke, and may refuse? Nay let the Diuell, and Saint @3Valentine,@1 Be gossips to those ribald rymes of thine. |