In praise or dispraise, in defame or fame, Deserves the honour of a Poets name: I further say, and further will maintaine That he that hath true Poesie in his braine, Will not profane so high and heav'nly skill, To glory, or be prow'd of writing ill: But if his Muse do stoope to such dejection, Tis but to shew the world her sinnes infection: A Poets ire sometimes may be inflam'd: To make foule Vices brazen face asham'd. And then his Epigrammes and Satirs whip Will make base gold unruly Jades to skip: In frost they say tis good, bad blood be nipt, And I have seene Abuses whipt and stript, In such rare fashion, that the wincing age, Hath kick'd and flung, with uncontrouled rage. Oh worthy Withers I shall love thee ever, And often maist thou doe thy best indever, That still thy works and thee may live together Contending with thy name, and never wither.
