Looke, its here Belvedere.
What a Bel-wether in Paules Church-yeard, so cald because it keepes a bleating, or because it hath the tinckling bel of so many Poets about the neck of it, what is the rest of the title.
The garden of the Muses.
What have we here: the Poet garish gayly bedeckt like fore horses of the parish? what followes.
Quem referent musae, dum vehit amnis aquas.
Who blurres faire paper, with foule bastard rimes,
Shall live full many an age in latter times:
Who makes a ballet for an ale-house doore,
Shall live in future times for ever more.
Then — thy muse shall live so long.
As drafty ballats to thy praise are song.
But what's his devise, Pernassus with the sunne and the lawrel: I wonder this Owle dares looke on the sunne, and I marvaile this gose flies not the laurell: his devise might have been better a foole going into the market place to be seene, with this motto, scribimus indocti, or a poore beggar gleaning of eares in the end of harvest, with this word, sua cuiq. gloria.