How many Poems writ in ancient time, Which thy Fore-fathers had in great esteem, Which in the crowded Shops bore any rate, And sold like News-Books, and Affairs of State, Have grown contemptible, and slighted since, As Pordig, Fleckno, or the British Prince? Quarles, Chapman, Heywood, Withers had Applause, And Wild, and Ogilby in former days; But now are damn'd to wrapping Drugs, and Wares, And curs'd by all their broken Stationers: And so may'st thou perchance pass up and down, And please a while th' admiring Court, and Town, Who after shalt in Duck-lane Shops be thrown, To mould with Silvester, and Shirley there, And truck for Pots of Ale next Stourbridg-Fair.
