And that's the knowledge which belongs to mee;
For by what's said, I guesse at Poetrie:
As when I heare them read strong-lines, I cry
Th'are rare, but cannot tell you rightly why:
And now I finde this quality was it,
That made some Poet eite mee for a wit:
Now God forgive him for that huge mistake!
If hee did know, but with what paines I make
A Verse, hee'ld pittie then my wretched case;
For at the birth of each, I twist my Face,
As if I drew a Tooth; I blot, and write,
Then looke as pale, as some that goe to fight:
With the whole Kennell of the Alphabet,
I hunt sometimes an houre, one Rime to get:
What I approv'd of once, I streight deny,
Like an unconstant Prince, then give the lye
To my owne invention, which is so poore,
As here I'de kisse your hands, and say no more;
Had I not seene a childe with Si•ors cut,
A folded Paper, unto which was put
More chance, than skill, yet when you open it,
You'd thinke it had beene done, by Art and Wit:
For by what's said, I guesse at Poetrie:
As when I heare them read strong-lines, I cry
Th'are rare, but cannot tell you rightly why:
And now I finde this quality was it,
That made some Poet eite mee for a wit:
Now God forgive him for that huge mistake!
If hee did know, but with what paines I make
A Verse, hee'ld pittie then my wretched case;
For at the birth of each, I twist my Face,
As if I drew a Tooth; I blot, and write,
Then looke as pale, as some that goe to fight:
With the whole Kennell of the Alphabet,
I hunt sometimes an houre, one Rime to get:
What I approv'd of once, I streight deny,
Like an unconstant Prince, then give the lye
To my owne invention, which is so poore,
As here I'de kisse your hands, and say no more;
Had I not seene a childe with Si•ors cut,
A folded Paper, unto which was put
More chance, than skill, yet when you open it,
You'd thinke it had beene done, by Art and Wit:
So
