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Tixall Poetry.
A rapture, alter, sacrifice, a vowe,
A relique, extacye, words baudy now,
Our fathers could for harmeles termes alow.
But now the very spring of poesy
Is poysond quite, and who would draigne it dry,
Must be a better Hollander then I.
A better Hercules than I, alasse,
For such a lake, a better Boniface,
To scoure of such a Pantheon the brasse.
Had one no poet, but a painter bene
Of naked truth, weir't not a lesser sinne
To call it Venus, then a Catherin?
And, if to faigne be all in poetry,
For my part, I shall rather cheuse to me
Poetik sin, then faigned sanctity.
A relique, extacye, words baudy now,
Our fathers could for harmeles termes alow.
But now the very spring of poesy
Is poysond quite, and who would draigne it dry,
Must be a better Hollander then I.
A better Hercules than I, alasse,
For such a lake, a better Boniface,
To scoure of such a Pantheon the brasse.
Had one no poet, but a painter bene
Of naked truth, weir't not a lesser sinne
To call it Venus, then a Catherin?
And, if to faigne be all in poetry,
For my part, I shall rather cheuse to me
Poetik sin, then faigned sanctity.
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