Who sayes that fictions onely and false hair

Become a verse? Is there in truth no beautie?

Is all good structure in a winding stair?

May no lines passe, except they do their dutie

Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves

And sudden arbours shadow course-spunne lines?

Must purling streams refresh a lovers loves?

Must all be vail'd, while he that reades, divines,

Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:

Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime:

I envie no mans nightingale or spring;

Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme,

Who plainly say, My God, My King.