You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the rybs of old Parnassus flowes,
And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growes
Neere there about, into your Poesie wring.
Ye that do Dictionaries method bring
Into your rymes, running in ratling rowes,
You that poore Petrarchs long deceased woes
With new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing;
You take wrong wayes, those far-set helps be such,
As doe bewray a want of inward tutch,
And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light.
But if both for your love and skill you name,
You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame,
Stella behold and then begin t’endite.