Epigram 2 (When I was sweetly sotted with delight,)

When I was sweetly sotted with delight,
Each trifeling cause could moue one to indite
A little praise would stirre me in such wise,
My thirst all Helycon could scarse suffice.
My pen was like a bowe which still is bent,
My head was like a barrell wanting vent.
Then had you toucht me, you had felt the smart,
What fury might, requiring helpe of art,
And then I thought my iudgements ayme so cleere
That I would hitt you right, or misse you neere,
But nowe left naked of prosperitie,
And subiect vnto bitter iniurie.
So poore of sense, so bare of wit I am,
Not neede her selfe can driue an Epigram,
Yet neede is mistresse of all exercise.
And she all thriuing arts did first deuise.
But should I thriue or prosper in that state,
Where she is my commandresse whome I hate?
For of a key-cold witt what would ye haue?
He which is once a wretch, is thrise a slaue.