Epistle XXXVI. Translated out of Perseus

I Don't remember I did dip,
In the Caballine spring my lip:
Nor on two-top'd Pernassus sleep,
That thence I should a Poet creep.
The pale Pyrene and Helicon,
I for those men will let alone,
T'whose brows the rambling Ivyes cling;
Yet I a clown my verses bring
To th' Muses altars. Who did shew
The Parrat , who the Crow
Of old with hollow voyce to prate?
Or Pies our words to imitate?
Arts Master, Need, which wit bestows;
This Artist makes us come to those
Words which our Nature us denies,
Make Crowes turn Poets, and the Pies
Turn Poetresses that can sing,
Sweet verses from the Pegasean spring.