Letter to the Dygne Mastre Canynge

Straunge dome ytte ys, that, yn these daies of oures,
Nete butte a bare recytalle can hav place;
Nowe shapelie poesie hast loste yttes powers,
And pynant hystorie ys onlie grace;
Heie pycke up wolsome weedes, ynstedde of flowers,
And famylies, ynstedde of wytte, theie trace;
Nowe poesie canne meete wythe ne regrate,
Whylste prose, & herehaughtrie, ryse yn estate.

Lette kynges, & rulers, whan heie gayne a throne,
Shewe whatt theyre grandsieres, & great grandsieres bore,
Emarschalled armes, yatte, ne before theyre owne,
Now raung'd wythe whatt yeir fadres han before;
Lette trades, & toune folck, lett syke thynges alone,
Ne fyghte for sable yn a fielde of aure;
Seldomm, or never, are armes vyrtues mede,
Shee nillynge to take myckle aie dothe hede.

A man ascaunse upponn a piece maye looke,
And shake hys hedde to styrre hys rede aboute;
Quod he, gyf I askaunted oere thys booke,
Schulde fynde thereyn that trouthe ys left wythoute;
Eke, gyf ynto a vew percase I tooke
The long beade-rolle of al the wrytynge route,
Asserius, Ingolphus, Torgotte, Bedde,
Thorow hem al nete lyche ytte I coulde rede.--

Pardon, yee Graiebarbes, gyff I saie, onwise
Yee are, to stycke so close & bysmarelie
To hystorie; you doe ytte tooe moche pryze,
Whyche amenused thoughtes of poesie;
Somme drybblette share you shoulde to yatte alyse,
Nott makynge everyche thynge bee hystorie;
Instedde of mountynge onn a wynged horse,
You onn a rouncy dryve yn dolefull course.

Cannynge & I from common course dyssente;
Wee ryde the stede, botte yev to hym the reene;
Ne wylle betweene crased molterynge bookes be pente,
Botte soare on hyghe, & yn the sonne-bemes sheene;
And where wee kenn somme ishad floures besprente,
We take ytte, & from oulde rouste doe ytte clene;
Wee wylle ne cheynedd to one pasture bee,
Botte sometymes soare 'bove trouthe of hystorie.

Saie, Canynge, whatt was vearse yn daies of yore?
Fyne thoughtes, and couplettes fetyvelie bewryen,
Notte syke as doe annoie thys age so sore,
A keppened poyntelle restynge at eche lyne.
Vearse maie be goode, botte poesie wantes more,
An onlist lecturn, and a songe adygne;
Accordynge to the rule I have thys wroughte,
Gyff ytt please Canynge, I care notte a groate.

The thynge yttself moste bee ytts owne defense;
Som metre maie notte please a womannes ear.
Canynge lookes notte for poesie, botte sense;
And dygne, & wordie thoughtes, ys all hys care.
Canynge, adieu! I do you greete from hence;
Full soone I hope to taste of your good cheere;
Goode Byshoppe Carpynter dyd byd mee saie,
Hee wysche you healthe & selinesse for aie.