Made against Idell and vain Rimes.

A Penne emploied to vertues things,
a croune of glory gains,
But idell verse small profite brings,
the ynke but paper stains:
And fills the worlde with follie greate,
that spryngs on fancies fitts,
Whiche blotts good name, and dulls the minde,
and doeth abuse the witts.
The wanton ryme for reatchlesse youth, a pleasant bable is,
Or els a Lanterne voide of light, that leads poore Lambs a mis:
What shame is this to here how men, hath loste their sence for loue,
And daiely dye in leude desiers, that doeth mutche mischeef moue.
What fondnesse can be more then that, when louers saie lo here,
The Goddes of my life and death, and ground of gladsome chere:
What blasphemie is it to call, a creature by that name,
Which God hymself of right should beare, and best deseru's the same.
Put vp your pennes you Poets vaine, that piuishe rimes doe make,
For shame leaue of your Venus songs, that keepeth vice awake:
Flyng all your Fables in the fire, and followe vertues lore,
That plants the perfite feare of God, where vire was graft before.
His feare kepes kyngs & kyngdomes vp, and sendeth subiects peace,
For blesse he but the barrain soile, there eche thyng doeth increace:
The feelds doe florishe full of corne, the Haruest is full greate,
The emptie Barnes maie plentie crie, and hongrie findeth meate.
If men did waie what wealth doeth rise, by feare of God alone,
(And what faire works true wisedoms frams, vpo the corner stone)
Thei would no other buildyngs make, nor ron and gad so faste,
To toyes and trifles any where, whose blosomes maie not laste.
Wherefore awaie with wanton trashe, sutche ware is waxen stale,
Shut vp your shopps you Printers all, that setts vain Rimes to sale:
And looke vpon the booke of life, and there your cunnyng showe,
For all the rest but shadowes are, as worthie heads doe knowe.