Ad Musam (48)

Peace, idle Muse, haue done! for it is time,
Since lousie Ponticus enuies my fame,
And sweares the better sort are much to blame
To make me so well knowne for my ill rime:
Yet Bankes his horse, is better knowne then he.
So are the Cammels and the westerne hogge,
And so is Lepidus his printed Dog:
Why doth not Ponticus their fames enuie?
Besides, this Muse of mine, and the blacke feather
Grew both together fresh in estimation:
And both growne stale, were cast away together:
What fame is this that scarce lasts out a fashion?
Onely this last in credit doth remaine,
That from henceforth, each bastard cast-forth rime,
Which doth but savour of a libell vaine,
Shall call me father, and be thought my crime;
So dull, and with so little sence endu'd,
Is my grose-headed Judge, the multitude.