Book I, Satire 1

NOr Ladies wanton loue, nor wandring knight,
Legend I out in rimes all richly dight.
Nor fright the Reader with the Pagan vaunt
Of mightie Mahound, and greate Termagaunt.
Nor list I Sonnet of my Mistresse face,
To paint some Blowesse with a borrowed grace,
Nor can I bide to pen some hungrie Scene
For thick-skin eares, and vndescerning eyne.
Nor euer could my scornfull Muse abide
With Tragick shooes her ankles for to hide.
Nor can I crouch, and writhe my fauning tayle
To some greate Patron, for my best auayle.
Such hunger-staruen Trencher Poetrie,
Or let it neuer liue, or timely die:
Nor vnder euerie bank, and euerie Tree,
Speake rymes vnto my oten Minstralsie:
Nor caroll out so pleasing liuely laies,
As mought the Graces moue my mirth to praise.
Trumpet, and reeds, and socks, and buskins fine,
I them bequeath: whose statues wandring Twine
Of Yuy, mixt with Bayes, circlen around
Their liuing Temples likewise Laurell-bound.
Rather had I, albee in carelesse rymes,
Check the mis-ordered world, and lawlesse times.
Nor need I craue the Muses mid-wifry,
To bring to light so worth-lesse Poetry:
Or if we list, what baser Muse can bide,
To sit and sing by Grantaes naked side?
They hunt the tyded Thames and salt Medway,
Ere since the same of their late Bridall day.
Nought haue we here but willow-shaded shore,
To tell our Grant his banks are left for lore.