Book III, Prologue

Some say my Satyres ouer-loosely flowe,
Nor hide their gall inough from open showe:
Not riddle like, obscuring their intent;
But packe-staffe plaine, vttring what thing they ment:
Contrarie to the Roman ancients,
Whose words were short, and darkesome was their sence.
Who reades one line of their harsh poesies,
Thrise must he take his winde, and breath him thrise.
My Muse would follow them that haue fore-gone,
But cannot with an English pineon,
For looke howfarre the ancient Comedie
Past former Satyres in her libertie:
Sofarre must mine yeeld vnto them of olde.
'Tis better be too bad, then be too bolde.