Book I, Satire 4

TOo popular is Tragicke Poesie,
Strayning his tip-toes for a farthing fee,
And doth besides on Rimelesse numbers tread,
Vnbid Iambicks flow from carelesse head.
Some brauer braine in high Heroick rimes
Compileth worm-eate stories of olde times:
And he like some imperious Maronist,
Coniures the muses that they him assist.
Then striues he to bumbast his feeble lines
With farre-fetcht phrase:
And maketh vp his hard-betaken tale
With strange enchantments, fetcht from darkesome vale
Of some Melissa, that by Magicke doome
To Tuscans soyle transporteth Merlins toombe:
Painters and Poets holde your auncient right:
Write what you will, and write not what you might:
Their limits be their list, their reason will.
But if some Painter in presuming skill,
Should paint the stars in center of the earth,
Could ye forbeare some smiles, and taunting mirth?
But let no rebell Satyre dare traduce
Th'eternall Legends of thy Faerie Muse,
Renowmed Spencer: whom no earthly wight
Dares once to emulate, much lesse dares despight.
Salust of France, and Tuscan Ariost,
Yeeld vp the Lawrell garland ye haue lost:
And let all others willow weare with me,
Or let their vndeseruing Temples bared be.