Of Faustus the Fault-finder

OF all my Verses, Faustus still complaines,
I writ them carelesly: and why forsooth?
Because, he saith, they goe so plaine and smooth.
It showes that I for them ne're beat my braines.
I, that mens errors neuer loue to sooth,
Said, they that say so, may be thought but noddies.
For sample marke, said I, your Mistris bodies,
That sit so square, and smooth down to her raines.
That, that ne waste, that wealth and wit doth waste.
Thinke you her Taylor wrought it vp in haste?
No: aske him, and heele say he tooke more paines
Then with old Ellens double-welted frock,
That sits like an old felt on a new block.
Who cannot write, ill iudge of Writers vaines.
The worke of Taylers hands, and Writers wits,
Was hardest wrought, when as it smoothest sits.