To fat Apicius

A Picius leave! scratch thy bald pate no more
Hark how thy Muse supine doth sleeping snore
In thy diseas'd and bedred soul! She lies
Slumbring resolv'd neither to wake or rise.
Not all thy sprightly Sack or far fetcht chear
Can help as midwives to deliver her.
The fumes from thy ful paunch ascending fil
Thy head with vapours, whose dul mists do kil
And suffocate thy vitals, hurt thy brain,
Where all thy genitive faculties are lane.
The Muses live in hungry air, feed clean,
So must you; els your wit wil ne'r be keen.
As 'tis in Nature so in Poesie,
Seldom or nev'r fat bodies pregnant be.