On Venterwit

He scrapes up verses, shows them up and down,
And where they are likt, he saies they are his own:
If none commend them, then he swears he found
Them by chance, walking in the Temple round.
He by chance met with some of mine, which he
Had spoild with interlining ribauldrie:
Who showing askt we how I like't the strein?
I told him 'twas a poor and empty vein:
He wondring at my censure, boldly said
They were the best lines that he ever made.
Yes: so they were I told him 'fore the text
Was by his comment thus perplext.
Fool thou'rt discover'd; therfore take advise!
Spoil mine no more, or I'l proclaim thy lies!