To a Friend: An Epigram of Inigo Jones

Sir Inigo doth fear it, as I hear,
And labours to seem worthy of this fear;
That I should write upon him some sharp verse,
Able to eat into his bones, and pierce
The marrow. Wretch! I quit thee of thy pain,
Thou'rt too ambitious, and dost fear in vain:
The Lybian lion hunts no butterflies;
He makes the camel and dull ass his prize.
If thou be so desirous to be read,
Seek out some hungry painter, that, for bread,
With rotten chalk or coal, upon the wall,
Will well design thee to be view'd of all,
That sit upon the common draught or strand;
Thy forehead is too narrow for my brand.