Epigram 40: A Poets similitude

A Poet Rightly may be tearmed fit
An abstract, or Epitomy of wit:
Or like a Lute that others pleasures breed,
Is fret and strung, their curious eares to feed,
That scornefully distast it, yet tis knowne
It makes the hearers sport, but in selfe none.
A Poet's like a taper, burnt by night
That wasts it selfe, in giuing others light.
A Poet's the most foole beneath the skies,
He spends his wits in making Idiots wise,
Who when they should their thankefulnesse returne
They pay him with disdaine, contempt and scorne.
A Puritan is like, a Poets purse,
For both do hate the crosse (what crosse is worse?)