TO MY BOOK
It will be looked for, book, when some but see
Thy title, Epigrams, and named of me,
Thou shouldst be bold, licentious, full of gall,
Wormwood and sulphur, sharp, and toothed withal,
Become a petulant thing, hurl ink and wit
As madmen stones; not caring whom they hit.
Deceive their malice, who could wish it so;
And by thy wiser temper let men know
Thou art not covetous of least self-fame,
Made from the hazard of another's shame:
Much less with lewd, profane, and beastly phrase,
To catch the world's loose laughter, or vain gaze.
He that departs with his own honesty
For vulgar praise, doth it too dearly buy.