And sunbright honour penn'd in shameful coop.
And if that any buds of Poesy,
Yet of the old stock, gan to shoot again,
Or it men's follies must to-force to feign,
And roll with rest in rhymes of ribaudry;
Or, as it sprung, it wither must again;
Tom Piper makes us better melody.
PIERS. O peerless Po'sy! where is then thy place?
If nor in princes' palace thou dost sit,
(And yet is princes' palace the most fit,)