And as the foolish poet that still writ
All his most selfe-lov'd verse in paper royall,185
Or partchment rul'd with lead, smooth'd with the pumice,
Bound richly up, and strung with crimson strings;
Never so blest as when hee writ and read
The ape-lov'd issue of his braine; and never
But joying in himselfe, admiring ever:190
Yet in his workes behold him, and hee show'd
Like to a ditcher. So these painted men,
All set on out-side, looke upon within,