In vaine they toile to take the flight, their feete are clogd with lead.
This faith, that makes the Authour, speake his owne in language new:
Renoumes the more, then if thou blazdst it out, in painted hew.
For, serpents lurke in greenest grasse, and with a garishe gloze,
The Strumpet pounts in pride, where matrones marche in comelie clothes.
Go publishe it, and dreade not scowling Momus poisond spite.
And though Archilochus Iambes fly, or Theons taunts doe bite:
Thinke, winds doe haunt the gallauntst trees, and Envy things of state.
And lightning checks, Cerauniaes tops, whome no hils els do mate.
The best have borne the bob, and Zoiles brutes durst geve the charge: