But Zoile hangs, and Callisthen keepes in cage for talking large.
And yet, wordes they be winde: but as erst Plinies Draconite
No toole could pierce or carve: or as the gemme Chalazias hight,
Keepes cold, though it in Aetna frie, or Adiantons flowers
Drawes not a drop, though skies distill downe everlasting showers:
So good desert, doth chalenge good reporte by reasons rate,
Though oft they beare the checkes and taunts, they cannot take the mate.
Yet seeke Mecaenas wings to shroude thy toile: Virgilio
Found his Augustus: Ennie thou maist finde thy Scipio.
This trump shall sound thy praise. Sir Phoebus golden rayes shall turne