Next unto me would be thy Mistresse fair,
Whom thou might setten out with goodly skill
Her peerlesse beauty and her virtues rare,
That all would wonder at thy gracefull quill.
And lastly in us both thy self shouldst raise
And crown thy temples with immortall bayes.
But now thy riddles all men do neglect,
Thy rugged lines of all do lie forlorn.
Unwelcome rymes that rudely do detect
The Readers ignorance. Men holden scorn