Nor while I live, heed I what man doth praise
Or underprize mine unaffected layes.
What moves thee then, said he, to take the pains
And spenden time if thou contemn’st the fruit?
Sweet fruit of fame, that fills the Poets brains
With high conceit and feeds his fainting wit.
How pleasant ’tis in honour here to live
And dead, thy name for ever to survive!
Or is thy abject mind so basely bent
As of thy Muse to maken Merchandize?