And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisse
To imitate thee, where thou dost amisse.
Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke,
30And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke,
In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow,
Just as your recknings rise, that wee may know
In your whole carriage of your worke, that here
This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere,
35This is to tap your Muse, which running long
Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong;