Nor never did in shade of Tempe sit:
And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell,
Poore Lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,
But God wot, wot not what they meane by it:
And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,
I am no Pickepurse of an others wit.
How fals it than, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speake? And what I speake doth flowe
In verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please,