Of kindred, one to tell thee that thy plays
Are laught at by the pit, box, galleries, nay, stage?
Think on't a while, and thou wilt quickly find
Thy body made for labour, not thy mind.
No other use of paper thou shouldst make
Than carrying loads and reams upon thy back.
Carry vast burdens till thy shoulders shrink,
But curst be he that gives thee pen and ink:
Such dangerous weapons should be kept from fools,
As nurses from their children keep edg'd tools: