Nor was it well done to permit my bush,
My holly bush, to hang before thy wine,
For friends' applauses are not worth a rush,
And every fool can get a gilded sign.
In troth I have no faculty at praise;
My bush is very full of thorns, though it seems bays.
III.
When I would praise I cannot find a rhyme,
But if I have a just pretence to rail,
They come in numerous throngs at any time,