Each vulgar wit, that what it is, could neuer yet define,
In ragged rimes with lips profane, will call the learned nine
To helpe him vtter forth the spawne of his vnfruitfull braine,
Which makes our peerelesse poesie to be in such disdaine,
That now it skils not whether Pan do pipe, or Phœbus play,
Tom Tinkar makes best harmonie to passe the time away:
For this I grieue, for this the seed of Ioue are held in scorne,
Yet not for this our worthies dead are to be left forlorne:
For so no future age should know the truth of things forepast,
The names of their forefathers dead would in the dust be cast: