Motto.
SHepheard why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
as though our muse no store at all affordes,
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolicke swayne,
and strut the stage with reperfumed wordes.
See how these yonkers raue it out in rime,
who make a traffique of their rarest wits,
And in Bellonas buskin tread it fine,
like Bacchus priests raging in franticke fits.
Those mirtle Groues decay'd, done growe againe,
their rootes refresht with Heliconas spring,
Whose pleasant shade inuites the homely swayne,
to sit him dovvne and heare the Muses sing.
Then if thy Muse hath spent her wonted zeale,
with Iuie twist thy temples shall be crownd,
Or if she dares hoyse vp top-gallant sayle,
Amongst the rest, then may she be renownd.