Let Poets and Historians set these forth,
My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth.

But when my wondring eyes and envious heart
  Great Bartas sugared lines, do but read o'er
Fool I do grudg the Muses did not part
  'Twixt him and me that overfluent store;
A Bartas can do what a Bartas will
But simple I according to my skill.
 

From school-boyes' tongues no rhet'rick we expect
  Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,
Nor perfect beauty, where's a main defect;
  My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so sings
And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,
'Cause nature, made it so irreparable.

Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongu'd Greek,
  Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain
By Art he gladly found what he did seek
  A full requital of his, striving pain
Art can do much, but this maxime's most sure
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.
 

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
  Who says my hand a needle better fits,
A Poet's pen all Scorn I should thus wrong,
  For such despite they cast on Female wits;
If what I do prove well, it won't advance,
They'l say it's stolen, or else it was by chance.
 

But sure the Antique Greeks were far more mild
  Else of our Sexe, why feigned they those Nine
And poesy made, Calliope's own child;
  So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts Divine,
But this weak knot, they will full soon untie,
The Greeks did nought, but play the fools & lye.