Let Us Be Diana's Foresters,

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

Thus Hath The Candle Sing'd The Moth. O These Deliberate Fools!

Good God, The Souls Of All My Tribe Defend From Jealousy!

I Had Rather Be A Kitten, And Cry Mew, Than One Of These Same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I Had Rather Heare A Brazen Candlestick Turn'd, Or A Dry Wheele Grate On The Axle-tree, And That Would Set My Teeth Nothing An Edge, Nothing So Much, As Mincing Poetrie.

Ay, When Fowls Have No Feathers And Fish Have No Fin.