Jordan

Who sayes that fictions onely and false

Become a verse?

Is there in truth no beautie?

Is all good structure in a winding stair?

May no lines passe, except they do their dutie      Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it not verse, except enchanted

And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spunne lines?

Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?

Must all be vail'd, while he that reades, divines,      Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:

Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime:

I envie no man's nightingale or spring;

Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme,      Who plainly say,

My God,

My King.