Truly, even that, as of the one side it giveth great praise to
poesy, which, like Venus (but to better purpose), had rather be
troubled in the net with Mars, than enjoy the homely quiet of
Vulcan; so serveth it for a piece of a reason why they are less
grateful to idle England, which now can scarce endure the pain of a
pen. Upon this necessarily followeth that base men with servile
wits undertake it, who think it enough if they can be rewarded of
the printer; and so as Epaminondas is said, with the honour of his
virtue, to have made an office by his exercising it, which before
was contemptible, to become highly respected; so these men, no more
but setting their names to it, by their own disgracefulness,
disgrace the most graceful poesy. For now, as if all the Muses were
got with child, to bring forth bastard poets, without any
commission, they do post over the banks of Helicon, until they make
their readers more weary than post-horses; while, in the meantime,
they,


"Queis meliore luto finxit praecordia Titan," {78}


are better content to suppress the outflowings of their wit, than by
publishing them to be accounted knights of the same order.

But I that, before ever I durst aspire unto the dignity, am admitted
into the company of the paper-blurrers, do find the very true cause
of our wanting estimation is want of desert, taking upon us to be
poets in despite of Pallas. Now, wherein we want desert, were a
thankworthy labour to express. But if I knew, I should have mended
myself; but as I never desired the title so have I neglected the