@3Whither thus hastes my little book so fast? To Paul's Churchyard. What? in those cells to stand, With one leaf like a rider's cloak put up To catch a termer? or lie musty there With rimes a term set out, or two, before? Some will redeem me. Few. Yes, read me too. Fewer. Nay love me. Now thou doat'st, I see. Will not our English Athens art defend? Perhaps. Will lofty courtly wits not aim Still at perfection? if I grant? I fly. Whither? To Paul's. Alas, poor book, I rue Thy rash self-love. Go, spread thy pap'ry wings; Thy lightness cannot help or hurt my fame.@1 |