Rhyme,
the
rack
of
finest
wits,
That
expresseth
but
by
fits
True
conceit,
Spoiling
senses
of
their
treasure,
Cozening
judgment
with
a
measure,
But
false
weight;
Wresting
words
from
their
true
calling,
Propping
verse
for
fear
of
falling
To
the
ground;
Jointing
syllabes,
drowning
letters,
Fast'ning
vowels
as
with
fetters
They
were
bound!
Soon
as
lazy
thou
wert
known,
All
good
poetry
hence
was
flown,
And
art
banish'd.
For
a
thousand
years
together
All
Parnassus'
green
did
wither,
And
wit
vanish'd.
Pegasus
did
fly
away,
At
the
wells
no
Muse
did
stay,
But
bewail'd
So
to
see
the
fountain
dry,
And
Apollo's
music
die,
All
light
failed!
Starveling
rhymes
did
fill
the
stage;
Not
a
poet
in
an
age
Worth
crowning;
Not
a
work
deserving
bays,
Not
a
line
deserving
praise,
Pallas
frowning;
Greek
was
free
from
rhyme's
infection,
Happy
Greek
by
this
protection
Was
not
spoiled.
Whilst
the
Latin,
queen
of
tongues,
Is
not
yet
free
from
rhyme's
wrongs,
But
rests
foiled.
Scarce
the
hill
again
doth
flourish,
Scarce
the
world
a
wit
doth
nourish
To
restore
Phœbus
to
his
crown
again,
And
the
Muses
to
their
brain,
As
before.
Vulgar
languages
that
want
Words
and
sweetness,
and
be
scant
Of
true
measure,
Tyrant
rhyme
hath
so
abused,
That
they
long
since
have
refused
Other
cæsure.
He
that
first
invented
thee,
May
his
joints
tormented
be,
Cramp'd
forever.
Still
may
syllabes
jar
with
time,
Still
may
reason
war
with
rhyme,
Resting
never.
May
his
sense
when
it
would
meet
The
cold
tumor
in
his
feet,
Grow
unsounder;
And
his
title
be
long
fool,
That
in
rearing
such
a
school
Was
the
founder.