To my Book

      It will be look'd for, Book, when some but see

      Thy title, Epigrams, and named of me,

      Thou shouldst be bold, licentious, full of gall,

      Wormwood, and sulphur, sharp, and tooth'd withal;

      Become a petulent thing, hurl ink, and wit,

      As madmen stones;  not caring whom they hit.

      Deceive their malice, who could wish it so;

      And by thy wiser temper, let men know

      Thou art not so covetous of least self-fame,

      Made from the hazard of another's shame;

      Much less, with lewd, profane, and beastly phrase,

      To catch the world's loose laughter, or vain gaze.

      He that departs with his own honesty

      For vulgar praise, doth it too dearly buy.