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For the sweet numbers and melodious measures
With which I wont the winged words to tie,
And make a tunefull diapase of pleasures,
Now being let to runne at libertie 550
By those which have no skill to rule them right,
Have now quite lost their naturall delight.
Heapes of huge words uphoorded hideously,
With horrid sound, though having little sence,
They thinke to be chiefe praise of poetry; 555
And, thereby wanting due intelligence,
Have mard the face of goodly poesie,
And made a monster of their fantasie.
Whilom in ages past none might professe
But princes and high priests that secret skill; 560
The sacred lawes therein they wont expresse,
And with deepe oracles their verses fill:
Then was shee held in soveraigne dignitie,
And made the noursling of nobilitie.
But now nor prince nor priest doth her maintayne,
But suffer her prophaned for to bee 566
Of the base vulgar, that with hands uncleane
Dares to pollute her hidden mysterie;
And treadeth under foote hir holie things,
Which was the care of kesars* and of kings.


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