CHRONOMASTIX

What? what? my friends, will not this room receive? When have I walked the streets, but happy he That had the finger first to point at me, Prentice, or Journeyman! The shop does know it! The unlettered Clarke! Mayor and minor Poet! The Sempster hath sat still as I passed by, And dropped her needle! Fishwives stayed their cry! The Boy with buttons, and the Basket wench To vent their wares, into my works do trench! A pudding-wife, that would despise the Times, Hath vtterd' frequent pen' worths, through my rhymes, And, with them, dived into the Chambermaid, And she unto her Lady hath conveyed The seasond morsels, who hath sent me pensions, To cherish and to heighten my inventions. Well, Fame shall know it yet, I have my faction, And Friends about me, though it please detraction To do me this affront. Come forth that love me, And now, or never, spite of Fame, approve me. The Time? Lo I the man, that hate the time That is, that love it not; and (though in rhyme, I here do speak it) with this whip you see, Do lash the Time, and am my self lash-free. If you would see Time quake and shake, but name us, It is for that, we'are both beloved, and famous. Then I will look on Time, and love the same, And drop my whip: who's this! my Mistress! Fame! The Lady whom I honour, and adore! What luck had I not to see her before! Pardon me, Madam, more then most accursed, That did not spy your Ladyship at first, To have given the stoop, and to salute the skirts Of her, to whom all Ladies else are flirts! It is for you, I revel so in rhyme, Dear Mistress, not for hope I have the Time Will grow the better by it. To serve Fame Is all my end, and get my self a name. Oh, you the Curious, Breath you to see a passage so injurious, Done with despite, and carried with such tumor against me, that am so much the friend of rumor? (I would say Fame? ) whose Muse hath rid in rapture On a soft ambling verse to every capture, From the strong guard, to the weak child that reads me, And wonder both of him that loves, or dread's me! Who with the lash of my immortal pen Have scourged all sorts of vices, and of men! Am I rewarded, thus? have I, I say, From Envies self torn praise, and bays away, With which my glorious front, and word at large, Triumphs in print at my admirers charge.