Reading my verses, I liked them so well,
Self-love did make my judgment to rebel;
And thinking them so good, thought more to make,
Considering not how others would them take.
I writ so fast, thought, lived I many a year,
A pyramid of fame thereon to rear.
Reason, observing which way I was bent,
Did stay my hand, and asked me what I meant.
"Will you," said he, "thus waste your time in vain,
On that which in the world small praise shall gain?
For shame leave off, and do the printer spare:
He'll lose by your ill poetry, I fear.
Besides, the world already hath great store
Of useless books, wherefore do write no more,
But pity take, do the world a good turn,
And all you write cast in the fire and burn."
Angry I was, and Reason struck away,
When I did hear what he to me did say,
Then all in haste I to the press it sent,
Fearing persuasion might my book prevent.
But now 'tis done, repent with grief do I,
Hang down my head with shame, blush, sigh, and cry.
Take pity, and my drooping spirits raise,
Wipe off my tears with handkerchiefs of praise.