| To Certain Poets |
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Now is the rhymer’s honest trade
A thing for scornful laughter made.
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The merchant’s sneer, the clerk’s disdain,
These are the burden of our pain.
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Because of you did this befall,
You brought this shame upon us all.
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You little poets mincing there
With women’s hearts and women’s hair!
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How sick Dan Chaucer’s ghost must be
To hear you lisp of “Poesie”!
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A heavy-handed blow, I think,
Would make your veins drip scented ink.
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You strut and smirk your little while
So mildly, delicately vile!
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Your tiny voices mock God’s wrath,
You snails that crawl along His path!
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Why, what has God or man to do
With wet, amorphous things like you?
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This thing alone you have achieved:
Because of you, it is believed
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That all who earn their bread by rhyme
Are like yourselves, exuding slime.
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Oh, cease to write, for very shame,
Ere all men spit upon our name!
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Take up your needles, drop your pen,
And leave the poet’s craft to men!
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