A fit of rhyme against rhyme

• Consider this small dust, here in the glass,
• Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
• That expresseth but by fits
• True conceit,
• Spoiling senses of their treasure,
• Cozening judgment with a measure,
• But false weight ;
• Wresting words from their true calling,
• Propping verse for fear of falling
• To the ground ;
• Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
• Fast'ning vowels as with fetters
• They were bound !
• Soon as lazy thou wert known,
• All good poetry hence was flown,
• And are banished.
• For a thousand years together
• All Parnassus' green did wither,
• And wit vanished.
• Pegasus did fly away,
• At the wells no Muse did stay,
• But bewailed
• So to see the fountain dry,
• And Apollo's music die,
• All light failed !
• Starveling rhymes did fill the stage ;
• Not a poet in an age
• Worth crowning ;
• Not a work deserving bays,
• Not a line deserving praise,
• Pallas frowning ;
• Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
• Happy Greek by this protection
• Was not spoiled.
• Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
• Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
• But rests foiled.
• Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
• Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
• To restore
• Phoebus to his crown again,
• And the Muses to their brain,
• As before.
• Vulgar languages that want
• Words and sweetness, and be scant
• Of true measure,
• Tyrant rhyme hath so abusèd,
• That they long since have refusèd
• Other cæsure.
• He that first invented thee,
• May his joints tormented be,
• Cramped forever.
• Still may syllabes jar with time,
• Still may reason war with rhyme,
• Resting never.
• May his sense when it would meet
• The cold tumor in his feet,
• Grow unsounder ;
• And his title be long fool,
• That in rearing such a school
• Was the founder.