Sir Inigo doth feare it as I heare
(And labours to seem worthy of that feare)
That I should wryte upon him some sharp verse,
Able to eat into his bones and pierce
The Marrow! Wretch, I quitt thee of thy paine
Thou'rt too ambitious: and dost fear in vaine!
The Lybian Lion hunts noe butter flyes,
He makes the Camell and dull Ass his prize.
If thou be soe desyrous to be read,
Seek out some hungry painter, that for bread
With rotten chalk, or Cole upon a wall,
Will well designe thee, to be viewd of all
That sit upon the Common Draught: or Strand!
Thy Forehead is too narrow for my Brand.