Who prizes fruit and scorns the tree?
Yet this fair Critic says of me,
I love the work, but hate the man!
Show charier charity who can!

My Lady, I was ever loth
To wait inactive to be loved,
I found in insult, whips from cloth,
When I was stung I moved.
But there is justice for whose sake
A sleepy dignity will wake.
If of my book you prize a part,
Honour a hand, deal fairly with a heart.
The thing you love is very me,
Come, eat the fruit, but love the tree!