Page:Madagascar, with other poems - Davenant (1638).djvu/12

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And that's the knowledge which belongs to mee;For by what's said, I guesse at Poetrie:As when I heare them read strong-lines, I cryTh'are rare, but cannot tell you rightly why:And now I finde this quality was it,That made some Poet eite mee for a wit:Now God forgive him for that huge mistake!If hee did know, but with what paines I makeA Verse, hee'ld pittie then my wretched case;For at the birth of each, I twist my Face,As if I drew a Tooth; I blot, and write,Then looke as pale, as some that goe to fight:With the whole Kennell of the Alphabet,I hunt sometimes an houre, one Rime to get:What I approv'd of once, I streight deny,Like an unconstant Prince, then give the lyeTo my owne invention, which is so poore,As here I'de kisse your hands, and say no more;Had I not seene a childe with Si•ors cut,A folded Paper, unto which was putMore chance, than skill, yet when you open it,You'd thinke it had beene done, by Art and Wit:

So

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