Idea 31: Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer

Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer

And tax my muse with this fantastic grace,

Turning my papers, asks "what have we here?"

Making withall some filthy antic face.

I fear no censure, nor what thou canst say,

Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigour lose.

Think'st thou my wit shall keep the pack-horse way

That ev'ry dudgeon low invention goes?

Since sonnets thus in bundles are impress'd,

And ev'ry drudge doth dull our satiate ear,

Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be dress'd

That ev'ry dowdy, ev'ry trull doth wear?

Up to my pitch no common judgment flies:

I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.