That shire which we the Heart of England well may call

For that fine madness still he did retain Which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.

Marlowe, bathed in Thespian springs Had in him those brave translunary things, That the first poets had.

To my mild tutor merrily I came (For I was then a proper goodly page Much like a pigmy, scarce ten years of age) Clasping my slender arms about his thigh. O my dear master! cannot you (quoth I) Make me a poet? Do it, if you can,

Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go, Comfort’s a cripple and comes ever slow.

Crave the tuneful nightingale to help you with her lay, The ousel and the throstlecock, chief music of our May.

Next these, learn’d Jonson, in this list I bring, Who had drunk deep of the Pierian spring.