They now to fight are gone

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,

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

That shire which we the Heart of England well may call.

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

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

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