Who says that fictions only and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no
beauty?
Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines pass, except they do their
duty
Not to a true, but
painted chair?
Is it no verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun
lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lover's
loves?
Must all be veiled, while he that reads,
divines,
Catching the sense at two
removes?
Shepherds are honest people; let
them sing;
Riddle who list, for me, and pull
for prime;
I envy no man's nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme,
Who plainly say, my God, my
King.
