That I so slenderly set forth my mind, Writing I wot not what in ragged rhymes, And charg'd with bra** into these golden times, When others tower so high, am left behind; I crave not Phoebus leave his sacred cell To bind my brows with fresh Aonian bays; Let them have that who tuning sweetest lays
By Tempe sit, or Aganippe's well; Nor yet to Venus' tree do I aspire, Sith she for whom I might affect that praise, My best attempts with cruel words gainsays, And I seek not that others me admire. Of weeping myrrh the crown is which I crave, With a sad cypress to adorn my grave.