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On the
Detraction which followed
upon My Writing Certain
Treatises
A book was writ of late called Tetrachordon,
And woven close, both matter, form, and style;
The
subject new: it walked the town a while,
Numb'ring
good intellects; now seldom pored on.
Cries the
stall-reader, "Bless us! what a word on
A title-page
is this!"; and some in file
Stand spelling false,
while one might walk to Mile
End Green. Why, is it
harder, Sirs, than Gordon,
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or
Galasp?
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow
sleek,
That would have made Quintilian stare and
gasp.
Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,
Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
When thou
taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward, Greek
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