To My Book

It will be looked for, book, when some but see Thy title, Epigrams , and named of me, Thou should'st be bold, licentious, full of gall, Wormwood and sulphur, sharp and toothed withal, Become a petulant thing, hurl ink and wit As madmen stones, not caring whom they hit. Deceive their malice who could wish it so, And by thy wiser temper let men know Thou art not covetous of least self-fame Made from the hazard of another's shame- Much less with lewd, profane, and beastly phrase To catch the world's loose laughter or vain gaze. He that departs with his own honesty For vulgar praise, doth it too dearly buy.