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Poem	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.
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