Rhyme, the rack of finest
wits,
That expresseth but by
fits
True
conceit,
Spoiling senses of their
treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But
false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing
syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning
vowels as with
fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good
poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd.
For a thousand years together
All
Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the wells no
Muse did stay,
But bewail'd
So to see the fountain dry,
And
Apollo's music die,
All light failed!
Starveling
rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age
Worth
crowning;
Not a work deserving bays,
Not a line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek by this protection
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the
Latin,
queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
To restore
Phœbus to his crown again,
And the
Muses to their brain,
As before.
Vulgar languages that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused
Other caesure.
He that first invented thee,
May his
joints
tormented be,
Cramp'd forever.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never.
May his sense when it would meet
The cold
tumor in his feet,
Grow
unsounder;
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.
Ben Jonson