Old Wormy Age
Old wormy age that in thy musty writs
Of former rules records the present wits,
Tell us no more the tale of Apuleius Asse,
Nor Midas ears, nor Io eating grasse.
This work of Tom's so far them all exceeds,
As Phoebus' fiddle did Pan's squeaking reeds.
He writes not of a gnat, nor frog, nor woodcocks bill,
Of steeples, towns, and towers, entreats his goose's quill.
Among the rest he of a wondrous tub doth tell,
The wine whereof more Poets made than Tempes Well.
In Odcomb’d Tom's regard the Cyclops' herds were thin,
Our Tom quick cattle fed whole legions on his skin.
So did poor bare Philosophers in former times,
And so do Poets now that make the lowzy rimes.
Five months with this in child-birth lay Tom's lab'ring Muse,
In all which time he seldom chang’d his shirt or shoes.
The care and toil was his, thine are the gains,
Crack then the nut, and take the kernel for thy pains.
Explicit Ludovicus Lewkenor.