World, I was once resolu'd to bee round with thee, because I know tis thy fashion to bee round with euery bodie: but the winde shifting his point, the Veine turn'd: yet because thou wilt sit as Judge of all matters (though for thy labour thou wear'st Midasses eares, and art Monstrum horrendum, informe: Ingens cui lumen ademptum; whose great Poliphemian eye is put out) I care not much if I make description (before thy Vniuersality) of that terrible Poetomachia, lately commenc'd betweene Horace the second, and a band of leane-witted Poetasters. They haue bin at high wordes, and so high, that the ground could not serue them, but (for want of Chopins) haue stalk't vpon Stages.

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