WIN.  No dunghill hath so vile an excrement,
But with his beams he will thenceforth exhale. 
The fens and quagmires tithe to him their filth: 
Forth purest mines he sucks a gainful dross. 
Green ivy-bushes at the vintner’s doors
He withers, and devoureth all their sap.

AUT.  Lascivious and intemperate he is: 
The wrong of Daphne is a well-known tale. 
Each evening he descends to Thetis’ lap,
The while men think he bathes him in the sea. 
O, but when he returneth whence he came
Down to the west, then dawns his deity,
Then doubled is the swelling of his looks. 
He overloads his car with orient gems,
And reins his fiery horses with rich pearl. 
He terms himself the god of poetry,
And setteth wanton songs unto the lute.

WIN.  Let him not talk, for he hath words at will,
And wit to make the baldest[45] matter good.

SUM.  Bad words, bad wit!  O, where dwells faith or truth? 
Ill usury my favours reap from thee,
Usurping Sol, the hate of heaven and earth.

SOL.  If envy unconfuted may accuse,
Then innocence must uncondemned die. 
The name of martyrdom offence hath gain’d
When fury stopp’d a froward judge’s ears. 
Much I’ll not say (much speech much folly shows): 
What I have done you gave me leave to do. 
The excrements you bred whereon I feed;
To rid the earth of their contagious fumes,
With such gross carriage did I load my beam
I burnt no grass, I dried no springs and lakes;
I suck’d no mines, I wither’d no green boughs,
But when to ripen harvest I was forc’d
To make my rays more fervent than I wont. 
For Daphne’s wrongs and ‘scapes in Thetis’ lap,
All gods are subject to the like mishap. 
Stars daily fall (’tis use is all in all),
And men account the fall but nature’s course. 
Vaunting my jewels hasting to the west,
Or rising early from the grey-ey’d morn,
What do I vaunt but your large bountyhood,
And show how liberal a lord I serve? 
Music and poetry, my two last crimes,
Are those two exercises of delight,
Wherewith long labours I do weary out. 
The dying swan is not forbid to sing: 
The waves of Hebrus[46] play’d on Orpheus’ strings,
When he (sweet music’s trophy) was destroy’d. 
And as for poetry, words’[47] eloquence
(Dead Phaeton’s three sisters’ funeral tears
That by the gods were to Electrum turn’d),
Not flint or rock, of icy cinders flam’d,
Deny the force[48] of silver-falling streams. 
Envy enjoyeth poetry’s unrest;[49]
In vain I plead; well is to me a fault,
And these my words seem the sleight[50] web of art,
And not to have the taste of sounder truth. 
Let none but fools be car’d for of the wise: 
Knowledge’ own children knowledge most despise.