TO A CRITIC.

CRUEL One! How littel dost thou knowe How manye poetes with Unhappyenesse Thou mayest have slaine; are they beganne to blowe Like to yonge Buddes in theyre firste sappyenesse! Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges growe Great Poetes yet maye come of singinges smalle, Which, if an hungrede Worme doth gnawe belowe, Fold up theyre strypëd leaves, and dye withalle. Alake, that pleasaunt Flowre must fayde and falle Because a Grubbe hath ete into yts Hede,— That els had growne soe fayre and eke soe talle To-wardes the Heaven, and opened forthe and sprede Its blossomes to the Sunne for Menne to rede In soe brighte hues of Lovelinesse indeede!