It's so very coincidental that this topic should surface just now, as I 
was in the BL the other day, doing some collational work for David Miller, 
when I stumbled across a loose leaf in a manuscript I had requested 
(exactly which one, now, I have unfortunately forgotten). And on that leaf 
was this bit of doggerel verse. Of all things. I've transcribed it for 
you, though be warned that I haven't been able to capture the full effect 
in the email environment -- occasional bits of italic script, doodlings in 
the margins, some evocative illustrations.


In Oxford-towne, in August, from a concaue womb,
I issewd fully growne into a garrett hostell roome,
a sonne of Nature, gott on her by Industrie,
and all the changelings changd their coats at my nativitie.
Born pen in hand, and with a water all of ink,
whiles other babes fell to their pappe I satt mee downe to think,
bethought mee what to write, and wrote mee some thing fine,
that some deare shee should suck some plesure from my carefull line.
Queen Bess satt on the throne (that soone ate from my hand)
and pax Ceciliana raigned throughout the poxy land,
but I of louers all the lord, the swan of Avon,
and with my hatt on, crowd as proud as any towerd raven.
My larded lines I stufft with tropes and ornamentes
that neuer cook from bacon fetchd a flavour so intense,
nor did I shew the wares, before I made to cart 'em,
for as in Tully, so in loue, ars est celare artem,
nor euer spoke in propria, but by Idea,
and shifted allegories and the odd prosopopoeia.
A shephearde did I sometimes by the pasture playe,
and taught myself to prate for cates like to a popingaye,
with oh my love, and ah my love, and love be trew,
and other mangy morris-stuff trodd out as plodders doe,
but euer when some gracelesse innocent requird
who was the aucthor, and the loue wherewith his soule was fyrd,
with cavilling periphrases I him defide,
and said, It is mine answere, and you must be satisfide.
By daye the corpus physicorum I ingested,
and euery tome of all the lawe I hungerly digested,
with oratours and with diuines I made dispute,
and glimpst the alchymists elixir in his fiery suit,
not for their owne, but for mine end, that I mought crye,
in accents straunge and terms translatorie, I am not I.
Nor did the bookes of riuall poetes soyle my table
except they left some residew of what their pens were hable,
untill all formes, all styles, all languages were mine,
crushd to my only use, as grapes are trampled for the wine.
Then wrote I tales, odes, epicks, playes, romances, hymns,
under the couert secrecie of scores of pseudonyms,
and made myself familiar of a thowsand presses,
the darling of Paul's Church-yard and the mirrour of successes,
the ancient father of my tonge, and master poet
as rich in fame as tyme is long and hornes have air to blowe it.
One only grief in all this geare, and that was this:
that I strook strongest at the last where I was sure to miss,
and though I charmd the ladies, made the growndlings laugh,
nought but Studies in Aucthorship wilt be mine epitaph.


And, while I am boring you senseless, and now speaking in my proper voice 
as List Manager, can we please all refrain from attacks ad personam, and 
let this list carry on in the tolerant and broad-minded way that it so 
often delicately does.

Off to contemplate my other self in the mirror,

andrew