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Michael Drayton - Sonnet XXXI: Methinks I See
Work rating: Low

To the Critic

Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer, 
And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace, 
Turning my papers asks, "What have we here?" 
Making withal some filthy antic face. 
I fear no censure, nor what thou canst say, 
Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigor lose; 
Think`st thou my wit shall keep the pack-horse way 
That every dudgen low invention goes? 
Since sonnets thus in bundles are imprest 
And every drudge doth dull our satiate ear, 
Think`st thou my love shall in those rags be drest 
That every dowdy, every trull, doth wear? 
Up to my pitch no common judgement flies; 
I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.
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