| I eat my Venison With my neighbours in the Countrie, and present not My phesants, partridges, and growse to the userer, Nor ever yet paid brokage to his scrivener. |
| Poor POET-APE, that would be thought our chief, Whose works are e'en the frippery of wit, From brokage is become so bold a thief, As we, the robb'd, leave rage, and pity it. |
