If I were to advise the Lady Mary Wroth,
I’d say “pack your quills and shove off”
Sooner would I a new wert upon my nose,
Than to suffer more o’ her purple prose
She fancies it her lovely line and verse,
Me thinks her lovers groan and curse.
Her sweet mush rise flowery and high,
So thickly done no lover could get by.
Give me true love, pour me a drink,
Spare me sonnets so sweet they stink