To my Muse

Away, and leave me, thou thing most abhord 
That hast betray’d me to a worthlesse lord;
Made me commit most fierce idolatrie 
To a great image through thy luxurie.
Be thy next masters more unluckie Muse,
And, as thou’hast mine, his houres, and youth abuse. 
Get him the times long grudge, the courts ill will; 
And, reconcil’d, keepe him suspected still.
Make him loose all his friends; and, which is worse. 
Almost all wayes, to any better course.
With me thou leav’st an happier Muse then thee.
And which thou brought’st me, welcome povertie. 
Shee shall instruct my after-thoughts to write 
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.
But I repent me: Stay. Who e’re is rais’d,
For worth he has not, He is tax’d, not prais’d.