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