Envy, which mask’st thyself in common guise,
To haunt deservers and to hunt deserts,
Hard-soft, cold-hot, well-evil, foolish-wise,
Avaunt I say! I’ll anger thee enough,
And fold thy fiery eyes in thy smazky snuff.
Defiance, resolution and neglects,
True trine of bars against thy false assault,
Defies, resolves defiance, and rejects
Thy interest to claim the smallest fault.
Thou lawless landlady, poor prodigal,
Sour solace, credit’s crack, fear’s festival.
More angry satire-days I’ll muster up
Than thou canst challenge letters in thy name,
My nigrum true-born ink no more shall sup
Thy stained blemish, charactered in blame.
My pen’s two nebs shall turn unto a fork,
Miscontrarieties, agreeing parts,
Chasing old Envy from so young a work;
I, but the author’s mouth, bid thee avaunt,
He more defies thy hate, thy hunt, thy haunt.
T.M. Gent.