1A Book was writ of late call’d Tetrachordon;
2And wov’n close, both matter, form and stile;
3The Subject new: it walk’d the Town a while,
4Numbring good intellects; now seldom por’d on.

5Cries the stall-reader, bless us! what a word on
6A title page is this! and some in file
7Stand spelling fals, while one might walk to Mile-
8End Green. Why is it harder Sirs then Gordon,

9Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
10Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek
11That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.

12Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,
13Hated not Learning wors then Toad or Asp;
14When thou taught’st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.