Who shall doubt, Donne, where I a poet be,
When I dare send my epigrams to thee?
That so alone canst judge, so alone dost make;
And, in thy censures, evenly, dost take
As free simplicity to disavow,
As thou hast best authority t' allow.
Read all I send; and if I find but one
Marked by thy hand, and with the better stone,
My title's sealed. Those that for claps do write,
Let puisness', porters', players' praise delight,
And, till they burst, their backs like asses load;
A man should seek great glory, and not broad.