Proem to the First Poste of the Phaerie Duchess

Lo I the man, whose Blogge whilome did maske
When time allowed, in Gallic theorists weeds,
Am now enforst to update, since ye aske
That I doe so, to benefit who reades
With foddre for their syndicated feedes;
Which empty sate, due to my silence long.
I, all too tired, must now disdain my needs
To blabbe abroad in over-learned song:
“Firste!” postes and loud retweets shall sound emongst the throng.

Helpe then, O Joseph Curvo, liquor fine,
Thy weaker Novice to perform thy will.
Draw forth from sweet agave’s bitter brine
The wildest fancies borne of Spanish still,
Of Phaerie clerks and fairest Tenyurquill,
Which solemn student of proud Elfin tong
Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill
That he for worldly skills would often long
So might he pay for bread and thus his days prolong.

And with him eke, O Poet Ireland hates–
And right well so, since you them did oppresse–
Great poet of that period whose dates
I oft forget, and oftener must guess,
Who shone in epick praise of good queene Bess,
Pray, raise no eyebrows at my thoughts too vile
To earn the right to imitate in jests
The least iota of your loftie stile;
Yet if thou can’tst, I prithee, look away a-while.