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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=459007" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet XXXI: Methinks I See</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To the Critic</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer, <br>And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace, <br>Turning my papers asks, &quot;What have we here?&quot; <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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Drayton">Michael Drayton</a><div class=q>
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Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer, 
And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace, 
Turning my papers asks, &quot;What have we here?&quot; 
Making withal some filthy antic face. 
I fear no censure, nor what thou canst say, 
Nor sha..."></div>
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