A coat of mail Prince Vortiger had on,
Which from a naked pict his grandsire won.

Who does not see the absurdity of winning a coat from a naked man?

The earl of Dorset thus addresses him;

To Mr. EDWARD HOWARD, on his incomparable, incomprehensible POEM called
the BRITISH PRINCES.

Come on, ye critics, find one fault who dare,
For, read it backward like a witch's prayer,
'Twill do as well; throw not away your jests
On solid nonsense that abides all tests.
Wit, like tierce-claret, when't begins to pall,
Neglected lies, and's of no use at all,
But, in its full perfection of decay,
Turns vinegar, and comes again in play.
Thou hast a brain, such as it is indeed;
On what else mould thy worm of fancy feed?
Yet in a Filbert I have often known
Maggots survive when all the kernel's gone.
This simile shall stand, in thy defence,
'Gainst such dull rogues as now and then write sense.
Thy style's the same, whatever be thy theme,
As some digestion turns all meat to phlegm.
He lyes, dear Ned, who says, thy brain it barren,
Where deep conceits, like vermin breed in carrion.
Thy stumbling founder'd jade can trot as high