With apologies to Philip Sidney, who agreed with Horace that the purpose of literature should be to teach and delight.
Annoyed in truth, and fain in verse my wrath to show,
That she, dread She, might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Inventions stay;
Invention, Natures childe, fled step-dame Studies blowes;
And others feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with childe to speak, and helpless in my throws,
Biting my trewand pen, beating myself for spite,
Fool, said my Muse to me, look at the ALA, and write.