Edmund Spenser, I owe you an apology. I might not dig Calidore, but after giving you a few more chances, you're alright. In fact, your sonnet form is really pretty awesome. In lieu of all my protests and badmouthing, I wrote you a sonnet. Yes, it's stolen from one of yours. And yes, it mocks you by using archaic spelling. I said you're alright, OK? You're still not my favorite person. I'm working on the whole friends with dead poets thing. We might get there one day. I'm sure you'll wait.
No Hard Feelings, Eddie
See! how the steadfast bard doth depraue
my modest verse with derisive scorne:
and by the poem which I vnto him gaue,
accoumpts my selfe his convict all forlorne.
The poem (quoth he) is of the conquerors borne,
resigned them by the trampled as theyr meeds,
and they therewith doe poetes brows adorne,
to chant the grandeur of their exalted deedes.
But sith he will the triumph provocation needs
let he accept me as his steadfaste thrall,
that his famed score which my skill exceeds,
I may in finesse of honor blaze ouer all.
Then would I decke his head with brilliant bayes,
and heap the earth with his auspicious prayse.
