The poem
Greene, garlanded with February's few flowers Ere March came in with Marlowe's rapturous rage; Peele, from whose hand the sweet white locks of age Took the mild chaplet woven of honored hours; Nash, laughing hard; Lodge, flushed from lyric bowers; And Lilly, a goldfinch in a twisted cage Fed by some gay great lady's pettish page Till short sweet songs gush clear like short spring showers; Kid, whose grim sport still gamboled over graves; And Chettle, in whose fresh funereal verse Weeps Marian yet on Robin's wildwood hearse; Cooke, whose light boat of song one soft breath saves, Sighed from a maiden's amorous mouth averse; Live likewise ye--Time takes not you for slaves.