Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits,
True conceit,
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgement with a measure,
But false weight.
Wresting words from their true calling;
Propping verse, for fear of falling
To the ground.
Jointing syllables, drowning letters,
Fastening vowels, as with fetters
They were bound!

XXIX, A Fit of Rhyme Against Rhyme, lines 1-12. - The Works of Ben Jonson, Second Folio (1640) - Underwoods