Scripta non temerè edenda
Lo, here QUINCTILIUS sittes, a grave and reverende fire:
And pulles a younglinge by the arme, that did for fame desire.
For, hee with pace of snayle, proceeded to his pen;
Lest haste shoulde make him wishe (too late) it weare to write againe.
And therfore still with care, woulde everie thinge amende:
Yea, ofte eche worde, and line survaye, before hee made an ende.
And, yf he any sawe, whose care to wryte was small:
To him, like wordes to these hee us'd, which hee did meane to all.
My sonne, what worke thou writes, correcte, reforme, amende,
But if thou like thy first assaye, then not QUINCTILIUS frende?
The fruicte at firste is sower, till time give pleasante taste:
And verie rare is that attempte, that is not harm'd with haste.
Perfection comes in time, and forme and fashion gives:
And ever rashenes, yeeldes repente, and most dispised lives.
Then, alter ofte, and chaunge, peruse, and reade, and marke:
The man that softlie settes his steppes, goes safest in the darke.
But if that thirst of fame, doe pricke thee forthe too faste:
Thou shalt (when it is all to late) repente therefore at laste.