Another piece of juvenilia, this one from college. Apparently there was a time I could a) read Middle English, b) write rhyme royal, and c) saw “the Press” a bit differently to Chaucer.
Flee From The Press
Fle from the Press, and dwell with soothfastnesse;
Lend godsibbes’ columnes ne’er thy keene inspeccion.
Heede no tabloyde praise upon thine Oscare dresse,
Ne in the Mirror seke thee thy refleccion
Ne wait for late retraccion, ne correccion.
The crystal balle doth spy thy every dede,
The Sunne schal delyvere, and al shal rede.
The Heat of Fame doth blaste thy frozen brow,
Yit smale relief thou have, for al thy Fannes.
Stil More, they crye, and lat us tast it Now!
Al publishéd, thy inmoste, sacred plannes;
Thy drinke, thy rehabbe, and thy dryvynge bannes.
Ther are no reynes to curbe that chargynge stede,
The Sunne shall delyvere, and al schal rede.
Aske not Phoebus’ eye to been thy savioure
Th’art but the balle that torneth at hys whim,
He telleth thine unseemliest behaviour,
How thou wedst her, and woke up next to him,
And physick shaped thy bodye, sans the gymme.
As he who dyed for thee, know thou canst blede;
The Sunne shall delyvere, and al shal rede.