University of Virginia Library

Now grim Reprofe, swel in my rough-heu'd rime,
That thou maist vexe the guilty of our time.
Yon is a youth, whom how can I ore'slip,
Since he so iumpe doth in my mashes hit?
He hath been longer in preparing him
Then Terence wench, and now behold he's seene.
Now after two yeeres fast and earnest prayer,
The fashion change not, (least he should dispaire
Of euer hoording vp more faire gay clothes)
Behold at length in London streets he showes.
His ruffe did eate more time in neatest setting
Then Woodstocks worke in painfull perfecting.
It hath more doubles farre, then Aiax shield
When he gainst Troy did furious battell weild.
Nay he doth weare an Embleme bout his necke.
For vnder that fayre Ruffe so sprucely set
Appeares a fall, a falling-band forsooth.
O dapper, rare, compleat, sweet nittie youth!
Iesu Maria! How his clothes appeare
Crost, and recrost with lace, sure for some feare,
Least that some spirit with a tippet Mace
Should with a gastly show affright his face.
His hat, himselfe, small crowne & huge great brim,
Faire outward show, and little wit within.
And all the band with feathers he doth fill,
Which is a signe of a fantasticke still,
As sure, as (some doe tell me) euermore
A Goate doth stand before a brothell dore.
His clothes perfum'd, his fustie mouth is ayred,
His chinne new swept, his very cheekes are glazed.

But ho, what Ganimede is that doth grace
The gallants heeles. One, who for two daies space
Is closely hyred. Now who dares not call
This Æsops crow, fond, mad, fantasticall.
Why so he is, his clothes doe sympathize,
And with his inward spirit humorize.
An open Asse, that is not yet so wise
As his derided fondnes to disguise.
Why thou art Bedlam mad, starke lunaticke,
And glori'st to be counted a fantastick.
Thou neyther art, nor yet will seeme to be
Heire to some vertuous praised qualitie.
O frantick men! that thinke all villanie
The compleate honors of Nobilitie.
When some damn'd vice, som strange mishapen sute,
Makes youths esteeme themselues in hie repute.
O age! in which our gallants boast to be
Slaues vnto riot, and lewd luxury!
Nay, when they blush, and thinke an honest act
Dooth their supposed vertues maculate!
Bedlame, Frenzie, Madnes, Lunacie,
I challenge all your moody Empery
Once to produce a more distracted man
Then is inamorato Lucian.
For when my eares receau'd a fearefull sound
That he was sicke, I went, and there I found
Him layd of loue, and newly brought to bed
Of monstrous folly, and a franticke head.
His chamber hang'd about with Elegies,
With sad complaints of his loues miseries:
His windowes strow'd with Sonnets, and the glasse
Drawne full of loue-knots. I approcht the Asse,
And straight he weepes, and sighes some sonnet out
To his faire loue. And then he goes about
For to perfume her rare perfection
With some sweet-smelling pinck Epitheton.
Then with a melting looke he writhes his head,
And straight in passion riseth in his bed;
And hauing kist his hand, stroke vp his haire,
Made a French conge, cryes. O cruell feare
To the antique Bed-post. I laught a maine
That down my cheeks the mirthful drops did raine.
Well he's no Ianus, but substantiall,
In show, and essence a good naturall.
When as thou hear'st me aske spruce Duceus
From whence he comes. And hee straight answers vs,
From Lady Lilla. And is going straight
To the Countesse of (---) for she doth waite
His comming. And will surely send her Coach,
Vnlesse he make the speedier approch.
Art not thou ready for to breake thy spleene
At laughing at the fondnes thou hast seene
In this vaine-glorious foole? When thou dost know
He neuer durst vnto these Ladies show
His pippin face. Well, he's no accident,
But reall, reall, shamelesse, impudent.
And yet he boasts, and wonders that each man
Can call him by his name, sweet Ducean:
And is right proude that thus his name is knowne.
I, Duceus, I, thy name is too farre blowne.
The world too much, thy selfe too little know'st
Thy priuate selfe. Why then should Duceus boast?
But humble Satyre, wilt thou daine display
These open naggs, which purblind eyes bewray?
Come, come, and snarle more darke at secrete sin,
Which in such Laborinths enwrapped bin,
That Ariadne I must craue thy ayde
To helpe me finde where this foule monster's layd,
Then will I driue the Minotaure from vs,
And seeme to be a second Theseus.