University of Virginia Library

Wake, friend from forth thy Lethargie: the Drum
Beates brave, and loude in Europe, and bids come
All that dare rowse: or are not loth to quit
Their vitious ease, and be o'rewhelm'd with it.
It is a call to keepe the spirits alive
That gaspe for action, and would yet revive
Mans buried honour, in his sleepie life:
Quickning dead Nature, to her noblest strife.
All other Acts of Worldlings, are but toyle
In dreames, begun in hope, and end in spoile.
Looke on th'ambitious man, and see him nurse,
His unjust hopes, with praises begg'd, or (worse)
Bought Flatteries, the issue of his purse,
Till he become both their, and his owne curse!
Looke on the false, and cunning man, that loves
No person, nor is lov'd: what wayes he proves
To gaine upon his belly; and at last
Crush'd in the snakie brakes, that he had past!
See, the grave, sower, and supercilious Sir
In outward face, but inward, light as Furre,
Or Feathers: lay his fortune out to show
Till envie wound, or maime it at a blow!
See him, that's call'd, and thought the happiest man,
Honour'd at once, and envi'd (if it can
Be honour is so mixt) by such as would
For all their spight be like him if they could:
No part or corner man can looke upon,
But there are objects, bid him to be gone
As farre as he can flie, or follow Day,
Rather then here so bogg'd in vices stay
The whole world here leaven'd with madnesse swells?
And being a thing, blowne out of nought, rebells
Against his Maker; high alone with weeds,
And impious ranknesse of all Sects and seeds:
Not to be checkt, or frighted now with fate,
But more licentious made, and desperate!
Our Delicacies are growne capitall,
And even our sports are dangers! what we call
Friendship is now mask'd Hatred! Justice fled,
And shamefastnesse together! All lawes dead
That kept man living! Pleasures only sought!
Honour and honestie, as poore things thought
As they are made! Pride, and stiffe Clownage mixt
To make up Greatnesse! and mans whole good fix'd
In bravery, or gluttony, or coyne,
All which he makes the servants of the Groine,
Thither it flowes, how much did Stallion spend
To have his Court-bred-fillie there commend
His Lace and Starch; And fall upon her back
In admiration, stretch'd upon the rack
Of lust, to his rich Suit and Title, Lord?
I, that's a Charme and halfe! She must afford
That all respect; She must lie downe: Nay more
'Tis there civilitie to be a whore;
Hee's one of blood, and fashion! and with these
The bravery makes, she can no honour leese
To do't with Cloth, or Stuffes, lusts name might merit
With Velvet, Plush, and Tissues, it is spirit.

O, these so ignorant Monsters! light, as proud,
Who can behold their Manners, and not clowd-
Like upon them lighten? If nature could
Not make a verse; Anger; or laughter would
To see 'hem aye discoursing with their Glasse,
How they may make some one that day an Asse
Planting their Purles, and Curles spread forth like Net,
And every Dressing for a Pitfall set
To catch the flesh in, and to pound a Prick
Be at their Visits, see 'hem squemish, sick
Ready to cast, at one, whose band sits ill,
And then, leape mad on a neat Pickardill;
As if a Brize were gotten i'their tayle,
And firke, and jerke, and for the Coach-man raile,
And jealous each of other, yet thinke long
To be abroad chanting some baudie song,
And laugh, and measure thighes, then squeake, spring, itch,
Doe all the tricks of a saut Lady Bitch;
For t'other pound of sweet-meats, he shall feele
That payes, or what he will. The Dame is steele,
For these with her young Companie shee'll enter,
Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venter,
And comes by these Degrees, the Stile t'inherit
Of woman of fashion, and a Lady of spirit:
Nor is the title question'd with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashion'd folke, these are allow'd
Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,
They're growne Commoditie upon Exchange;
He that will follow but anothers wife,
Is lov'd, though he let out his owne for life:
The Husband now's call'd churlish, or a poore
Nature, that will not let his Wife be a whore;
Or use all arts, or haunt all Companies
That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.
The brother trades a sister; and the friend
Lives to the Lord, but to the Ladies end.
Lesse must not be thought on then Mistresse: or
If it be thought kild like her Embrions; for,
Whom no great Mistresse, hath as yet infam'd
A fellow of course Letcherie, is nam'd
The Servant of the Serving-woman in scorne,
Ne're came to taste the plenteous Mariage-horne.

Thus they doe talke. And are these objects fit
For man to spend his money on? his wit?
His time? health? soule? will he for these goe throw
Those thousands on his back, shall after blow
His body to the Counters, or the Fleete?
Is it for these that fine man meets the street
Coach'd, or on foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day,
To teach each suit, he has the ready way
From Hide-Parke to the Stage, where at the last
His deare and borrow'd Bravery he must cast?
When not his Combes, his Curling-irons, his Glasse,
Sweet bags, sweet Powders, nor sweet words will passe
For lesse Securitie? O --- for these
Is it that man pulls on himselfe Disease?
Surfet? and Quarrell? drinkes the tother health?
Or by Damnation voids it? or by stealth?
What furie of sate is crept into our Feasts?
What honour given to the drunkennest Guests?
What reputation to beare one Glasse more?
When oft the Bearer, is borne out of dore?
This hath our ill-us'd freedome, and soft peace
Brought on us, and will every houre increase
Our vices, doe not tarry in a place,
But being in Motion still (or rather in race)
Tilt one upon another, and now beare
This way, now that, as if their number were
More then themselves, or then our lives could take,
But both fell prest under the load they make.

I'le bid thee looke no more, but flee, flee friend,
This Præcipice, and Rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens Ruine. The whole Day
Is not enough now, but the Nights to play:
And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we waste;
Goe make our selves the Usurers at a cast.
He that no more for Age, Cramps, Palsies, can
Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man
To take the box up for him; and pursues
The Dice with glassen eyes, to the glad viewers
Of what he throwes: Like letchers growne content
To be beholders, when their powers are spent.

Can we not leave this worme? or will we not?
Is that the truer excuse? or have we got
In this, and like, an itch of Vanitie,
That scratching now's our best Felicitie?
Well, let it goe. Yet this is better, then
To lose the formes, and dignities of men
To flatter my good Lord, and cry his Bowle
Runs sweetly, as it had his Lordships Soule,
Although, perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by, and hold my peace? will he
When I am hoarse, with praising his each cast,
Give me but that againe, that I must wast
In Sugar Candide, or in butter'd beere,
For the recovery of my voyce? No, there
Pardon his Lordship. Flattry's growne so cheape
With him, for he is followed with that heape
That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud
As a poore single flatterer, without Baud
Is nothing, such scarce meat and drinke he'le give,
But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live,
And be belov'd, while the Whores last. O times,
Friend flie from hence; and let these kindled rimes:
Light thee from hell on earth: where flatterers, spies,
Informers, Masters both of Arts and lies;
Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers that let blood
The life, and fame-vaynes (yet not understood
Of the poore sufferers) where the envious, proud,
Ambitious, factious, superstitious, lowd
Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more
Prævaricators swarme. Of which the store,
(Because th'are every where amongst Man-kind
Spread through the World) is easier farre to find,
Then once to number, or bring forth to hand,
Though thou wert Muster-master of the Land.

Goe quit 'hem all. And take along with thee,
Thy true friends wishes, Colby which shall be,
That thine be just, and honest, that thy Deeds
Not wound thy conscience, when thy body bleeds;
That thou dost all things more for truth, then glory,
And never but for doing wrong be sory;
That by commanding first thy selfe, thou mak'st
Thy person fit for any charge thou tak'st
That fortune never make thee to complaine,
But what she gives, thou dar'st give her againe;
That whatsoever face thy fate puts on,
Thou shrinke or start not; but be alwayes one,
That thou thinke nothing great, but what is good,
And from that thought strive to be understood.
So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame
Still pretious, with the odour of thy name.
And last, blaspheme not, we did never heare
Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst sweare
No more, then we should thinke a Lord had had
More honour in him, 'cause we'ave knowne him mad:
These take, and now goe seeke thy peace in Warre,
Who falls for love of God, shall rise a Starre.