The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | ||
A little Shrub growing by.
Aske not to know this Man. If fame should speakeHis name in any mettall, it would breake.
Two letters were enough the plague to teare
Out of his Grave, and poyson every eare.
A parcell of Court-durt, a heape, and masse
Of all vice hurld together, there he was,
Proud, false, and trecherous, vindictive, all
That thought can adde, unthankfull, the lay-stall
Of putrid flesh alive! of blood, the sinke!
And so I leave to stirre him, lest he stinke.
The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | ||