University of Virginia Library

I marry Sir, here's perfect honestie:
When Martius will forsweare all villanie:
(All damn'd abuse, of payment in the warres
All filching from his Prince, and Souldiers)
When once he can but so much bright durt gleane,
As may mainetaine, one more White-friers queane.
One drab more, faith then farewell villanie,
He'le cleanse himselfe to Shoreditch puritie.

As for Stadius, I thinke he hath a soule,
And if he were but free from sharpe controule
Of his sower host, and from his Taylors bill,
He would not thus abuse his riming skill,
Iading our tyred eares with fooleries,
Greasing great slaues, with oylie flatteries,
Good fayth I thinke, he would not striue to sute
The backe of humorous Time, (for base repute
Mong dunghill pesants) botching vp such ware,
As may be salable in Sturbridge fare.
If he were once but freed from specialtie,
But sooth, till then, beare with his ballatry.

I ask'd lewd Gallus when he'le cease to sweare,
And with whole culuering raging othes to teare
The vault of heauen, spetting in the eyes
Of natures Nature, lothsome blasphemies.
To morrow he doth vow he will forbeare:
Next day I meete him, but I heare him sweare
Worse then before, I put his vow in minde,
He aunswers me, to morrow, but I finde
He sweares next day, farre worse then ere before:
Putting me of with (morrow) euermore.
Thus when I vrge him, with his sophistrie
He thinkes to salue his damned periurie.

Sylenus now is old, I wonder I
He doth not hate his triple venery,
Cold, writhled Eld, his liues-wet almost spent,
Me thinkes a vnitie were compotent:
But ô fayre hopes! He whispers secretly,
When it leaues him, he'le leaue his lecherie.

When simpring Flaccus (that demurely goes
Right neatly tripping on his new blackt toes)
Hath made rich vse of his Religion,
Of God himselfe, in pure deuotion:
When that the strange Ideas in his head
(Broch'd mong curious sotts, by shaddowes led)
Hath furnish'd him, by his hote auditors
Of fayre demeanes, and goodly rich mannors,
Sooth then he will repent, when's treasurie
Shall force him to disclaime his heresie.
What will not poore need force? but being sped,
God for vs all, the gurmonds paunch is fed.
His minde is chang'd, but when will he doe good?
To morrow, (I, to morrow by the rood.)

Yet Ruscus sweares, he'le cease to broke a sute:
By peasant meanes striuing to get repute
Mong puffie Spunges, when the Fleet's defrayd
His reuell tier, and his Laundresse payd.
There is a crew which I too plaine could name
If so I might without th'Aquinians blame,
That lick the tayle of greatnes with their lips:
Laboring with third-hand iests, and Apish skips,
Retayling others wit, long barrelled
To glib some great mans eares, till panch be fed,
Glad if themselues, as sporting fooles be made,
To get the shelter of some high-growne shade.
To morrow yet these base tricks thei'le cast off,
And cease for lucar be a iering scoffe.
Ruscus will leaue, when once he can renue
His wasted clothes, that are asham'd to view
The worlds proude eyes. Drusus wil cease to fawne
when that his Farme, that leakes in melting pawne
Some Lord-applauded iest hath once set free.
All will to morrow leaue their roguerie.
When fox-furd Mecho (by damn'd vsurie,
Cutthrote deceit, and his crafts villanie)
Hath rak'd together some foure thousand pound,
To make his smug gurle, beare a bumming sound
In a young merchants eare, fayth then (may be)
He'le ponder if there be a Deitie?
Thinking, if to the parrish pouertie,
At his wisht death, be dol'd a halfe-penny,
A worke of Supererogation,
A good filth-cleansing strong purgation.

Aulus will leaue begging Monopolies,
When that mong troupes of gaudie Butter-flies,
He is but able iet it iollily,
In pie-bauld sutes, of proude Court brauerie.

To morrow doth Luxurio promise me,
He will vnline himselfe from bitcherie.
Marry Alcides thirteenth act must lend
A glorious period, and his lust-itch end.
When once he hath froth-foming Ætna past
At one and thirtie being alwayes last.

If not to Day (quoth that Nasonian)
Much lesse to morrow, Yes saith Fabian,
For ingrain'd Habites, died with often dips,
Are not so soone discoloured, young slips
New set, are easily mou'd, and pluck'd away,
But elder rootes, clip faster in the clay.
I smile at thee, and at the Stagerite,
Who holds the liking of the appetite,
Beeing fedde with actions often put in vre
Hatcheth the soule, in qualitie impure,
Or pure. May be in vertue, but for vice,
That comes by inspiration, with a trice
Young Furius scarce fifteene yeres of age
But is straight-wayes, right fit for marriage
Vnto the deuill, for sure they would agree,
Betwixt their soules there is such sympathie,

O where's your sweatie habite, when each Ape,
That can but spy the shadow of his shape,
That can no sooner ken what's vertuous,
But will auoyde it, and be vicious,
Without much doe, or farre fetch'd habiture.

In earnest thus, it is a sacred cure
To salue the soules dread wounds; Omnipotent
That Nature is, that cures the impotent,
Euen in a moment; Sure Grace is infus'd
By diuine fauour, not by actions vs'd.
Which is as permanent as heauens blisse
To them that haue it, then no habite is.
To morrow, nay to day, it may be got:
So please that gracious Power clense thy spot.

Vice, from priuation of that sacred Grace,
which God with-drawes, but puts not vice in place.
Who sayes the sunne is cause of vgly night?
Yet when he vailes our eyes from his faire sight,
The gloomie curtaine of the night is spred.
Yee curious sotts, vainly by Nature led,
Where is your vice or vertuous habite now?
For Sustine pro nunc doth bend his brow,
And old crabb'd Scotus on th'organon
Pay'th me with snaphaunce, quick distinction,
Habites that intellectuall termed be,
Are got, or els infus'd from Deitie.
Dull Sorbonist, flie contradiction.
Fye, thou oppugn'st the definition.
If one should say, Of things term'd rationall,
Some reason haue, others meere sensuall.
Would not some freshman reading Porphirie,
Hisse, and deride such blockish foolerie?
Then vice nor vertue haue from habite place,
The one from want, the other sacred grace.
Infus'd, displac'd, not in our will or force,
But as it please Iehoua haue remorce.
I will, cryes Zeno, ô presumption!
I can, thou maist, dogged opinion
Of thwarting Cynicks. To day vicious,
List to their precepts, next day vertuous.
Peace Seneca, thou belchest blasphemy.
To liue from God, but to liue happily
(I heare thee boast,) from thy Phylosophie,
And from thy selfe, ô rauing lunacie!
Cynicks, yee wound your selues, for Destenie
Ineuitable Fate, Necessitie,
You hold doth sway the acts spirituall,
As well as parts of that we mortall call,
Where's then (I will?) wher's that strong Deitie,
You doe ascribe to your Phylosophie?
Confounded Natures brats, can will and Fate,
Haue both theyr seate, & office in your pate?
O hidden depth of that dread Secrecie,
Which I doe trembling touch in Poetrie!
To day, to day, implore obsequiously,
Trust not to morrowes will, least vtterly
Yee be attach'd with sad confusion,
In your Grace-tempting lewd presumption.

But I forget; why sweat I out my braine,
In deepe designes, to gay boyes lewd, and vaine?
These notes were better sung, mong better sort,
But to my pamphlet, few saue fooles resort.