University of Virginia Library

The Nipping or Snipping of ABVSES: OR, The Wooll-gathering of Wit.

To the Castalian Water-writer, Splende & dignoscar.

A diall set vpon an eminent place,
If clouds doe interuall Apolloes face,
Is but a figur'd shape: whereby we knowe
No article of Time, which it doth owe
Vnto our expectations, yet wee see
The tractes by which Times should distinguish'd be:
In paralelled punctuall, ciphered lines,
Which by a shadow, when the faire sunne shines,
Explaines the houres: So if the Sonne of men
Thy Glorious Patron, deeme to blesse thy pen
With his faire light, Thy Muse so young, so faire,
So well proportion'd, in conceites so rare:
And Naturall streames, and stile, and eu'ry part,
That Nature therein doth exceed all Art,
Will then as with Enthusiasme inspir'd,
Print Legends by the world to be admir'd.

To my friend by land and by water, Iohn Taylor.

These leaues, kind Iohn, are not to wrap vp drams,
That doe containe thy witty Epigrams,
Let worser Poems serue for such abuse,
Whilst thine shall be reseru'd for better vse.
And let each Critick cauill what he can,
Tis rarely written of a Water-man.

To his deare friend Master Iohn Taylor.

To the Water-Poet, Iohn Taylor.

Honest Iohn Taylor, though I know't no grace,
To thee, or me, for writing in this place,
Yet know I that the multitudes of friends
Will thee protect, from vile malignant mindes:
The rather cause what euer thou hast showne,
Is no one mans inuention, but thine owne.
Malicious minded men will thee dispraise;
Enuy debases all, her selfe to raise.
Then rest content, whilst to thy greater fame,
Both Art, and Nature striue to raise thy name.

To my friend Iohn Taylor.

If Homers verse (in Greeke) did merit praise,
If Naso in the Latine won the Bayes,
If Maro 'mongst the Romanes did excell,
If Tasso in the Tuscan tongue wrote well,
Then Taylor, I conclude that thou hast don
In English, what immortall Baies haue won.

To my honest friend Iohn Taylor.

Thy Taylors shears, foule vices wings haue clipt,
The seames of impious dealings are vnript:
So Art-like thou these captious times hast quipt,
As if in Helicon thy pen were dipt,
All those who' gainst thy worth are enuious lipt,
Thy sharpe Satyrick Muse hath nipt and snipt:
And to conclude, thy 'nuention is not chipt,
Or stolne or borrowd, begd, or basely gript.
Then Taylor, thy conceits are truely sowde,
And, Sculler, (on my word) it was well rowde.

In Laudem Authoris.

Most commonly one Taylor will dispraise
Anothers workmanship, enuying alwaies
At him thats better then himselfe reputed,
Though he himselfe be but a botcher bruted:
So might it well be said of me (my friend)
Should I not to thy worke some few lines lend,
Which to make probable, this sentence tendeth,
Who not commends, he surely discommendeth:
In my illiterate censure, these thy rimes,
Deserue applause, euen in these worst of times:
VVhen wit is onely worthy held in those,
On whom smooth flattery vaine praise bestowes;
But I not minding with thy worth to flatter,
Do know thy wit too good to toyle by water.

To my friend Iohn Taylor.

This worke of thine, thou hast compil'd so well,
It merits better wits thy worth to tell.

The Authours description of a Poet and Poesie, with an Apology in defence of Naturall English Poetry.

Shall beggers diue into the Acts of Kings?
Shall Nature speake of supernat'rall things,
Shall Eagles flights attempted be by Gnats?
Shall mighty Whales be portraied out by Sprats?
These things I know vnpossible to be,
And it is as vnpossible for mee,
That am a begger in these Kingly acts,
Which from the heau'ns true Poetrie extracts.
A supernat'rall foole by Nature I
That neuer knew this high-borne mystery,
A worthlesse gnat, I know my selfe more weake,
Yet of the Princely Eagle dare to speake:
A silly sprat the Ocean seekes to sound,
To seek this Whale, though seeking he be drown'd:
Then to proceed: a Poets Art, I know,
Is not compact of earthly things below:
Nor is of any base substantiall mettle,
That in the worlds rotundity doth settle:
But tis immortall, and it hath proceeding,
From whēce diuinest soules haue all their breeding.
It is a blessing heau'n hath sent to men,
By men it is diuulged with their pen:
And by that propagation it is knowne,
And ouer all the world disperst and throwne:
In verball elocution so refinde,
That it to Vertue animates mans minde:
The blessed Singer of blest Israel,
In this rare Arte, he rarely did excell,
He sweetly Poetiz'd in heau'nly verses,
Such lines which aye eternity rehearses:
What Reuerend rare, and glorious great esteeme
Augustus Cæsar did a Poet deeme.
Admired Virgils life doth plainely show,
That all the world a Poets worth may know:
But leauing Israels King, and Romane Cæsar,
Let's seeke in England English Poets treasure,
Sir Philip Sidney, his times Mars and Muse,
That word and sword, so worthily could vse,
That spight of death, his glory liu's, alwaies
For Conquests, and for Poesie crown'd with bayes:
What famous men liue in this age of ours,
As if the Sisters nine had left their bowres,
With more post haste then expeditious wings
They heere haue found the Heliconian springs.
We of our mighty Monarch Iames may boast,
Who in this heau'nly Arte exceeds the most:
Where men may see the Muses wisdome well:
When such a glorious house they chose to dwell.
The Preacher whose instructions, doe afford
The soules deare food, the euerliuing Word:
If Poets skill be banisht from his braine,
His preaching (sometimes) will be but too plaine:
Twixt Poetry and best diuinity
There is such neere and deare affinity,
As 'twere propinquity of brothers blood,
That without tone, the other's not so good:
The man that takes in hand braue verse to write,
And in Diuinitie hath no insight,
He may perhaps make smooth, and Art-like Rimes,
To please the humours of these idle times:
But name of Poet hee shall neuer merit,
Though writing them, he waste his very spirit:
They therefore much mistake that seeme to say,
How euery one that writes a paltrie play:
A sottish Sonnet in the praise of loue,
A song or jigge, that fooles to laughter moue,
In praise or dispraise, in defame or fame,
Deserues the honour of a Poets name:
I further say, and further will maintaine,
That he that hath true Poesie in his braine,
Will not profane so high and heau'nly skill,
To glory or be proud of writing ill:
But if his Muse doe stoope to such deiection,
Tis but to shew the world her sinnes infection:
A Poets ire sometimes may be inflam'd:
To make foule Vices brazen face asham'd.
And then his Epigrams and Satyres whip,
Will make base gald vnruly Iades to skip:
In frost they say 'tis good, bad blood be nipt,
And I haue seene Abuses whipt and stript
In such rare fashion, that the wincing age,
Hath kick'd and flung, with vncontrouled rage.
Oh worthy Withers, I shall loue thee euer,
And often maist thou doe thy best indeuer,
That still thy workes and thee may liue together,
Contending with thy name and neuer wither.
But further to proceed in my pretence
Of natr'all English Poetries defence:
For Lawreat Sidney, and our gracious Iames,
Haue plunged been in Arts admired streames:
And all the learned Poets of our dayes,
Haue Arts great ayde to winne still liuing Bayes:
All whom I doe confesse such worthy men,
That I vnworthy am with inke and pen
To carry after them But since my haps
Haue been so happy as to get some scraps,
By Nature giu'n me from the Muses table,
I'le put them to the best vse I am able:
I haue read Tasso, Virgill, Homer, Ouid,
Iosephus, Plutark, whence I haue approued,
And found such obseruations as are fit,
With plenitude to fraught a barren wit.
And let a man of any nation be,
These Authors reading, makes his iudgement see
Some rules that may his ignorance refine,
And such predominance it hath with mine.
No bladder-blowne ambition puff's my Muse,
An English Poets writings to excuse:
Nor that I any rule of art condem,
Which is Dame Natures ornamentall Iem:
But these poore lines I wrote (my wits best pelfe)
Defending that which can defend it selfe.
Know then vnnat'ral English Mungril Monster,
Thy wandring iudgemēt doth too much misconster:
When thou affirm'st thy Natiue Country-man,
To make true verse no art or knowledge can:
Cease, cease to do this glorious Kingdome wrong,
To make her speech inferiour to each tongue:
Shew not thy selfe more brutish then a beast,
Base is that bird that files her homeborne neast.
In what strange tongue did Virgils Muse commerce?
What language wast that Ouid wrote his verse?
Thou sayst 't was Latin: why I say so too,
In no tongue else they any thing could doo:
They Naturally did learne it from their mother,
And must speake Latin, that could speake no other:
The Grecian blinded Bard did much compile,
And neuer vsde no foreigne far-fetcht stile:
But as hee was a Greeke, his verse was Greeke,
In other tongues (alas) he was to seeke.
Du Bartas heauenly all admired Muse,
No vnknowne Language euer vs'de to vse:
But as he was a Frenchman, so his lines
In natiue French with fame most glorious shines,
And in the English tongue tis fitly stated,
By siluer-tongued Siluester translated.
So well, so wisely, and so rarely done,
That he by it immortall fame hath wonne.
Then as great Maro, and renowned Naso,
Braue Homer, Petrarke, sweet Italian Tasso:
And numbers more, past numbring to be numberd,
Whose rare inuentions neuer were incumberd,
With our outlandish chip chop gibrish gabbling:
To fill mens cares with vnacquainted babbling:
Why may not then an English man, I pray;
In his owne language write as erst did they?
Yet must we suit our phrases to their shapes,
And in their imitations be their Apes.
Whilst Muses haunt the fruitfull forked hill,
The world shall reuerence their vnmatched skill.
And for inuention, fiction, methood, measure,
From them must Poets seeke to seeke that treasure.
But yet I think a man may vse that tongue
His Country vses, and doe them no wrong.
Then I whose Artlesse studies are but weake,
Who neuer could, nor will but English speake,
Do heere maintaine, if words be rightly plac'd,
A Poets skill, with no tongue more is grac'd.
It runnes so smooth, so sweetly it doth flow,
From it such heauenly harmony doth grow,
That it the vnderstanders sences moues
With admiration, to expresse their loues.
No musicke vnder heauen is more diuine,
Then is a well-writ, and a well-read line.
But when a witlesse selfe-conceited Rooke,
A good inuention dares to ouerlooke:
How pitteous then mans best of wit is martyr'd,
In barbrous manner totter'd, torne and quarter'd,
So mingle mangled, and so hack't and hewd,
So scuruily beseuruide and bemewde?
Then this detracting durty dunghill Drudge,
Although he vnderstand not, yet will iudge.
Thus famous Poesie must abide the doome
Of euery muddy-minded raskall Groome.
Thus rarest Artists are continuall stung
By euery prating, stinking lumpe of dung.
For what cause then should I so much repine,
When best of writers that ere wrote a line,
Are subiect to the censure of the worst,
Who will their follies vent, or else they burst?
I haue at idle times some Pamphlets writ,
(The fruitlesse issue of a nat'rall wit)
And cause I am no Scholler, some enuy me,
With foule and false calumnious words belie me:
With brazen fronts, and flinty hard beleefe,
Affirming or suspecting me a theefe:
And that my sterrile Muse so dry is milch'd,
That what I write, is borrow'd, beg'd, or filch'd.
Because my name is Taylor, they suppose
My best inuentions all from stealing growes:
As though there were no difference to be made
Betwixt the name of Taylor, and the Trade.
Of all strange weapons, I haue least of skill
To mannage or to wield a Taylors bill.
I cannot Item it for silke and facing,
For cutting, edging, stiffning, and for lacing:
For bumbast, stitching, binding and for buckram,
For cotton, bayes, for canuas and for lockram.
All these I know, but know not how to vse them,
Let trading Taylors therefore still abuse them,
My skil's as good to write, to sweate, or row,
As any Taylors is to stea e or sow.
In end my pulsiue braine no Art affoords,
To mint or stamp, or forge new coyned words.
But all my tongue can speake or pen can write,
VVas spoke and writ, before I could indite,
Yet let me be of my best hopes bereft,
If what I euer writ, I got by theft:
Or by base symony, or bribes, or gifts,
Or beg'd, or borrowd it by sharking shifts,
I know, I neuer any thing haue done,
But what may from a weake inuention runne.
Giue me the man whose wit will vndertake
A substance of a shaddow for to make:
Of nothing something, (with Arts greatest aide)
With Nature onely all his Muse arraide,
That solid matter from his braine can squeez,
Whilst some lame Artists wits are drawn to'th leez.
By teaching Parrots prate and prattle can,
And taught an Ape will imitate a man:
And Banks his hors shew'd tricks, taught with much labor,
So did the hare that plaid vpon the tabor.
Shall man, I pray, so witlesse be besotted?
Shall men (like beasts) no wisdome be allotted?
(Without great studie) with instinct of Nature,
Why then were man the worst and basest creature?
But men are made the other creatures Kings,
Because superiour wisdome from them springs:
And therefore Momus, vnto thee againe,
That dost suspect, the issues of my braine,
Are but my bastards, now my Muse doth flie,
And in thy throat giues thy suspect the lie.
And to the triall dares thee when thou dar'st,
Accounting thee a coward, if thou spar'st.
I haue a little wit, and braine, and spleene,
And gall and memorie, and mirth and teene,
And passions, and affections of the minde,
As other Mortals vse to be enclinde.
And hauing all this, wherefore should men doubt,
My wit should be so crippled with the Gowt,
That it must haue assistance to compile,
Like a lame dog, that's limping or a stile?
No, no, thou Zoylus, thou detracting else,
Though thou art insufficient in thy selfe,
And hast thy wit and studies in reuersion,
Cast not on me that scandalous aspersion.
I hate such ballad-mongring riming slaues,
Such iygging rascals, such audacious knaues,
The bane of learning, the abuse of Arts,
The scumme of Natures worst defectiue parts:
The scorne of schollers, poison of rewards,
Regardlesse vassalls of true worths regards,
The shame of time, the canker of deserts,
The dearth of liberall and heroicke hearts,
That like so many bandogs snarle and snatch,
And all's their owne they can from others catch:
That licke the scraps of Schollers wits (like dogs)
(A Prouerbe old) draffs good enough for hogs.
Purloyning line by line, and peece by peece,
And from each place they read, will filch a fleece.
Me thinks my Muse should piecemeale teare these rogues
More base & vile thē tatter'd Irish brogues.
Clawkissing raskals, flattering parasites,
Sworne vices vassalls, vertues opposites.
Tis you dambde curs haue murderd liberall minds,
And made best Poets worse esteem'd then hindes:
But wherefore doe I take a Schollers part,
That haue no ground or Axioms of Art,
That am in Poesie an artlesse creature,
That haue no learning but the booke of Nature;
No Academicall Poeticke straines,
But home-spun medley of my mottley braines?
The reason a Schollers wants bewaile,
And why against base litter'd whelps I raile,
Is this, that they long time should time bestow,
In painefull study, secret Arts to know,
And after liue in want, contempt and scorne,
By euery dung-hill peasant ouer-borne,
Abus'd, reiected, doggedly disgrac'd,
Despised, ragged, lowzie, and out-fac'd,
Whilst Bag-pipe-poets stuft with others wind,
Are grac'd for wit, they haue from them purloind.
Now in my owne defence once more I'l say,
Their too rash iudgements too much runne astray,
That, 'cause my name is Taylor, I doe theeue it,
I hope their wisdomes will no more beleeue it:
Nor let my want of learning be the cause,
I should be bitten with blacke enuies iawes:
For whose'r by nature is not a Poet,
By rules of Art he neuer well can show it.
Ther's many a wealthy heire long time at Schoole,
Doth spend much study, and comes home a foole.
A Poet needs must be a Poet borne,
Or else his Art procures his greater scorne,
For why? if Art alone made men excell,
Me thinks Tom Coriat should write ex'lent well:
But he was borne belike in some crosse yeere,
When learning was good cheap, but wit was deare.
Then to conclude, as I before began,
Though nought by Schollership or Art I can,
Yet (if my stocke by nature were more bare)
I scorne to vtter stolne or borrowed ware:
And therefore Reader, now I tell thee plaine,
If thou incredulous dost still remaine;
If yea or nay these reasons doe perswade thee,
I leaue thee and thy faith to him that made thee.

To the Kings most excellent Maiesty.

Anagramma. Iames Stuart. Mvses Tari at.

Great Soueraigne, as thy sacred Royall brest
Is by the Muses whole and sole possest:
So do I know, Rich, Precious, Peerelesse Iem,
In writing vnto Thee, I write to them.
The Muses tarry at thy name: why so?
Because they haue no further for to goe.

To the high and mighty Prince, Charles Stvart.

Anagramma. Calls true hearts.

Braue Prince, thy name, thy fame, thy selfe and all,
With loue and seruice all true hearts doth call:
So royally indude with Princely parts,
Thy Reall vertues alwaies, calls true hearts.

To Anna Queene of Great Brittaine.

Loues labyrinth, with the description of the seuen Planets.

May humane mischiefes be compar'd with mine? Eccho. mine.
Thine, babbling Eccho, would thy tongue told true: Eccho. true.
I rue, that I alone must weepe and pine: Eccho. pine.
I pine for her, from whom my cares ensue, Eccho. sue.
I sue, I serue a marble-hearted faire, Eccho. ayre.
And ayre is all the fruit of fruitlesse loue: Eccho. loue.
Lou's hope is past, then welcom black despaire Eccho. despair.
Shall there despaire my causeles curse remoue? Eccho. moue.
Oh whither shall I moue, to ioy or paine? Eccho. paine.
Must paine be my reward for paine for aye? Eccho. aye.
Aye must my torment feed her scornfull vain? Eccho. vaine.
To ease me griefe, wil she say yea or nay? Eccho. nay.
Nay, then from loue and all his lawes I fly. Eccho. fly.
I fly, I search, I seeke the way to die. Eccho. die.
Thus brabbling 'gainst all things he heares or sees,
Impatient at his froward fortunes wrongs:
No sensu'all obiect with his sence agrees.
All pleasures his dispeasure more prolongs:
At length he carues vpon the thick-bark'd trees
These vnder written sad lamenting songs.
And as my weake inuention vnderstood,
His farewell thus, was grau'd vpon the wood.

Sonnet.

Plutoes Proclamation concerning his Infernall pleasure for the Propagation of Tobacco.

Giuen at our Palace at Gehenna, &c.

This Proclamation was no sooner doon,
But thousand furies to and fro did runne,
T' accomplish what their Master Pluto spoke,
And fully fill the world with stinke and smoake:
And now the man that's e'ne of feeling reft,
By reason of his age, whose teeth haue left
The vasty Cauerne of his mumping cud,
Must haue Tobacco to reuiue his blood:
The glistring Gallant, or the Gallant Gull,
The icering Pander, and the hackney Trull,
The Roysting Rascall, and the swearing Slaue,
The Hostler, Tapster, all in generall craue
To be a foggy, misty, smoaky Iury
Vpon this vpstart newfound Indian fury.
Great Captaine Gracelesse stormes, protests, and sweares,
He'le haue the rascall Poet by the eares,
And beate him, as a man would beate a dog,
That dares once speake against this precious fogge.
It is the iewel that hee most respects,
It is the gemme of ioy his heart affects:
It is the thing his soule doth most adore,
To liue and loue Tobacco, and a whore:
Hee'le cram his braines with fumes of Indian grasse,
And grow as fat with't as an English Asse.
Some say Tobacco will mens daies prolong.
To whom I answer, they are in the wrong.
And sure my conscience giues me not the lie,
I thinke 'twill make men rotten ere they die.
Old Adam liu'd nine hundred thirty yeere,
Yet ne'r dranke none, as I could read or heare
And some men now liue ninety yeeres and past,
Who neuer dranke Tobacco first nor last.
Then since at first it came from faithlesse Moores,
(And since tis now more common far then whores)
I see no reason any Christian Nation
Should follow them in diuellish imitation:
So farewell pipe, and pudding, snuffe and smoake,
My Muse thinks fit to leaue, before she choake.

To the Right Honourable, Lord, William Earle of Pembroke, William Herbert.

Anagramma. My heart will beare.

To the Right honourable John Lord Viscount Haddington, Earle of Holdernes, Iohn Ramsey.

Anagramma I ayme Honors.

Thrice worthy Lord, whose vertues do proclaime,
How Honors noble marke is still thy Ayme,
T'attaine the which, thou holdst thy hand so steady,
That thy deserts haue wonne the prize already.

To the Honourable Knight Sir Thomas Bludder.

Anagramma Arm'd, Thus bold.

God is my Captaine, my defence and hold,
Through faith in him, I am thus arm'd, thus bold.

Upon the Powder-Treason the fifth of Nouember 1605.

This day old Dæmon, and the damned Crue,
Our King and Kingdome in the ayre had tost:
But that our God their diuellish practice crost,
And on their treacherous heads the mischiefe threw:
No Pagan, Tartar, Turke or faithlesse Iew,
Or hels blacke Monarch with his hatefull host,
Since first amongst them Treason was ingrost,
No plot like that from their inuention flew.
But when they thought a powder blast, a breath
Should all this Iland into totters teare:
Th' Almighties mercy freed vs from that feare,
And paid the Traitors with infamous death.
For which, let King, and all true Subiects sing
Continuall praise vnto Heau'ns gracious King.

To the Right Honourable Iohn Moray, Lord Viscount Annan, Earle of Annandale, Gentleman of his Maiesties Honourable Bed-chamber.

Anagramma I ayme Honour.

Industrious Loyalty doth dayly tell,
You Ayme at honour, and you leuell well,
And with your trusty seruice shoot so right,
That in the end you sure will hit the white.

Twelue Sonnets vpon the Sonnes entring into the twelue Cœlestiall Signes.

[Diurnall Titans all reuiuing Carre]

The 10. of March, the Sunne enters into Aries, or the signe of the Ram.

Diurnall Titans all reuiuing Carre,
Through all the heauens his progresse now he takes:
And now his glistering Raies he doth vnbarre:
And what his absence mard, his presence makes:
Now he begins dame Tellus face to parch,
With blustring Boreas & with Eurus breth,
Thicke clouds of dust in March, through ayre doth march,
And Plants dead seeming Re-reuiues from death.
Now at the heauy-headed horned Ram,
Æolus, Æthon, Phlegon, and Pyrois,
On sweet Ambrosya sweetly feede and cram,
And drinking Nectars gods carowsing iuice,
Thus yeerely, one and thirty daies at least,
In Aries Titan daines to be a guest.

To the Right Honourable Christopher Villers, Earle of Anglesey.

Anagramma, Christ is our helper.

To me and mine, our onely comfort's this,
In all good Actions, Christ our helper is.

[Hiperion now's remou'd vnto the Bull]

The 11. of Aprill he comes into Taurus, or the Signe of the Bull.

Hiperion now's remou'd vnto the Bull,
And seemes all hid in Mists and watry bowres:
Till wollsacke seeming cloudes are bursting full,
And then he glides the Aire with golden showres.
He shines, he hides, he smiles, and then he lowres,
Now glorious glowing, and straight darkned dim:
He's now obscur'd, and now his beames out powres,
As skies are cleare, or thicke twixt vs and him.
Thus all the Aprill, at bo-peepe he plaies,
Incircling daily the Rotundious spheare.
And at the Bull he hides his glistring raies,
Till ayre is purgde of cloudes, and skies are cleare.
Then he the head-strong Taurus soone forsakes,
And to his Summer progresse haste he makes.

To the Right Honorable the Earle of Manchester, Lord priuy Seale to the Kings Maiestie, Henry Montagve.

Anagramma Gouerneth many.

Amongst a Million, there is hardly Any,
That (like your selfe) so well doth gouerne Many.

[Now bright fac'd Sminthus, with faire Flora meets]

The 12. of May the Sunne enters into Gemini, or the Twinnes.

Now bright fac'd Sminthus, with faire Flora meets,
Adorning her with Natures best attire:
Trees, plants, hearbs, flowres, & odoriferous sweets,
With Birds all chaunting in their feathered quire.
Now countrie Tom and Tyb haue their desire,
And rowle and tumble freely on the grasse,
The Milke-maide gets a greene gowne for her hire,
And all in sport the time away doe passe,
The bird, the beast, the lusty lad, the lasse:
Doe sing, doe friske, doe clip, doe coll, doe kisse,
Not thinking how the time must be, or was,
But making pleasant vse of time as tis,
Till Sminthus leaues his lodging at the twinnes,
And to a hotter race his course beginnes.

To my approued good friend, Mr Robert Branthwayte.

Anagramma. You beare a heart true bent.

Let fortune smile, or frowne, you are content,
At all Assaies you beare a heart true bent.

[Of all the Innes where Sol doth vse to lie]

The 12. of Iune the Sunne enters into Cancer or the Crabbe.

Of all the Innes where Sol doth vse to lie,
With crabbed Cancer none may make cōpare:
It is the highest in the loftie skie,
All other signes to it inferiour are.
When Sol is once ascended and come there:
He scalds and scorches with his heauenly heate:
Makes fields of grasse, and flowrie medowes bare,
And though the idle worke not, yet they sweate,
Thus like an all-commanding Lord he swaies,
High mounted in his chiefe Solstician pride:
For when the Cancer hee immures his raies,
Vnto the height his glorie's amplifide.
And when he goes from thence, he doth beginne
By shorter Iourneyes to attaine his Inne.

[The worlds eye daz'ler in his fiery race]

The thirteenth of Iuly the Sunne enters into Leo, or the Lion.

The worlds eye daz'ler in his fiery race,
Doth at the Lyon lodge his vntam'd Steeds:
And now the ripening yeere begins apace
To shew Dame Tellus, procreatiue seeds.
For as from man, mans generation breeds,
So by manuring of our Grandam Earth,
Are brought forth fruits, & flowres, and hearbs, and weeds,
To shield ingratefull man from pining dearth.
The dogged dog daies now with heat doe swelt,
And now's the season, of th'vnseasn'd aire:
When burning feauers make the patient melt,
Whose heat the Doctors hardly can repaire:
For why, these currish daies are fatall still,
And where they chance to bite, they vse to kill.

[Vnhappy Phaetons Splendidious Sire]

The foureteenth of August, the Sunne enters into Virgo, Or the Virgin.

Vnhappy Phaetons Splendidious Sire,
Left amorous bussing beauteous Climens lips,
And all inspir'd with Loues cœlestiall fire:
His Globe surrounding Steed amaine he whips:
And to the Virgin Virgo downe doth glide,
Where for she entertain'd him to his pleasure,
He his exchequer coffers opens wide,
And fils the world with haruests wisht for treasure,
Now country Hindes vnto their tooles betake.
The forke, the rake, the sithe, the hooke, the cart,
And all a generall expedition make,
Till Nature be left naked by their art.
At last the Virgin, when these things are don,
Till that time twelue-month leaues her Loue the sun.

[The Great all-seeing burning eye of day]

The thirteenth of September, the Sunne enters into Libra, Or the Ballance.

The Great all-seeing burning eye of day,
In Libraes Ballance restlesse comes to rest,
Where equally his way he seemes to wey:
And day and night with equall houres are drest:
By these iust scales, true iustice is exprest,
Which doth to times and places render right,
Where wealth insults not, nor the poore opprest,
But all's eu'n poyzed, like the day and night.
And now this lampe of light doth here alight,
Making this Signe, his Equinoctiall Inne,
Whilst fruitfull trees are ouer-laden quite:
(Too great a gracious guerdon for mans sinne)
And as in March he 'gan to doe vs grace,
So to th' Antipodes he now 'gins shew his face.

[Illustrious Phœbus now declines amaine]

The foureteenth of October, the Sunne enters into Scorpio.

Illustrious Phœbus now declines amaine,
His golden head within the Scorpion dwells.
Now boystrous blasts of wind, and showres of rain,
Of raging winters nigh approach foretells,
From trees sharpe Autumne, all the leaues expells,
For Phœbus now hath left his pleasant Innes,
Now Marchants Bacchus blood both buy and sell,
And Michaels Terme, lawes haruest now begins,
Where many losers are, and few that wins:
For law may well be cal'd contentions whip,
When for a scratch, a cuffe, for pointes or pins,
Will witlesse gets his neighbour on the hip.
Then tone the rother vnto law will vrge,
And vp they come to giue their purse a purge.

[Thus Luna's brother lower doth descend]

The eleuenth of Nouember, the Sunne enters into Sagitarius, Or the Archer.

Thus Luna's brother lower doth descend,
And at the Archer rests his radient Waine,
Now winters bitter blasting stormes contend,
T'assault our hemespheare, with might and maine,
The fields and trees disrobed all againe,
Starke naked strip'd of hearbs, of flowres, of fruits,
And now the Lord, the Lowne, the Sir, the Swaine,
Against the freeze, of Freeze make winter suites.
Now chirping birds are all turn'd tounglesse mutes;
And Shepheards swaines to sheephouse driue their sheep.
Not controuersies now are in disputes
At Westminster, where such a coyle they keepe;
Where man doth man within the Law betosse,
Till some go croslesse home by Woodcocks Crosse.

[Apollo hath attain'd his lowest seat]

The eleuenth of December, the Sunne enters into Capricorne, Or the Goat.

Apollo hath attain'd his lowest seat,
And now the shortnesse of his race is such,
That though his Glory for a time be great,
He giues his Sister Cynthia twice as much.
Now is the welcom'st time of all the yeere,
Now dye the oxen, and the fatted hogs:
Now merry Christmas fils the world with cheere,
And chimnies smoake with burning logge on logs.
He that's a mizer all the yeere beside,
Will reuell now, and for no cost will spare,
A poxe hang sorrow, let the world go slide,
Let's eate and drinke, and cast away all care.
Thus when Apollo's at the horned Goate,
He makes all Christendome with mirth to floate.

[The Glorious Great Extinguisher of Night]

The tenth of Ianuary, the Sunne enters into Aquarius, Or the signe of the Waterbearer.

The Glorious Great Extinguisher of Night,
Immures his bright translucent golden head,
And from his radiant teeme he doth alight,
To rest his Steeds in cold Aquarius bed.
Now hory frost hath Tellus face o'rspred,
And chilling numnesse whets the shauing ayre,
All vegitable creatures now seeme dead.
Like curelesse cures, past and repast repaire:
Frigidious Ianus two-fold frozen face,
Turnes moyst Aquarius into congeal'd yce:
Though by the fires warme side the pot haue place,
Of winters wrath it needs must know the price.
At last, daies burning toarch, againe takes horse,
And into wetter weather makes his course.

[Now snow, and rain, and haile & flauering sleet]

The ninth of February, the Sunne enters into Pisces, Or the signe of the two fishes.

Now snow, and rain, and haile & flauering sleet,
(The Delphean god hath suckt from sea and land,
With exhalations) now the earth they greet:
Powr'd downe by Iris liberall hand,
If foulefac'd February keepe true touch,
He makes the toyling Plowmans prouerbe right;
By night, by day, by little and by much,
It fills the ditch, with either blacke or white:
And as the hard cornuted butting Ram,
At setting forth was Tytans daintiest dish:
So to conclude his race, right glad I am,
To leaue him feasting with a messe of fish.
And long in Pisces he doth not remaine,
But leaues the fish, and falls to flesh againe.

To the Right Honourable Thomas Lord Ridgewaye, Treasurer.

Thomas Ridgewaye.

Anagramma. God Armes thy way. Againe, Age is made worthy.

Though sinne and hell worke mortals to betray,
Yet 'gainst their malice still, God Armes ths way.
When life and lands, and all away must fade,
By Noble actions, Age is worthy made.

Certaine Sonnets made in the forme of Æquiuoques; on the destruction of Troy.

[VVhen Hellen was for Priams sonne a mate]

VVhen Hellen was for Priams sonne a mate,
From Greece bereft by Paris & his Band:
Which caus'd the Greekes, the Troian minds amate,
Som curs'd the boy; and other some they band:
The strum pet Queene which brought the burning brand,
That Illion fir'd, & wrack'd old Priams Race:
And on their Names long liuing shame did brand,
(For head-strong lust runnes an vnbounded Race.)
This beauteous peece, whose feature radiant blaze,
Made Menelaus horne-mad warre to wage:
And set all Troy in a combustious blaze,
Whose ten yeeres triumphs scarce was worth their wage,
For all their conquests, and their battring Rams,
Their leaders most return'd, with heads like Rams.

To the Right Honourable, the Lord Viscount Grandison.

Anagramma. Harts Ioyne in loue.

Thy loyall seruice to thy King, doth proue,
That to thy Countrey, thy Hart Ioyns in loue.

[VVith raging madnesse and with fury fell]

VVith raging madnesse and with fury fell,
Great Diomed, and Aiax 'eft their Tents,
And in the throat of death, to blowes they fell,
To make more worke for plaisters, and for tents.
With blood imbruing all the Phrygian Clime,
Whilst men like Autumne leaues drop dying downe:
Where som th'row blood, & woūds to honor clime,
And some their mangled lims bestrows the downe:
Whilst Paris with his Hellen in his Armes
Imbraces her about the wastfull wast:
Saw many a Gallant Knight in burnisht Armes,
Who from their Tents made haste to make more waste:
Who to their Tents did ne'r returne again.
Thus warres makes gaine a losse, and losse a gaine.

[Had Priams Queene in Cradle slaine her Sonne]

Had Priams Queene in Cradle slaine her Sonne,
The lustfull Paris (haplesse boy) I meane:
Then Illions Towers might still haue brau'd the Sun:
His death to saue their liues had beene the meane.
Vnlucky lucke, when Iuno, Venus, Pallas
Did craue his censure vpon Ida Mount:
Whence sprung the cause that Troy & Priams Palace
Were burnt, which erst the skyes did seem to moūt.
Had he been drown'd or strangled with a cord,
He had not rob'd Oenon of her heart:
Or had he dy'd, ere Hellen did accord
With him, to head her husband like a Hart.
But Troy, it is thy fate, this knaue and Baggage
Confounds thy state, and fire thy bag & baggage.

[Troyes fruitfull Queene did many children beare]

Troyes fruitfull Queene did many children beare,
So braue, heroicke, and so stout a Crue:
Who all in noble actions did accrue,
When age had made their Parents bald and bare,
They made their daintlesse courage to appeare,
Amidst the throngs of danger and debate:
Where wars remorselesse stroke kil'd many a Peer,
Whil'st swords, not words, their coūsels did debate:
But bloud on bloud, their fury could not sate,
For fierce Achilles did braue Hector gore:
To guerdon which, the Grecian in his gore,
Did wallow, whilest the Troians laughing sate.
Thus did Achilles bid the world adiew
For Hectors death, Reuenge did claime a due.

[Ten wearie yeers these bloudy broyles did last]

Ten wearie yeers these bloudy broyles did last,
Vntill the Greeks had form'd a woodden Steed:
Which they on Priam would bestow at last,
(When force preuailes not, falshood stands in stead.)
False Sinon (who so well could forge a lye,
Whose traitrous eyes shed many a trech'rous teare)
Knew well that in the horses wombe did lye,
The wolues that Troy did all in pieces teare.
Polyxena, Achilles deare-bought deare,
Was hew'd in gobbets on her louers graue,
King, Queene, and Troy, for Hellen paid too deare,
All felt the Grecian rage, both young and graue.
To Kings and Commons, death's alike, all one,
Except Æneas, who escap'd alone.

[Lo thus the burden of Adultrous guilt]

Lo thus the burden of Adultrous guilt,
I showring vengeance, Troy and Troianes saw:
No age, no sexe, no beauty, Gold or guilt,
Withstood foretold Cassandraes sacred saw.
She often said false Hellens beautious blast
Should be the cause the mighty Grecian pow'r,
Their names, and fames, with infamy should blast,
And how the gods on thē would vengeance powre.
But poore Cassandra prophesied in vaine,
She clam'rous cries (as 'twere) to sencelesse Rocks.
The youths of Troy, in merry scornefull veine,
Securelesse slept, whil'st lust the cradle rocks:
Till bloudy burning Indignation came,
And all their mirth with mourning ouercame.

Certaine Sonnets: variously composed vpon diuers subiects.

Sonnet. 1 True Nobility.

Great is the glory of the Noble minde,
Where life and death are equall in respect:
If fates be good or bad, vnkinde or kinde,
Not proud in freedome, nor in thrall deiect;
With courage scorning fortunes worst effect,
And spitting in foule Enuies cankred face.
True honour thus doth baser thoughts subiect,
Esteeming life a slaue, that serues disgrace.
Foule abiect thoughts, become the mind that's base,
That deemes there is no better life then this,
Or after death doth feare a worser place,
Where guilt is paid the guerdon of Amisse.
But let swolne enuy swell vntill shee burst,
The Noble minde defies her to her worst.

Sonnet. 2. Enuy and Honour.

Could Enuy dye, if Honour were deceast?
She could not liue, for Honour's Enuie's food:
She liues by sucking of the Noble blood,
And scales the loftie top of Fames high Crest.
Base thoughts compacted in the abiect brest,
The Meager Monster doth nor harme, nor good:
But like the wane, or waxe, of ebbe or flood,
She shunnes as what her gorge doth most detest,
Where heau'n-bred honour in the Noble minde,
From out the Cauerns of the brest proceeds:
There hell-borne Enuy shewes her hellish kind,
And Vulturlike vpon their actions feeds.
But here's the ods, that Honour's tree shall grow,
When Enuie's rotten stump shall burne in woe.

Sonnet. 3. Beauties luster.

Dew drinking Phœbus hid his golden head,
Balm-breathing Zephyrus lay close immur'd:
The silly Lambs and Kyds lay all as dead,
Skies, earth, and seas, all solace had abiur'd.
Poore men and beasts, to toylesome tasks inur'd,
In dropping manner spent the drowzy day:
All but the Owle, whose safety night assur'd,
She gladly cuts the ayre with whooting lay.
When lo, the blossome of my blooming May,
From out her Coach maiestickly doth rise:
Then Tytan doth his radiant beames display,
And clouds are vanisht from the vaulty skies.
Sweet Zephryis gales reuiueth beasts and men,
Madge-Howlet scuds vnto her nest agen.

Sonnet. 4. Hope and Despaire.

Domestick broyles my tortur'd heart inuades
Twixt wau'ring Hope, and desp'rate black Despaire:
To prosecute my sute the one perswades,
The other frustrates all my hopes with cares.
Hope sets me on, infer's shee's fayrest faire,
How dire disdaine doth dwell in foulest Cels,
And fell despaire calls beauty Enuies heire:
Which torments me more then ten thousand hels.
Loe, thus my former hope despaire expels:
Mid'st which extremes whats best for me to doe:
In open armes, despaire 'gainst me rebels,
Hope traytor-like giues free consent thereto.
And till these traytors twaine consume my citty,
I restlesse rest, to rest vpon her pitty.

Sonnet. 5. Three blinde Commanders.

Blinde fortune, sightlesse loue, and eyelesse death,
Like Great Triumue'rs swayes this earthly roome,
Mans actions, affections, and very breath:
Are in subiection to their fatall doome.
Ther's nothing past, or presen, or to come,
That in their purblinde power is not comprizde:
From Crowne, to cart, from cradle to the toome,
All are by them defamde, or eternizde:
Why should we then esteeme this doating life
(Thats in the guideance of such blind-fold rule)
Whose chiefest peace, is a continuall strife,
Whose gawdy pompes the pack, and man the Mule,
Which liues long day, he beares, as he is able,
Til deaths blacke night, doth make the graue his stable?

Sonnet. 6. In the praise of musicke.

Twas Musick fetch'd Euridice from hell,
And rap'd grim Pluto with harmonious straines:
Renowned Orpheus did with Musick quell
The fiends, and ease the tortur'd of their paines.
The Dolphin did account it wondrous gaines,
To heare Arion play as hee did ride:
Gods, fiends, fish, fowles, & shepheards on the plains
Melodious Musicke still hath magnifide:
And ancient records plainely doe decide,
How braue Orlando, Palatine of France,
When he was raging mad for Meadors bride,
Sweet Musicke cur'd his crazed wits mischance.
For Musick's only fit for heau'ns high quire,
Which though men cannot praise enough, admire.

Sonnet. 7. The Map of misery.

Like to the stone thats cast in deepest waue,
That rests not till the bottome it hath found,
So I (a wretch) inthrald in sorrowes caue,
With woe and desperations fetters bound:
The captiue slaue imprison'd vnder ground
Doom'd, thereby fates t' expire his wofull daies,
With care o'rwhelmd, with grief & sorrow drownd
Makes mournfull moanings and lamenting layes,
Accusing, and accursing fortunes playes,
Whose wither'd Autumne leauelesse leaues his tree,
And banning death for his too long delayes,
Remaines the onely poore despised hee.
If such a one as this, the world confine,
His mischiefes are his his sport compar'd with mine.

Sonnet. 8. Another in prayse of musicke.

No Poet crownd with euerliuing bayes
(Tho art like floods should frō his knowledge flow)
He could not write enough in Musicks praise:
To which, both man and Angels loue doe owe,
If my bare knowledge ten times more did know,
And had ingrost all arte from Pernas hill:
If all the Muses should their skils bestow
On me, to amplifie my barren skill:
I might attempt in shew of my good will,
In Musicks praise, some idle lines to write:
But wanting iudgement, and my accent ill,
I still should be vnworthy to indite,
And run my wit on ground like ship on shelfe:
For musicks praise consisteth in it selfe.

A Cataplasmicall Satyre, composed and compacted of sundry simples, as salt, vineger, wormewood, and a little gall, very profitable to cure the impostumes of vice.

A sauage rough-hair'd Satyre needs no guide,
Wher's no way, from the way he cannot slide:
Then haue amōgst you, through the brakes & briers,
From those who to the Cedars top aspires,
Vnto the lowest shrub, or branch of broome,
That hath his breeding from earths teeming womb.
And now I talke of broome, of shrubs and Cedars,
Me thinks a world of trees are now my leaders:
To prosecute this trauell of my penne,
And make comparison twixt trees and men,
The Cedars and the high cloud kissing Pynes:
Fecundious Oliues, and the crooked Vines:
The Elme, the Ash, the Oake, the Masty Beeche,
The Peare, the Apple, and the rug-gownd Peache,
And many more, for it would tedious be,
To name each fruitfull and vnfruitfull tree.
But to proceed, to show how men, and trees
In birth, in breed, in life, and death agrees:
In their beginnings they haue all one birth,
Both haue their nat'rall being from the earth,
And heauens high hand, (where he doth please to blesse,
Makes trees, or men, or fruitful, or fruitlesse.
In sundry vses trees do serue mans turne,
To build, t' adorne, to feed, or else to burne.
Thus is mans state in all degrees like theirs,
Some are got vp to th' top of honours stayres,
Securely sleeping on opinions pillow,
Yet as vnfruitfull, as the fruitlesse willow,
And fill vp roomes, (like worthlesse trees in woods)
Whose goodnesse all consists in ill got goods:
He like the Cedar makes a goodly show,
But no good fruite will from his greatnesse grow,
Vntill he die, and from his goods depart,
And then giues all away, despight his heart.
Then must his friends with mourning cloth be clad,
With insides merry, and with outsides sad.
What though by daily grinding of the poore
By bribry and extortion got his store:
Yet at his death he gownes some foure-score men,
And tis no doubt he was a good man then?
Though in his life he thousands hath vndone,
To make wealth to his cursed coffers run:
If at his buriall groats a piece bee giuen,
Ile warrant you, his soule's in hell, or heauen:
And for this doale perhaps the beggers striues,
That in the throng seuenteene doe lose their liues:
Let no man tax me here, with writing lies:
For what is writ, I saw with mine owne eyes:
Thus men like barren trees are feld and lopt,
And in the fire to burne are quickly popt:
Some man perhaps whilst he on earth doth liue,
Part of his vaine superfluous wealth will giue:
To build of Almshouses some twelue or ten,
Or more or lesse, to harbour aged men:
Yet this may nothing be to that proportion,
Of wealth which he hath gotten by extortion.
What ist for man (his greedy minde to serue)
To be the cause that thousands die and sterue:
And in the end, like a vaine-glorious theefe,
Will giue some ten or twelue a poore reliefe?
Like robbers on the way, that take a purse,
And giue the poore a mite to scape Gods curse.
But know this thou, whose goods are badly gotten,
When thou art in thy graue consum'd and rotten,
Thine heire (perhaps) wil feast with his sweet punk,
And Dice; and Drabb, and eu'ry day be drunk,
Carowsing Indian Trinidado smoake,
Whilst thou with Sulph'rous flames art like to choake.
See, see yond gallant in the Cloke-bag breech,
Hee's nothing but a Trunke cram'd full of speech:
He'l sweare as if 'gainst heau'n he wars would wage,
And meant to plucke downe Phœbus in his rage:
When let a man but try him, hee's all oathes,
And odious lies, wrapt in vnpaid for cloathes.
And this Lad is a Roaring boy forsooth,
An exlent morsell for the hangmans tooth.
He carelesly consumes his golden pelfe,
In getting which his Father damn'd himselfe:
Whose soule (perhaps) in quēchlesse fire doth broile,
Whilst on the earth his sonne keepes leuell coile.
Tis strange to Church what numbers daily flock,
To drinke the Spring of the eternall Rocke:
The great soule-sauing, Satan slaying Word,
Gainst sin, death, hell, th' alconquering sacred sword,
Where high Iehouahs Trumpeters sound forth
From East to West, from South vnto the North:
(For through all lands their Embasseyes are borne,
And neuer doe againe in vaine returne:)
Which either is of life to life the sauor,
Or death to death, exilde from Gods sweet fauour:
Which blisse or bane there's many daily heares,
Who leaue their hearts at home, & bring their eares,
And lest their reckelesse heads, the Word should smother,
As soon as't enters t'one, it's out at tother.
For let a Preacher preach vntill he sweats,
Denouncing heau'ns great wrath in thundring threats
Gainst sin and sinners, 'gainst high hearted pride,
Gainst murder which hath oft for vengeance cride,
Or enuie, Lechery, Auarice, or Swearing,
Or any other vice, theyle giue the hearing,
And say the Preacher wondrous paines did take,
And did a very learned Sermon make:
But what good Reformation hence proceeds,
Are Mountaine words, and little Mole-hill deeds.
Tell Vs'rers they are banisht from Gods hill,
Yet they'le continue in extortion still,
Tell the proud Courtier, that he is but earth,
He'le o're the poore insult and bragge of birth.
Expostulate the great Almighties Ire,
And tell the murdrer, hell shall be his hire,
Yet e're he'll pocket vp the least disgrace,
His en'mies guts shall be his Rapiers case.
Tell daily drunkards hell shall be their lot,
Thei'l knocke and call to haue the tother pot.
Tell Panders, Bawds, knaues, and adultrous whores,
How they in hell must pay their cursed scores:
Tell Mizer chuffes who charitie doe banish,
How they from heau'n, eternally must vanish:
Tell all in generall of their liues amisse,
And tell them that hels bottomelesse abysse,
Must be their portions if they not repent,
Till true repentance heau'ns iust wrath preuent:
Yet when the Preacher all he can hath told,
Soules vnto sinne are daily bought and sold.
The Mizer with his lecherie of Chinke,
On earth will giue his dropsie soule to drinke,
And though the Word beat on his Anuile heart,
From Vs'ry and extortion he'l not part,
The piebald Gallant to the Church will come
To heare his soules saluations totall summe:
Yet his high pride is in such hauty dotage,
Forgets he's sprung from a poore country Cotage.
The murdrer heares how reprobated Caine
Was curst of God, that had his brother slaine,
Yet when hee's from the Church, forgets it all,
And stabs a man for taking of the wall.
Should I through all mens seu'rall actions runne,
I know my businesse neuer would be done.
The rich man hates the poore man, and the poore
Doth enuie gainst the rich man for his store.
Thus is the blest soules euerliuing Bread,
In bounteous measure all the earth or'espread:
Some on the high way falls and takes no roote,
But is of no esteeme, trod vnder foote:
Some falles on stones, and some alights on thornes,
Deuour'd with fowles, or choak'd with scoffs or scornes.
Some little portion fals in fruitfull ground,
Th'encrease of which is to be seldome found.
For let men waigh their good deeds with their bad,
For thousand ils, one good will scarce be had.
And yet no doubt but God in store doth keepe
His neere deare children, his best flocke of sheepe.
For though vnto the world they are not knowne,
Yet tis sufficient God doth know his owne.
For though Elias thought himselfe was all
That had not offered sacrifice to Ball:
Iehouah answer'd him, seuen thousand more,
In Israel did this Idol not adore.
But who so much in this vile life are hated,
As those which to saluation are created?
For let a man refraine to drab or dice,
Out fie vpon him then, he's too precise.
Let him forbeare to lie, to sweare, or banne,
O bang him rascall, he's a Puritan.
And sure I think the Deuill by that false name
Hath added thousands soules vnto his flame.
Some man ere hee'l be cal'd a Puritan,
Will turne a damned Machiauilian,
A Libertine, Papist, or else what not?
To keepe his name from so impure a blot.
I speake not this regarding their estate,
Who from our Church themselues doe separate,
For good indifferent Ceremonious rites,
And 'gainst our Churches gouernment backbites.
Nor doe I praise the louing Sisters loue,
Who often makes the Brethren's spirits moue,
And if 'twere lawfull (they would gladly kno)
To dresse their meate the Sabbath day or no.
And wherefore now the Churchmen of these daies,
Ride to and fro, to preach so many waies,
When Christ to his Apostles gaue in charge,
That they should seek and teach all nations large,
The way, that in his Lawes they might abide,
Christ bade them goe, he bade them not to ride,
These idle questionists, these schismatickes,
I, hold no bettter then ranke heretickes:
But this I thinke not well, when honest hearts
Shall haue this impure name without desarts,
How then can my comparing be gainestood?
For men are like to trees, some bad, some good.
But tarry, Satyre, thou too fast dost trot,
There's one thing more I had almost forgot,
And this is it, of Ale-houses, and Innes,
Wine-Marchants, Vintners, Brewers, who much wins
By others losing, I say more or lesse
Whose sale of hufcap liquor doe professe,
Should neuer bee to any office cald,
Or in no place of Iustice be instal'd:
The reason is, they gaine by mens excesse
Of diuellish quaffing, and damn'd drunkennesse.
For why, should men be moderate in their drinke,
Much Beere, and bottle-Ale should stand and stinke:
And Mounsieur Claret, and sweet Signior Sacke,
Would lowre and turne vnto the Marchants wrack;
The Vintners then within their cellers deepe,
Such coniuring at midnight would not keepe.
This swynish sinne hath man of sense bereauen,
To bandy balles of blasphemy 'gainst heauen,
It is the way, the dore, the porch, the gate,
All other vices enter in thereat.
A drunken man in rage will stabbe his brother,
Hee'l Cuckold his owne father, whore his mother,
Reuile and curse, sweare & speak dangerous treason,
And when he's sober, hangs for 't by th' weason.
How then should men a reformation giue,
To mend those crimes, that by those crimes do liue?
The Patriarke Noah did first plant the Vine,
And first did feele the powerfull force of wine,
And righteous Lot, by wine depriu'd of wit,
Foule Incest with his daughters did commit.
And Holophernes drunken lay in bed,
Whilst strong-faith'd, weake-arm'd Iudith cut offs head.
Great Alexander out his Fauchion drewe,
And being drunke, his best friend Clitus slew.
If euery haire vpon the heads of men
Were quils, and euery quill were made a pen:
Were Earth to paper turn'd, and Seas to inke,
And all the world were writers, yet I thinke,
They could not write the mischiefs done by drink.
And such a custome men haue tane therein,
That to be drunke, is scarce accounted sinne,
But honest recreatiue merriment
The time is term'd that is in tippling spent.
A Marchants ship is richly fraught, ariues,
And for thanksgiuing that so well he thriues,
He makes a feast, and store of money spends,
Inuites his kinsfolke, creditors, and friends:
Where stormes, and Rocks and Pirats are forgot,
And triumphs made to Bacchus and the Pot.
A rich mans wife's deliuered of of a boy,
And all the houshold must be drunk for ioy.
The prisoner that's condemn'd to die and hang,
And by reprieue hath scap'd that bitter pang,
Will presently his old acquaintance call,
And ere he giues God thanks, to drinking fall.
Why drunkards common are, as lies, or stealing,
And sober men are scarce, like honest dealing.
When men doe meet, the second word that's spoke,
Is, Where's good liquour, and a pipe of smoake?
The labouring man that for his hire doth serue,
Let Landlord tarry, wife and children sterue,
With not a bit of bread within the house,
Yet hee'l sit on the Ale-bench and carowse.
Thus like an Inundation drink doth drowne
The Rich, the Poore, the Courtier and the Clowne.
Since then to be a drunkard, is to be
The sincke of Incest, and Sodomitry,
Of Treason, swearing, fighting, beg'ry, murder,
And diuers more, I then will goe no furder:
But here my Satyrs stinging whip I'le waste
In lashing dropsie drunkards out of taste.
How then can it be possible that such,
Who sell Wine, Beere, or Ale, doe gaine so much,
Should punish drunkards, as the Law commands,
In whose vaine spending, their most gaining stands?
It were all one as if a Mercer did
To weare Silke, Veluet, Cloth of Gold forbid.
And Victlers may as wisely punish those,
From whom their daily drinks, great gettings growes.
I would haue all old drunkards to consent
To put a Bill vp to the Parlament:
That those by quaffing that haue spent their wealth,
Consum'd their times, their memory, their health,
And by excessiue spending now are bare,
That Merchants, Brewers, Vintners, should prepare
Some Hospitals to keepe them in their age,
And cloath, and feed them, from fierce famines rage:
For euery one whose hard vnlucky lots,
Haue beene to be vndone by empting pots,
I hold it fit that those the pots that filde,
Should contribute those Almes houses to build.
Yet one obiection would this bill debarre,
Too many drunkards there already are;
And rather then this law would bate their store,
I feare 'twould make them twise as many more.
For why, to drink most men would be too bold,
Because they would haue pensions being old.
And men (of purpose to this vice would fall,
To be true beads-men to this hospitall.
Then let it be as it already is.
But yet I hold it not to be amisse)
Those Drinke-sellers, from office to exclude.
And so for that my Satyr doth conclude,
I could rippe vp a Catalogue of things,
Which thousand thousands to damnation flings,
But all my paines at last would be but idle.
It is not man can mens Affections bridle.
Sinne cannot be put downe with inke and paper,
No more then Sol is lightned with a Taper.

To Mistresse Rose.

Anagramma. Sore.

Sound Rose, though Sore thy Anagram doth meane,
Mistake it not, it meanes no sore vncleane:
But it alludes vnto the lofty skie,
To which thy vertue shall both Sore and flye.

To my approued good friend Mr. Robarte Cvddner.

Anagramma. Record and be true.

My thoughts Record, and their account is true,
I scarce haue better friends aliue then you.

A nest of Epigrams.

Fortune. 1.

Tis Fortunes glory to keepe Poets poore,
And cram weake witted Idiots with her store:
And tis concluded in the wisest schooles,
The blinded drab shall euer fauour fooles.

Epigram 2. Loue.

Loue is a dying life, a liuing death,
A vapor, shadow, bubble, and a breath:
An idle bable, and a paltry toy,
Whose greatest Patron is a blinded boy:
But pardon loue, my iudgement is vniust,
For what I spake of loue, I meant of lust.

Epigram 3. Death.

Those that scape fortune, & th'extremes of loue,
Vnto their longest homes, by death are droue:
Where Cæsars, Kæsars, Subiects, Abiects must
Be all alike, consum'd to durt and dust:
Death endeth all our cares or cares encrease,
It sends vs vnto lasting paine, or peace.

Epigram 4. Fame.

VVhen Fortune, Loue and Death their tasks haue doon,
Fame makes our liues through many ages run:
For be our liuing actions good or ill,
Fame keepes a record of our doings still:
By Fame Great Iulius Cæsar euer liues;
And Fame, infamous life to Nero giues.

Epigram 5. Time.

All making, marring, neuer turning Time
To all that is, is period, and is prime:
Time weares out Fortune, Loue, and Death & Fame,
And makes the world forget her proper name.
Ther's nothing that so long on earth can last,
But in conclusion, Time will lay it wast.

Epigram 6. Kamee, kathee.

My Muse hath vow'd, reuenge shall haue her swindge
To catch a Parrat in the Woodcocks sprindge.

Epigram 7. Solus.

The land yeelds many Poets, were I gone,
The water sure (I durst besworne) had none.

Epigram 8. Selfe-conceit.

Some Poets are, whose high pitcht lofty straines
Are past the reach of euery vulgar wight:
To vnderstand which, twill amaze weake braines.
So mysticall, sophisticall they write:
No maruell others vnderstand them not,
For they scarce vnderstand themselues, I wot.

Epigram 9. A couple.

One read my booke, and said it wanted wit,
I wonder if he meant himselfe, or it:
Or both: if both, two fooles were met I troe,
That wanted wit, and euery foole doth so.

Epigram 10. Bacchus and Apollo.

The thigh-borne bastard of the thundring Ioue,
(Whē mens inuentiōs are of wit most hollow)
He with his spitefull iuice their sprites doth mooue,
Vnto th' harmonious musicke of Apollo:
And in a word, I would haue all men know it,
He must drinke wine, that means to be a Poet.

Epigram 11. Of translation.

I vnderstand or knowe no forraigne tongue,
But their translations I doe much admire:
Much art, much paines, much study doth belong,
And (at the least) regard should be their hyre.
But yet I would the French had held together,
And kept their pox, and not translate them hether.

Epigram 12. Natures counterfeite.

When Adam was in Paradise first plac'd,
An dwth the rule of mortal things was grac'd,
Then roses, pinkes and fragrant gilliflowres,
Adornd & deckd forth Edens blessed bowres:
But now each Gill weares flowres, each Punk hath pinks,
And roses garnish Gallants shooes, me thinks:
When rugged Winter, robs fairy Floraes treasure,
Puncks can haue pinks and roses at their pleasure.

Epigram 13. The deuill take bribery.

A man attach't for murdering of a man,
Vnto the for-man of his Iury sent
Two score angels, begging what he can,
He would his conscience straine, law to preuent:
That his offences Iudge, might iudge no further,
But make manslaughter of his wilfull murther:
The verdict was manslaughter to the Iudge.
The Iudge demanded how it could be so?
The for-man said his conscience much did grudge:
But forty angels did perswade him no.
Well (quoth the Iudge) this case shall murther be,
If halfe those angels not appeare to me.
Thus when the law men to confusion driues,
The godlesse angels will preserue their liues.

Epigram 14. The deuill is a knaue.

Isbell dislikes the surplusse and the cope,
And calls them idle vestments of the Pope:
And mistresse Maude would goe to Church full faine,
But that the corner cap makes her refraine:
And Madam Idle is offended deepe,
The Preacher speakes so lowde, she cannot sleepe:
Lo, thus the deuill fowes contentious seed,
Whence sects, & schismes, and heresics do breed.

Epigram 15. Kissing goes by fauour.

Bembus the Burgomaster liues in paine,
With the Sciatica, and the Cathar.
Rich Grundo of the dropsie doth complaine,
And with the Gowt these mizers troubled are.
If Tinkers, Coblers, Botchers, be infected
With Bembus Lamenesse or with Grundoes Gowt:
Like pocky fellowes they must bee reiected,
And as infectious rascals bee kept out,
And not come neere where wholesome people flocks:
Thus rich mens sicknesses, are poore mens pocks.

Epigram 16. Deere no Venison.

Precilla alwaies calls her husband Deere,
Belike shee bought him at too deare a rate,
Or else to make the case more plaine appeare,
Like to a Deere she hath adorn'd his pate:
If it be so, god Vulcan send her lucke;
That she may liue to make her Deere a Bucke.

Epigram 17. Euery thing is prettie when it is little.

There is a saying old, (but not so wittie)
That when a thing is little, it is prettie:
This doating age of ours it finely fits;
Where many men thought wise, haue pretty wits.

Epigram 18. I meane somewhat.

One ask'd mee what my Melancholy meanes?
I answer'd, 'Twas because I wanted meanes.
He ask'd what I did by my answer meane?
I told him still, my meanes were too too meane.
He offer'd me to lend me pounds a score.
I answer'd him, I was too much in score.
He finding me in this crosse answ'ring veine,
Left me in want to wish for wealth in vaine.

Epigram 19. Faith without workes.

Amongst the pure reformed Amsterdammers,
(Those faithfull Friday feasting capon crāmers)
Only in them (they say) true faith doth lurke:
But 'tis a lazy faith, 'twill doe no worke.
O should it worke, ther's many thousand feares,
'Twould set the world together by the eares.

Epigram 20. Partiality.

Strato the Gallant reeles alongst the street,
His addle head's too heauy for his feete:
What though he sweare and swagger, spurn & kick,
Yet men will say the Gentleman is sick?
And that 'twere good to learn where he doth dwell,
And helpe him home, because he is not well.
Strait staggers by a Porter, or a Carman,
As bumsie as a fox'd flapdragon German:
And though the Gentlemans disease and theirs,
Are parted onely with a paire of sheares:
Yet they are Drunken knaues, and must to th' stocks,
And there endure a world of flouts and mocks.
Thus whē braue Strato's wits with wine are shrunk,
The same disease will make a begger drunke.

Epigram 21. A keeper of honesty.

Epigram 22. All's one, but one's not all.

To wonder and admire, is all one thing,
If as Synonimies the words be tooke:
But if a double meaning from them spring,
For double sence your Iudgement then must looke.
As once a man all soild with durt and mire,
Fell downe, and wonder'd not, but did admire.

Epigram 23. Mistresse fine bones.

Fine Parnell wonderfully likes her choyce,
In hauing got a husband so compleate,
Whose shape and mind doth wholy her reioyce:
At bed, board, and abroad, he's alwaies neate:
Neate can he talke, and feed, and neatly tread,
Neate are his feete, but most neate is his head.

Epigram 34. A supposed Construction.

Mary and Mare, Anagrammatiz'd,
The one is Army, and the other Arme,
In both their names is danger Moraliz'd,
And both alike, doe sometimes good or harme,
Mare's the sea, and Mare's Arme's a riuer,
And Mary's Armie's all for whatl' yee giue her.

Epigram 25. Death is a Iuggler.

A rich man sicke, would needs go make his will,
And in the same, he doth command and will
One hundred pound vnto his man call'd Will,
Because hee alwaies seru'd him with good will:
But all these wills did proue to Will but vaine,
His master liues and hath his health againe.

Epigram 26. Mistresse Grace onely by name.

Grace gracelesse, why art thou vngracious Grace?
Why dost thou run so lewdly in the race?
The cause wherefore thy goodnesse is so scant,
Is cause, what most thou hast, thou most dost want.

Epigram 27. Prudence.

Tis strange that Prudence should be wilde and rude,
Whose very name doth Modesty include:
The reason is, for ought that I can see,
Her name and nature doe not well agree.

Epigram 28. Mercy.

My Mercy hates me, what's the cause I pray,
Tis'cause I haue no money, shee doth say.
O cruell Mercy, now I plainly see,
Without a fee no mercie comes from thee.
Yet in conclusion, euery idle gull
Perceiues thy Mercy is vnmercifull.

Epigram 29. Faith.

O faith, thou alwaies vnbeleeuing art,
Faith in thy name, and faithlesse in thy heart.
Thou credidst all, but what is true and good,
In vertue rude, in vice well vnderstood.

Epigram 30. Vpon my selfé.

My selfe I like to an vntun'd Viall,
For like a Viall I am in a Case:
And whoso of my fortunes makes a triall,
Shall (like to me) be strung and tuned base.
And Trebles Troubles he shall neuer want:
But heeres the Period of my mischiefes All,
Though Base and Trebles, fortune did me grant,
And Meanes, but yet alas, they are too small.
Yet to make vp the Musicke, I must looke
The Tenor in the cursed Counter booke.

Epigram 31. A Rope for Parrat.

VVhy doth the Parrat cry a Rope, a Rope?
Because hee's cag'd in prison out of hope.
Why doth the Parrat call a Boate, a Boate?
It is the humour of his idle note.
O pretty Pall, take heed, beware the Cat.
(Let Watermen alone, no more of that)
Since I so idlely heard the Parrat talke,
In his owne language, I say, Walke, knaue, walke.

Epigram 32. Constants.

Inconstant Constants all-bewitching feature,
Hath made faire Constance an inconstant Creature,
Her Godmother was very much to blame,
To giue Inconstancy a constant name.
But 'twas a woman nam'd her so contrary,
And womens tongues and hearts doe euer vary.

Epigram 33. Vpon the burning of the Globe.

Aspiring Phaeton with pride inspir'd,
Misguiding Phœbus Carre, the world he fir'd:
But Ouid did with fiction serue his turne,
And I in action sawe the Globe to burne.

Epigram 34. Late Repentance.

A greedy wretch did on the Scriptures looke,
And found recorded in that Sacred booke,
How such a man with God should sure preuaile,
Who clad the naked, and visit those in Iaile,
And then he found how he had long mistak'd,
And oftentimes had made the cloathed nak'd:
In stead of visiting th'opprest in mones,
He had consum'd them to the very bones.
Yet one day he at leasure would repent,
But sudden death Repentance did preuent.

Epigram 35. Not so strange as true.

The stately Stag when he his hornes hath shed,
In sullen sadnesse he deplores his losse:
But when a wife cornutes her husbands head,
His gaines in hornes he holds an extreme Crosse:
The Stag by losing doth his losse complaine,
The man by gaining doth lament his gaine.
Thus whether hornes be either lost or found,
They both the loser and the winner wound.

Epigram 36. A Wordmonger.

Mans vnderstanding's so obnubilate,
That when thereon I doe excogitate,
Intrinsicall and querimonious paines
Doe puluerise the concaue of my braines,
That I could wish man were vnfabricate,
His faults he doth so much exaggerate.

Epigram 37. Plaine dunstable.

Your words passe my capatchity good zur,
But ich to proue need neuer to goe vur:
Cha knowne men liue in honest exclamation,
Who now God wot liue in a worser fashion.
The poore man grumbles at the rich mans store,
And rich men daily doe expresse the poore.

Epigram 38. Reason.

Knowest thou a Traitor plotting damned Treason?
Reveale him, tis both loialty and Reason.
Knowest thou a thiefe will steale at any season?
To shun his company thou hast good reason.
Seest thou a villaine hang vp by the weason?
Hee hangs by reason that he wanted reason.
Good men are scarce, and honest men are geason.
To loue them therfore, tis both right and reason,
More I could say, but all's not worth two peason:
And therefore to conclude, I hold it reason.

Epigram 39. Out of the pan into the fire.

Tom senselesse to the death doth hate a play:
But yet he' play the drunkard euery day.
He railes at plaies, and yet doth ten times worse,
He'l dice, he'l bowle, he'l whore, he'l swear, he'l curs,
When for one two pence (if his humor please)
He might go see a play, and scape all these,
But tis mans vse in these pestiferous times;
To hate the least, and loue the greatest crimes.

Epigram 40. A Poets similitude.

A poet rightly may be termed fit
An abstract, or Epitome of wit:
Or like a Lute that others pleasures breed,
Is fret and strung, their curious eares to feed,
That scornfully distaste it, yet tis knowne,
It makes the hearers sport, but it selfe none.
A Poet's like a taper, burnt by night,
That wastes it selfe, in giuing others light.
A Poet's the most foole beneath the skies,
He spends his wits in making Idiots wise,
Who when they should their thankfulnesse returne,
They pay him with disdaine, contempt and scorne.
A Puritane is like a Poets purse,
For both do hate the crosse (what crosse is worse?)

Epigram 41. Mecanas Epitaph.

This line is the same backward, as it is forward, and I will giue any man fiue shillings apiece for as many as they can make in English.

Lewd did I liue, & euil did I dwel.

An Apologie for Water-men: Dedicated to Nowell, and Robert Clarke Esquires, Masters of his Maiesties Barges; and to the rest of the Masters, the Assistants of the Company of Watermen.

Svch imputations, and such daily wrongs,
Are laid on Watermen, by enuious toūgs.
To cleare the which, if I should silent be,
'Twere basenesse, and stupidity in me.
Nor doe I purpose now with inke and pen,
To write of them, as they are Watermen:
But this I speake, defending their vocation,
From slanders false, and idle imputation.
Yet should I onely of the men but speake,
I could the top of Enuies Coxcombe breake.
For I would haue all men to vnderstand,
A Waterman's a man by Sea or Land,
And on the land and sea, can seruice do,
To serue his King, as well as other too:
He'll guard his Country both on seas and shore,
And what (a Gods name) can a man doe more?
Like double men they well can play indeed
The Soldiers, and the Saylers for a need.
If they did yeerely vse to scowre the Maine,
As erst they did, in wars twixt vs and Spaine,
I then to speake, would boldly seeme to dare,
One Sailer with two Soldiers should compare.
But now sweet peace their skill at Sea so duls,
That many are more fit to vse their sculs,
Then for the sea, for why? the want of vse,
Is Arts confusion, and best skils abuse.
And not to be too partiall in my words,
I think no Company more knaues affords:
And this must be the reason, because farre
Aboue all Companies their numbers are:
And where the multitude of men most is,
By consequence there must be most amisse.
And sure of honest men it hath as many,
As any other Company hath any.
Though not of wealth they haue superfluous store:
Content's a Kingdome, and they seek no more.
Of Mercers, Grocers, Drapers, men shall finde,
Men that to loose behauiour are inclinde.
Of Goldsmiths, Silkmen, Clothworkers, and Skinners,
When they are at the best, they all are sinners.
And drunken rascalls are of euery Trade,
Should I name all, I o'r the bootes should wade?
If Watermen be onely knaues alone,
Let all that's faultlesse cast at them a stone.
Some may reply to my Apology:
How they in plying are vnmannerly,
And one from tother, hale, and pull, and teare,
And raile, and brawle, and curse, and ban, & sweare.
In this I'l not defend them with excuses,
I alwaies did, and doe hate those abuses.
The honest vse of this true trade I sing,
And not th' abuses that from thence doe spring.
And sure no Company hath Lawes more strict,
Then Watermen, which weekely they inflict
Vpon offenders, who are made pay duely
Their fines, or prison'd, 'cause they plide vnruly.
They keepe no shops, nor sell deceitfull wares,
But like to Pilgrims, trauell for their fares,
And they must aske the question where they goe,
If men will goe by water yea or no?
Which being spoke aright, the fault's not such,
But any Tradesman (sure) will doe as much.
The Mercer, as you passe along the way,
Will aske you what d'e lacke? come neer I pray.
The Draper, whose warme ware doth clad the back,
Will be so bold as aske ye, What d'e lack?
The Goldsmith with his siluer and his gold,
To aske you, What d'e lack? he will be bold.
This being granted as none can deny,
Most Trades aswell as Watermen doe ply:
If in their plying they doe chance to iarre,
They doe but like the Lawyers at the Barre,
Who plead as if they meant by th'eares to fall,
And when the Court doth rise, to friendship fall.
So Watermen, that for a fare contends,
The fare once gone, the Watermen are friends.
And this I know, and therefore dare maintaine,
That he that truely labours and takes paine,
May with a better Conscience sleepe in bed,
Then he that is with ill got thousands sped.
So well I like it, and such loue I owe
Vnto it, that I'll fall againe to Rowe:
'Twill keepe my health from falling to decay,
Get money, and chase Idlenesse away.
I'm sure it for Antiquity hath stood,
Since the worlds drowning vniuersall Flood,
And howsoeuer now it rise or fall,
The Boate in Noah, Deluge carried all.
And though our wits be like our purses, bare,
With any Company wee'll make compare
To write a Verse, prouided that they be
No better skild in Schollership then wee.
And then come one, come thousands, nay, come all,
And for a wager wee'll to Versing fall.

Epilogue to those that know what they haue read, and how to censure.

To you whose eares and eyes haue heard & seene
This little pamphlet, and can iudge betweene
That which is good, or tol'rable, or ill,
If I with Artlesse Nature wanting skill,
Haue writ but ought, that may your thoughts content,
My Muse hath then accomplisht her intent.
Your fauors can preserue me, but your frownes
My poore inuentions in obliuion drownes.
With tolerable friendship let me craue
You will not seeke to spill, what you may saue.
But for the wrymouth'd Critick that hath read,
That mewes, & puh's, and shakes his brainlesse head,
And saies my education or my state;
Doth make my verse esteem'd at lower rate,
To such a one this answer I doe send,
And bid him mend, before he discommend.
His Enuy vnto me, will fauours prooue,
The hatred of a foole breeds wise-mens loue.
My Muse is iocund that her labours merits
To be malign'd and scornd by Enuious spirits:
Thus humbly I craue pardon of the best,
Which being gaind, Sir reuerence for the rest.