A Nights Search :: :: University of Virginia Library

The bawdy Poet's growne as bad as he,
Takes leave of wit, and ingenuitie;
Though he would seeme to prove a whore had calling,
Shee helps him not, although shee sees him falling.

Excesse of drink, with vilenesse hath o'rethrown him,
Few friends he hath, and some asham'd to own him.
That Morbus which hee wisht to other men,
Like Eccho's sounding, answers him agen.

Great Sol doth blush, denies to give him light;
And Luna scornes to come within his sight:
The earth doth grumble now to beare him too;
Nor any creature will him service doe:
They all disgrace him, he with sinne is prest;
(Shame matcht with sorrow, tames both man & beast)
For Celleredge he made his belly large,
And fill'd it up; but others bore the charge.
And yet (forsooth) hee must be counted wise,
Though blasted breath would raise him to the skies,
And his conceit may draw it as his lott,
Yet ere he dyes, he turnes a very sott:
His land-flood wit that swell'd above the brink,
Stole empty ayre: his soule being like to sink,
His lustfull fictions, with the Muses nine,
Affords no help: his sicknesse is divine.
The inward test, his spirits sad events,
Can finde no ease in barren complements.
Like Iordan's streames to Mare Mortuum's lake,
He smoothly glides, a restlesse rest to take.

Him poverty, and shame doth apprehend;
Guilt followes on, and doggs him tow'rd his end;
And having vented all his paultry stuffe,
Like Draytons Moon-calfe, burned to the snuffe,
Betwixt extreames, “then in his grease he fryes,
“Sparkles a little, and then stinking dyes.
From thence his Venus cannot him deliver,
Nor Cupid rescue with his bow, and quiver,
Nor Mars with's valour, no, nor lustie Iove,
(Great Iupiter will helplesse to him prove.)

Swift Mercury and Saturne have agreed,
With all the Gods, to faile him at his need:
Apollo's harp can give him no content;
Parnassus hill, and Helicon have spent
Their cooling drops: bold Bacchus findes no roome
To lay a hogshead by him in his tombe.
Ceres can never ease him with the Crop;
The Vote of Chorus brings no healing drop.

But Charon waits to ferry him away,
Where Pluto looks to take him for his prey:
And Cerberus with his winding heads doth stretch,
And longs to be the keeper of this wretch.

There's melody me thinks amongst the throng;
If any mourne, 'tis 'cause he liv'd so long.
Sol shewes his face with many a pleasant smile,
Since from his sight he's gone that was so vile.
The Moon shines freely, there was none did do her
Such wrong: for he was still an eye-sore to her.
The earth is glad she's of her burthen eas'd,
Her furniture is with his absence pleas'd:
Thus having laid him in the earth so deep,
We'll leave him with the crawling worms to sleep.

His Epitaph.

A Poet lies arrested here by death,
Who honour'd lust and made it run in rimes;
The world lost nothing but infected breath;
Nor gain'd hee ever by his hatefull crimes:
All that he left, or to adorne his herse,
Or pay his debts, was only bawdy verse.