 | The poems of John Marston |  |
Faire age!
When tis a high, and hard thing t'haue repute
Of a compleat villaine, perfect, absolute,
And roguing vertue brings a man defame.
A packstaffe Epethite, and scorned name.
When tis a high, and hard thing t'haue repute
Of a compleat villaine, perfect, absolute,
And roguing vertue brings a man defame.
A packstaffe Epethite, and scorned name.
Fie how my wit flaggs, how heauily
Me thinks I vent dull sprightlesse poesie.
What cold black frost congeales my nummed brain?
What enuious power stops a Satyres vaine?
O now I know, the iugling God of sleights,
With Caduceus nimble Hermes fights,
And mists my wits. Offended that my rimes
Displaie his odious, world-abusing crimes.
Me thinks I vent dull sprightlesse poesie.
What cold black frost congeales my nummed brain?
What enuious power stops a Satyres vaine?
O now I know, the iugling God of sleights,
With Caduceus nimble Hermes fights,
And mists my wits. Offended that my rimes
Displaie his odious, world-abusing crimes.
O be propitious, powerfull God of Arts,
I sheathe my weapons and doe breake my darts,
Be then appeas'd, I'le offer to thy shrine,
An Heccatombe, of many spotted kine.
Myriades of beastes shall satisfie thy rage,
Which doe prophane thee in this Apish age.
Infectious blood, yee goutie humors quake
Whilst my sharp Razor doth incision make.
I sheathe my weapons and doe breake my darts,
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An Heccatombe, of many spotted kine.
Myriades of beastes shall satisfie thy rage,
Which doe prophane thee in this Apish age.
Infectious blood, yee goutie humors quake
Whilst my sharp Razor doth incision make.
| The poems of John Marston | |