 | Wits Bedlam, Where is had, Whipping-cheer, to cure the Mad |  |
To my worthy, and beloued friend Doctor Pierce; Parson of Saint Christophers, London.
Epigram. 380.
In this but Froth of Wit to sowse your nameIs but to soile it; so, incurre your blame.
These Purgings of my Braine become not you
In any sort to See; much lesse alowe.
You needs must say, my Leisure I abuse
To make these Iests the Stasions of my Muse.
What will you more (deere Doctor) I confesse
I am all yours, but not my Foolishnesse.
Yet, Garce, Art, Wit, and Worth (and all diuine)
May make you (bright Sun) on this Dunghill shine
Without defiling of your spotlesse Raies:
Then, scowre my guilt with Birch; but, gilde my Baies.
| Wits Bedlam, Where is had, Whipping-cheer, to cure the Mad | |