University of Virginia Library

Gallants,
Me thinks your soules should grudge, & inly scorne
To be made slaue, to humors that are borne
In slime of filthy sensualitie.
That part not subiect to mortalitie
(Boundlesse discursiue apprehension
Giuing it wings to act his function)
Me thinks should murmure, when you stop his course,
And soile his beauties in some beastly source,
Of brutish pleasures. But it is so poore,
So weake, so hunger bitten, euermore
Kept from his foode, meagar for want of meate,
Scorn'd and reiected, thrust from out his seate,
Vpbray'd by Capons greace, consumed quite
By eating stewes, that waste the better spright.
Snib'd by his baser parts, that now poore Soule,
(Thus pesanted to each lewd thoughts controule)
Hath lost all hart, bearing all iniuries,
The vtmost spight, and rank'st indignities
With forced willingnes. Taking great ioy
If you will daine his faculties imploy
But in the mean'st ingenious qualitie.
(How proude he'le be of any dignitie?)
Put it to musick, dauncing, fencing schoole,
Lord how I laugh to heare the pretty foole
How it will prate, his tongue shall neuer lie,
But still discourse of his spruce qualitie;
Egging his maister to proceed from this,
And get the substance of celestiall blisse.
His Lord straight calls his parliament of sence,
But still the sensuall haue preheminence.
The poore soules better part so feeble is,
So cold and dead is his Synderisis,
That shadowes by odde chaunce somtimes are got,
But ô the substance is respected not.
Here ends my rage, though angry brow was bent,
Yet I haue sung in sporting merriment.