Yee are of your father the Devill, and the lusts of your father yee will doe.
Here's your right ground: Wagge gently ore this Black;
'Tis a short Cast; Y'are quickly at the Jacke:
Rubbe, rubbe an Inch or two; Two Crownes to one
On this Boules side; Blow windes; 'Tis fairly throwne;
The next Boule's worse that comes; Come boule away;
Mammon, you know the ground un-tutor'd, Play;
Your last was gone; A yeard of strength, well spar'd,
Had touch'd the Block; your hand is still too hard.
Brave pastime, Readers, to consume that day,
Which, without pastime, flyes too swift away!
See how they labour; as if day and night
Were both too short, to serve their loose delight;
See how their curved bodies wreathe, and skrue
Such antick shapes as Proteus never knew:
One raps an oath; another deales a curse;
Hee never better bould; this, never worse:
One rubbes his itchlesse Elbow, shrugges, and laughs;
The tother bends his beetle-browes, and chafes,
Sometimes they whoope; sometimes their Stigian cries
Send their Black-Santos to the blushing Skies;
Thus, mingling Humors in a mad confusion,
They make bad Premises, and worse Conclusion;
But where's the Palme that Fortunes hand allowes
To blesse the Victors honourable Browes?
Come, Reader, come; Ile light thine eye the way
To view the Prize, the while the Gamesters play;
Close by the Jack, behold Gill Fortune stands
To wave the game; See, in her partiall hands
The glorious Garland's held in open show,
To cheare the Ladds, and crowne the Conq'rers brow;
The world's the Jack; The Gamsters that contend,
Are Cupid, Mammon. That juditious Friend,
That gives the ground, is Sathan; and the Boules
Are sinfull Thoughts: The Prize, a Crowne for Fooles.
Who breathes that boules not? what bold tongue can say
Without a blush, he hath not bould to day?
It is the Trade of man; And ev'ry Sinner
Has plaid his Rubbers; Every Soule's a winner.
The vulgar Proverb's crost: Hee hardly can
Be a good Bouler and an Honest man.
Good God, turne thou my Brazil thoughts anew;
New soale my Boules, and make their Bias true:
I'le cease to game, till fairer Ground be given,
Nor wish to winne untill the Marke be Heaven.
S. BERNARD. lib. de Consid.
O you Sonnes of Adam, you covetous Generation, what have you to doe with
earthly Riches, which are neither true, nor yours. Gold and silver are reall
earth red, and white, which the onely error of man makes, or rather reputes
pretious: In short, if they be yours, carry them with you.
S. HIEROME in Ep.
O Lust, thou infernall fire, whose Fuell is Gluttony, whose Flame is Pride;
whose sparkles are wanton words; whose smoake is Infamie; whose Ashes are
uncleanenesse; whose end is Hell.
