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Skialetheia

Or, A shadowe of Truth, in certaine Epigrams and Satyres [by Edward Guilpin]
Guilpin, Edward

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[section]
  
To the Reader.
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EPIGRAMS.
 1. 
Proœmium. 1.
 2. 
To the Reader. 2.
 3. 
Of Titus. 3.
 4. 
To Liuia. 4.
 5. 
Of Matho. 5.
 6. 
Of Faber. 6.
 7. 
Of a railing humour. 7.
 8. 
To Deloney. 8.
 9. 
Of Paule. 9.
 10. 
Of Syluio. 10.
 11. 
To Gue. 11.
 12. 
Of Cotta. 12.
 13. 
Of the same. 13.
 14. 
To Licus. 14.
 15. 
Of Zeno. 15.
 16. 
Of Riuus. 16.
 17. 
Of Clodius. 17.
 18. 
Of Curio. 18.
 19. 
Of Faustus. 19.
 20. 
To Candidus. 20.
 21. 
Of Procus. 21.
 22. 
To Clodius. 22.
 23. 
Of Sextilius. 23.
 24. 
Of Fuscus. 24.
 25. 
Of Gnatho. 25.
 26. 
To Pollio. 26.
 27. 
Of the same. 27.
 28. 
Of Zeno. 28.
 29. 
Of Arion. 29.
 30. 
Of Chrysogonus. 30.
 31. 
Of Torques. 31.
 32. 
Of Lais. 32.
 33. 
Of Fidens. 33.
 34. 
Of Orpheus. 34.
 35. 
Of Cotta. 35.
 36. 
Of Metius. 36.
 37. 
Of the same. 37.
 38. 
To Licus. 38.
 39. 
Of Chrestina. 39.
 40. 
Of Næuia. 40.
 41. 
Of the same. 41.
 42. 
Of the same 42.
 43. 
Of Clodius. 43.
 44. 
Of Phrix. 44.
 45. 
In Zelotypum. 45.
 46. 
Of Gellia. 46.
 47. 
To the Reader. 47.
 48. 
To Lydia. 48.
 49. 
To Cotta. 49.
 50. 
To Women. 50.
 51. 
Of Chrestina. 51.
 52. 
Of Pansa. 52.
 53. 
Of Cornelius. 53.
 54. 
Of Issa. 54.
 55. 
To Mira. 55.
 56. 
De Ignoto. 56.
 57. 
Of Nigrina. 57.
 58. 
Of Drus. 58.
 59. 
To Mira. 59.
 60. 
De Ignoto. 60.
 61. 
Of Nigrina. 61.
 62. 
Of the same. 62.
 63. 
Of Bassus. 63.
 64. 
To Mira. 64.
 65. 
Of Nigrina. 65.
 66. 
Of Gellia. 66.
 67. 
Ad Crocum. 67.
 68. 
Of Cæius. 68.
 69. 
To the Reader. 69.
 70. 
Conclusion to the Reader. 70.
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Of Pansa. 52.

Fine spruce yong Pansa's growne a malcontent,
A mighty malcontent though young and spruce,
As heresie he shuns all merriment,
And turn'd good husband, puts forth sighs to vse,
Like-hate-man Timon in his Cell, he sits
Misted with darknes like a smoaky roome,
And if he be so mad to walke the streetes,
To his sights life, his hat becomes a toombe.
What is the cause of this melancholly,
His father's dead: no, such newes reuiues him,
Wants he a whore? nor that, loues he? that's folly,
Mount his high thoughts? oh no, then what grieues him?
Last night which did our Ins of court men call
In silken sutes like gawdy Butterflies,
To paint the Torch-light sommer of the hall,
And shew good legs, spite of slops-smothering thies
He passing from his chamber through the Court,
Did spoile a paire of new white pumps with durt
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