A Nights Search :: :: University of Virginia Library

Death soone did follow: while she liv'd, the fame
Did every minute speak the fathers shame;
She as an Embleme and a type of death
Did shew her selfe, when she received breath.
She was inclosed with the fowle disease;
Though little time she liv'd, she had lesse ease.
For why? she had extremity of paine,
Till she return'd unto the dust againe.
Sh' was coffin'd up, with scurfe and noysome sores,
Her father brought it from his rotten whores
Vnto her mother; so it was convey'd
To her; her mother had been else destroy'd:
Yet both undone; and yet this rascall vile
Being often shent, he'd jeare, and laugh, or smile,
Her griefe was much increased, being poore,
Most that he got, he spent upon some whore;
Or on the Surgeon, being often cur'd;
But no whit better; what he then endur'd,
Yo'ld think might change his mind; but he grew worse,
Nor is he mov'd with Gods eternall curse.
He runns in debt, and scores up what he may,
'Tis known full well he doth not use to pay.
I know he borrow'd much his lusts to fit,
Some wisht him whipt; he hath not paid them yet;
Nor never will; which grieves them most of all:
He's out of credit now; nor ever shall
Grow more in debt, because no man will lend him;
Speak harsh, he's mad; or faire, it will not mend him.
He must be dieted at th' fall and spring;
He'l no strong drink, nor wine, and thus he'l sing
A month together; while the Surgeon's by,
He'l seeme to grieve; being gone, then presently,
He is the same; no orders will he keep,
But drink, and drab, while civill men doe sleep.

If money last, he will not look tow'rds home,
Had they but food, they'd rather have his roome
Than's company: he'l kick his wife about,
And pawne his goods; he has not much I doubt.

In this distresse, if she doth seek reliefe,
Amongst her friends, if they but ease her griefe,
This monster's wilde, spits venom, threats, he'l say,
See if they dare to keep his wife away:
If that prevailes not, then he'l sweare, and lye,
He loves her so, that he for her shall dye,
If she returnes not home. Thus will he seek,
Till he attaines: she being milde and meek,
Conceives the best; he promising a change,
Goes home againe; beleeve it, 'tis not strange,
He's chang'd indeed: but 'tis from bad to worse;
She's almost starv'd, yet he hath no remorse.
Makes he much of her, as he promis'd? no,
He sells her clothes, then hang her, let her goe.

He never goes to Church, but hates all such
That would perswade him to't, thinks all too much
That any doe for heaven: calls them asses,
Especially amongst his bawdy lasses.
He'l domineere, when they upon him sawne.
I'le judge the best, his clothes are all at pawne,
Or else he's loth to fright folk with his look,
Or else because the Broker has his book:
Or is he in some Celler under ground?
And drinking, till he thinks the world goes round?
He hangs on others, they must pay his score,
He has no coyne, his hoste will trust no more.

As for the woman, how to set her free,
Alas! I know not, except time agree
To end her life: some Hospitall may take him
To try their skill, and as a patterne make him.

No other way can I conceive to do it,
Vnlesse the Sessions do agree unto it;
That he may grieve his wife and friends no more,
To have him hang'd, though he was burnt before:
Of all, the hangman then would prove his friend,
He'd never leave him, till he saw his end.
But after all his friendship, he'd be mad,
When once he finds his clothes are all so bad.
Muse, leave this goat, for he defiles thy pen;
Ranck him with beasts, but never more with men.

But this poore infant I have left too long,
We'd parle a little: couldst thou use thy tongue,
Thou'dst teach my pen, to write with blood or teares,
Or make it silent; and beget strange feares
In those that heare thee, and as strange to see;
T'ould move a stone, to waile thy misery.
Not like a child, thou like a monster rather!

Oh, blame not me! but blame my wretched father!
But quit my mother, for she's guiltlesse knowne,
Her comfort here's like mine, quite overthrowne.
She was deceiv'd, my fathers flattring tongue
Did so insnare her (when she was but young)
Though 'twas but non-sense, she could not perceive it;
What ere he spoke, she'd willingly receive it:
Her friends being simple, matcht her to her sorrow,
To one daies mirth, which ended on the morrow.
By love she try'd to draw, and turne his heart
From ill, but he still plaid the devills part.
In sorrow she conceiv'd, and brought forth me,
An object of disdaine, that all may see,
I am a wonder, for my fathers sake,
A signe of great displeasure: warning take
All you that see me, or doe heare my story,
Amend your lives in time; give God the glory.

All filthy courses see you alwayes hate;
“When Ruine knocks, Repentance comes too late,
Then you must beare the evills that you doe,
And your posterity will curse you too.
They'l suffer for your sins; as you may see,
My fathers sins, are now reveng'd on me.
My suffring's here, for I shall finde redresse,
And be redeem'd out of this deep distresse.
God's just and righteous, as he still hath bin;
I shall not alwayes beare my fathers sin.
My time is short, how soone my race is runne!
I must away, before I see the Sunne.
I now salute the world, and bid adiew;
'Tis only vaine; leave it ere long must you.
I for your sakes was sent; I had my breath
To entertaine my friend. Come, gentle death.

The Epitaph.

Here lies an Infant, while she liv'd in paine,
Did (in a kinde) bewaile her fatall birth!
She was an Embleme of her fathers staine,
Till she returned to her mother, Earth.
The sight of her might quell all lust and pride.
Her presence gave us warning; so she dy'd.