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Liber Primus.
Epigr. 1. de subiecto operis sui.
I speake of wants, of frauds, of policies,Of manners, and of vertues, and of times,
Of vnthrifts, and of frends, and enimies,
Poets, Physitions, Lawyers, and Diuines,
Of vsurers, buyers, borowers, ritch and poore,
Of theeues, of murtherers by sea and land,
Of pickthankes, lyers, flatterers lesse and more,
Of good and bad, and all that comes to hand,
I speake of hidden and of open things:
Of strange euents, of countries farre and wide,
Of warrs, of captaynes, Nobles, Princes, kings,
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This is my subiect reader I confesse,
From which I thinke seldome I doe digresse.
Epigr. 2.
When I was sweetly sotted with delight,Each trifeling cause could moue one to indite
A little praise would stirre me in such wise,
My thirst all Helycon could scarse suffice.
My pen was like a bowe which still is bent,
My head was like a barrell wanting vent.
Then had you toucht me, you had felt the smart,
What fury might, requiring helpe of art,
And then I thought my iudgements ayme so cleere
That I would hitt you right, or misse you neere,
But nowe left naked of prosperitie,
And subiect vnto bitter iniurie:
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Not neede her selfe can driue an Epigram,
Yet neede is mistresse of all exercise.
And she all thriuing arts did first deuise.
But should I thriue or prosper in that state,
Where she is my commandresse whome I hate?
For of a key-cold witt what would ye haue?
He which is once a wretch, is thrise a slaue.
Epigr. 3. Ad Lectorem.
Reader my booke flies low, and comes not neere,The higher world, and the celestiall spheare.
Yet not so low, but that it doth despise
The earthes round lumpe, and farre aboue it flies.
This is the middle labour of my pen,
To drawe thee forth (Reader) a mappe of men.
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Epigr. 4. De Microcosmo.
Man is a little world and beares the face,And picture of the Vniuersitie:
All but resembleth God, all but his glasse,
All but the picture of his maiestie.
Man is the little world (so we him call,)
The world the little God, God the great All.
Epigr. 5. Ad lectorem de subiecto operis sui.
The little worlde the subiect of my muse,Is an huge taske and labour infinite;
Like to a wildernesse or masse confuse,
Or to an endlesse gulfe, or to the night,
How many strange Meanders doe I finde?
How many paths do turne my straying pen?
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Which seeke to lim out this strange All of men?
Easie it were the earth to purtray out,
Or to draw forth the heauens purest frame,
Whose restlesse course, by order whirles about
Of change and place, and still remaines the same.
But how shall mens, or manners forme appeare,
Which while I write, do change frō that they were?
Epigr. 6. Ad Momum.
Momus , I treate of vices by the way,Of vices pure, abstract, and separate,
Of vniuersall, as the schoole men say,
Intentionall, meere, and specificate;
Which floate aboue all sense of vulgarnesse,
And keepe the topp of the prædicament;
Which like Chymæra haunt the wildernesse,
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You cannot Momus then be toucht by me,
Vnlesse you genus vniuersum, be.
Epigr. 7. Ad curiosum lectorem.
Me thinks some curious Reader, I heare say,What Epigrams in english? tis not fit.
My booke is plaine, and would haue if it may,
An english Reader but a latine witt.
Epigr. 8. Ad Do. Mountioy.
Great Lord, thine honour and thine excellence,Among the least hath worthy residence;
Of which I am, as meane, as low as any;
Yet a true heart and witnesse with the many.
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how high the lowe extoll thy worthy praise.
Here thou dost sit, these harts thy worth doth moue
These know thy vertues, daine to know their loue.
Epigr. 9. In Caium.
Caius will doe me good he sweares by all,That can be sworne, in swearing liberall:
He did me one good turne I wote well how,
I would he had not, for I rue it now.
And twise and thrise, he holpe me at my need,
He me in shew, but I holpe him in deede.
Had I more neede he would so succour me,
That for his helpe the more my need should be.
But Caius, haue ye such good turns in store?
O keepe them for your selfe, helpe me no more.
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Must say: Sir I haue need, now helpe your selfe.
Epigr. 10. De Cadauere in littus eiecto.
The naked corpse cast out vpon the shoare,Seemde in my thought thus wofully to plaine:
Sea, thou did'st drowne, and bury me before;
Why do thy waues then digge me out againe?
Thus we by earth and sea are inuired;
The earth castes forth her liue, the sea her dead.
Epigr. 11. de Philippo Sidneo.
VVhen nature wrought vpon her mould so well,That nature wondred her owne worke to see,
When arte so labourde nature to excell,
And both had spent their excellence in thee.
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Fearing they could not ende what they beganne.
Epigr. 12. De Publio.
Pvblius sweares he is nor false nor wicked,Free from great faults, and hath no other lett,
Saue this great fault he is in debt.
This is the greatest sinne he hath committed.
This is a great and hainous sinne indeede,
Which will commit him if he take not heede.
Epigr. 13.
Gallus would made me heire, but suddainly,He was preuented by vntimely death:
Scilla did make me heire: when by and by
His health returnes and he recouereth.
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And he that doth me good, hath it himselfe.
Epigr. 14. In Mathonem optatiuum.
Matho the wisher hath an ill entent,But for the fact I thinke him innocent,
If he see ought he wisheth it straight way.
Wishing the night, wishing he spendes the day.
Nor horse, nor man, nor wife, nor boy nor maide
Can scape his wish, nor ought that can be said.
Your house, your bed, your board, your plate, your dish,
All he deuours, tis all his with a wish.
He views whole fields & sheep on them which stray
Riuers, woods, hils, he wisheth all away.
Yea witt, and learning and good qualities,
He would not want, if wishing might suffice.
And this the disarde Matho nothing gaines,
By wishing oft, and yet he takes great paines.
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Epigr. 15. In Mirum medicum.
Phisition Mirus talkes of saliuation,Of Tophes and Pustules, and Febricitation;
Who doth ingurgitate, who tussicate,
And who an vlcer hath inueterate.
Thus while his Inkehorne termes he doth apply,
Euacuated is his ingenie.
Epigr. 16.
Some say that some which Colledges did found,Were wicked men; I grant it may be so:
But what are they which seeke to pull them downe?
Are not these wicked builders, let me know?
How do times differ? how are things discust?
For see their wicked, do excell our iust.
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Epigr. 17. de poëta Martiali.
Martiall, in sooth none should presume to write,Since time hath brought thy Epigrams to light:
For through our writing, thine so prais'de before
Haue this obteinde, to be commended more:
Yet to our selues although we winne no fame,
Wee please, which get our maister a good name.
Epigr. 18.
The poore man plaines vnto a Crocodile,And with true tears his cheeks he doth bedew,
Sir, I am wrong'd and spoild: alas the while,
I am vndone, good sir some pitie shewe:
Then weepes the Crocodile, but you may see,
his teeth preparde and hollow rauening iawe:
Then dry the poore mans teares, away goes he,
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He did me wrong which robde me as you see.
But he which stole my tears, stole more from me.
Epigr. 19. in Auaritiam.
Avarice hath an endlesse eye,Attende, and I will tell you why;
The minde the bodies good doth craue,
Which it desiring cannot haue:
The like resemblance may be made,
As if the bodie lou'd a shade.
Epigr. 20. in Cacum.
Cacus desired me to set him foorth.O how I burne saith he! O how I long,
And yet I cannot register his worth
And why? for Cacus neuer did me wrong.
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Epigr. 21. De Typographo.
The Printer when I askt a little summe,Huckt with me for my booke, & came not nere.
Ne could my reason or perswasion,
Moue him a whit; though al things now were deere,
Hath my conceipt no helpe to set it forth?
Are all things deere, and is wit nothing worth?
Epigr. 22. In Scillam.
Scilla had bin in France a weeke or two,When he returned home with victory;
Boasting of ten which he to death did do.
Nine in the fight, the tenth but cowardly.
For him he smote vntrussing of his hose,
Alas that soldier di'de a filthy death.
Yet he made vp the compleat summe of those,
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And by his Rapiar hilts (O bloody deed)
Embrau'de with golde, he sweares victoriously
And hundred at his next returne to speede.
Ten him no tens, an hundred more shall die,
But neuer he returnde, nor euer will,
Counting more glory now to saue then kill.
Epigr. 23. in Caluum.
Caluus hath hayre neither on head or brow.Yet he thanks God, that witt he hath enowe.
The witt may stand although the hayre doe fall
Tis true, but Caluus had no witt at all?
Epigr. 24.
Faustus is sicke of care, the doctors say,His cure and remedy must be delay.
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An hundred whole men are consum'd and deade.
After all this Faustus recouereth;
I see care is a tricke to cosin death.
Epigr. 25. in fucantem faciem suam.
He which put on a false vpon thy face,Hath done that ill, which was done well before,
Thus he hath put thy picture in thy place,
Making thee like thy selfe, thy selfe no more.
Depriude of liuing comlinesse and feature,
Fye on thee art, thou com'st to neere to nature.
Epigr. 26. de Adam primo homine.
VVhen Adam couered his first nakednes,With figge tree leaues, he did, he knew not what,
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God ordaind skins gainst his skins wretchednesse.
But gainst diseases and our inward neede,
To piece our life which slitting still doth passe.
What leafe do we not vse, what herbe, what grasse,
Their secret vertues standing vs in steede?
Thus in our garmentes these we cast away:
And yet our life doth weare them euery day.
Epigr. 27. In Cophum.
Cophus on Antimonium doth plodd,Beleeue me Cophus but you are too bolde,
To search into the secret depth of God:
After Potatoes of resolued golde
The Paracelsians taught you this to doe;
And you will ferett Nature from her denne,
Yee'le make men liue whether they will or no.
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For Cophus they haue taskt you like a noddy,
To study th' immortalitie of the bodie.
Epigr. 28.
They which reade Horace, Virgill and the rest,Of ancient Poets; all new wits detest:
And say O times; what happy wits were then,
I say, O fooles; rather what happy men.
Epigr. 29. In Gallum.
The good turne Gallus which you promised,When I beleeuing foole doe aske of you:
Then you obiect your name is blemished,
By my reportes, and more which is not true,
You might bin liberall as ye did boast,
But you are angry now with halfe the cost.
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Epigr. 30.
Florus exceeded all men of our time,So braue, so pert, so lust ye, and so trimme:
But sodainly me thought he did decline,
So wanne, so blanke, so sily and so thinne.
I aske the cause, he leads me through the streete,
He brings me to his house, where I may see,
A woman fayre, softe, gentle and discreete.
Behold saith Florus what hath tamed me.
What is this true? can such a wise doe so?
Then how must he be tamd which hath a shroe?
Epigr. 31. Epitaphium Timonis.
Heere I lie sealed vnder this stone,Deathes loathsome prisoner, lifes castaway.
Which when I liued was loued of none,
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Now all men for dying doe loue me, though ill,
I would not reuiue to loose their good will.
Epigr. 32.
They say the Spaniards make prouisionFor wars, and that they will be heere with speed
With shops; golde, siluer and munition.
What do they meane? I think they know our need?
Epigr. 33.
If ye aske Lætus why he keepes no Christmasse,Being so rich, hauing so large reuenue:
Hee'le say he is in debt, or hath some purchase,
Or hath begonne it and can not continue.
Porus hath many legacyes to pay,
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But Dacus will do good some other way,
Cacus would, weare his mony in his hand:
Olde Misus saith, let them spend wich can get,
Corus would now, but all things are to deare.
Germanus saith, you do not know my lett,
And Caius will keepe house an other yeare.
O wretched times, but our times iust abuse,
That euer doing good should haue excuse.
Epigr. 34. Ad Thomam Freake armig. de veris aduentu.
The welcome Sunne from sea Freake is returned,And cheerth with his beames the naked earth,
Which gainst his comming her apparelleth,
And hath his absence sixe long moneths mourned,
Out of her fragrant side she sendes to greete him
The rashed primrose and the violet;
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With flowers, & hang the trees with pearle to meet him
Amid this hope and ioy she doth forget,
To kill the hemlocke which doth grow too fast,
And chill the adder making too much hast,
With his blacke sonnes reuiued with the heat,
Till sommer come with diuers colours clad,
Much like my Epigrams with good and badd.
Epigr. 35. In Thersit en.
Aathough Thersites haue a filthy face,And staring eyes, and little outward grace.
Yet this he hath to make amend's for all,
Nature her selfe is not more naturall.
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Epigr. 36.
Nisus writes Epigrams and so doe I,Matter he hath enough, but I haue lesse,
Yet but in one poynt all the ods doth lie,
He may speake of lewde loues and wantonnesse.
Is not this ods? am not I in a streight,
His matter pleaseth more, then my conceipt.
Epigr. 37. In Festum.
Festus and this vile world haue shaken hands,Opprobrious riches were to him such griefe,
That he hath so dispatcht his wealth and lands,
That no man now can cast them in his teeth,
Now what is not vndone? and what remaines,
To Festus of his former happinesse?
Ritch with all humours, onely he retaines
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But Philo take you care no more of that,
For if ye doe, you will vndoe your fatt.
Epigr. 38. In Misum.
Olde Misus is a slauish drudge I knowe,For whome? but for his master, so he saies:
Who is your maister Misus can ye shew?
Is not he in your chest vnder your keyes?
Then you doe ill so farre him to preferre,
And make your Lord, which is your prisoner.
Epigr. 39. Ad librum suum.
My little booke whom wilt thou please, tell me?All which shall reade thee? no that cannot be.
Whom then, the best? but few of these are knowne.
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The meaner sort cōmend not poetry;
And sure the worst should please themselues for thee
But let them passe, and set by most no store.
Please thou one well, thou shalt not neede please more.
Epigr. 40. Ad Lectorem.
How quickly doth the Reader passe away,My pens long taske and trauaile of the day?
Foure lines, which hold me tug an hower or twaine
He sups vp with a breath and takes no paine.
Yet vse me well Reader, which to procure
Thy one short pleasure, two long paines endure:
The one of writing when it is begonne:
Th' other of shame, if't please not when tis done.
Finis. Libri Primi.
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