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Natures Embassie

Or, The Wilde-mans Measvres: Danced naked by twelve Satyres, with sundry others continued in the next Section [by Richard Brathwait]

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THE FALL OF THE LEAFE.
  
  
  
  

THE FALL OF THE LEAFE.

7. ODE.

Flora where's thy beauty now,
Thou was while'om wont to show?
Not a branch is to be seene,
Clad in Adons colour greene;
Lambkins now haue left their skipping,
Lawn-frequenting Fauns their tripping;
Earths bare breast feeles winters whipping,
And her brood the North-winds nipping.
Though the Boxe and Cypresse tree,
Weare their wonted liuerie,
And the little Robin scorne
To be danted with a storme,
Yet the Shepheard is not so,
When He cannot see for snow,
Nor the flocks which he doth owe,
And in drifts are buried low.

254

Nor the Grazer, discontent
That his fodder should be spent,
And when winter's scarce halfe-done,
All his stacks of hay are gone;
Nor the Lawyer, that is glad
When a motion's to be had,
Nor poore Tom, though he be mad;
“Cold makes Tom a Bedlam sad.
Nor the Webster, though his feete
By much motion get them heate,
Nor the knaue that curries leather,
Nor the cross-ledgg'd Taylor neither,
Nor at glass-worke, where they doubt
Left their costly fire go out,
Nor the carefull carking Lout,
That doth toyle and trudge about.
No, nor th' Ladie in her coach,
But is muff'd when frosts approach,
Nor the crazie Citizen,
But is furrd vp to the chin,
Oister-callet, slie Vpholster,
Hooking Huxster, merrie Malster,
Cutting Haxter, courting Roister,
Cunning Sharke, nor sharking foister.
Thus we see how Fall of th' leafe,
Adds to each condition griefe,
Onely two there be, whose wit
Make hereof of a benefit;
These, conclusions try on man,

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Surgeon and Physician,
While it happens now and than,
Kill then cure they sooner can!
Now's their time when trees are bare,
Naked scalps haue lost their haire,
Teeth drop out and leaue their gumms,
Head and eyes are full of rheumes,
Where if Traders strength do lacke,
Or feele aches in their backe,
Worse by odds then is the racke,
They haue drugs within their packe.
Thus the harshest seasons come
In good season vnto some,
Who haue knowne (as it is meete)
Smell of gaine makes labour sweet:
But where labour reapeth losse,
There accrews a double crosse;
First, fond cares his braine doth tosse,
Next, his gold resolues to drosse.