University of Virginia Library

The first Book.

To the Reader of my Epigrams and Satyrs.

Reader! that we may stil be friends be wise!
And read no more of me, I thee advise!
Somewhere thou'lt find thy selfe abus'd, and hate
My naked truths, and so repent too late:
Some sawcie line, if they, not give offence,
The duller yet, wil vex thy patience.
Why wrot I then, me thinks I hear it sed,
If I not meant the Satyrs should be read?
Read on then at your peril! but see you
Read as I writ, having nought els to do.

To a lacivious Blackamoore Woman.

'Tis Night in thine, in my face day: but yet
Should wee joyn; wee might mongrel twilight get;
A Tawny-moore that would of both partake:
Haunt me not Shade! I'l no new monster make.

To Cosmus.

Wouldst know who 'tis that makes his knife his plough?
Reaps with encrease, and yet doth never sow?
That hath no Granarie to inn an eare,
And yet 'tis harvest with him all the year?
That without fear of Statute, doth ingrosse
All th'corn hee can, and lives by others losse?
Nor buyes nor sels, nor eats it? then know (Sir?)
'Tis Gemurcide, your humble Corn-cutter.

On Lieutenant Catch.

Catch brags much of his learning; and how wel
In letters verst, he many doth excel:
Thou wert indeed a cunning letter'd knave,
Thy learning from the gallowes thee did save:
No Samian e'r so letter'd was, as you,
Twice thou wast burnt i'th' hand, and once i'th' brow.

To one that after ten years studie, brought forth a lamentable work.

Ten years you say 'tis, since you 'gan to write:
So long in bringing forth so little wit?
So after ten years siege the Græcians won
But a dry ravisht Helen, and burnt town:
So Elephants bring forth, having ten years gone,
A fœtuous monster, such as you have done.

On rich Lock.

Rich Lock's maids stay not long with him, yet they
Laden all, though not Maiden, go away:
Some to his tenants eldest sons are wed,
Some to his menial servants married;
With th'first he gives some monie, and to these
A Rent-free farme or Copyhold he gi'es.
Well their short service thou rewardest Lock:
Young Tenants cann't begin without a stock.
Sure a more gracious Landlord ne'r was known
Lock's now more like a father to his town.

To the Printer.

I prithee spoil-sheet! through resolv'd mistake
Don't in my book more new Errata's make!
And force, ith' latter sheet thy Reader so
With thy faults and smal sense more pennance do!
Hee'l not forgive thee, since he knows ful wel
You made them now, that it might better sel.

On Galla her going to a Nunnerie.

E'r her Probation year was finished,
She not approv'd that life; Improve she did:
The first year Galla only said she meant
To prove: She prov'd indeed, with child, and went.

On Marcus.

Homers Stentorian that had the voice
Of fifty men, made not so great a noise
As Marcus, when he pleads; no Judge can sleep
Or Officer, he doth such bawling keep.
Who but loud Marcus the Court practice hath?
His clients cause he carries with a breath.

To Sullen.

Sullen , when it is vext' wil angry sit,
'Twil neither eat nor drink, but pout and fret:
Fast! you do wel, in Gallen I have read
Such scurvie humours should be sterv'd, not fed.

On Cleombrotus.

Soon as Cleombrotus th'Ambraciot read
Grave Plato's Phædo that discours'd how dead
This life is; after which the soul should be
Cloath'd with a robe of Immortalitie.
Mistaking him; himself did fondly drown,
And cryd thus chang'd my crook is for a Crown.
Alas! poor blind deceived Mortal? he
Made too much hast to Immortalitie:
Who'd take by force what may be giv'n him? since
Heav'n ne'r was purchas'd by such violence?

To a Travellour.

You talk of Silarus that turns wood to stone;
Of a Fount flows with wax, and then of one
That streams with pitch; and of the Andrian spring
That store of wine and oyl doth daily bring;
All this I'l first beleive, then travaile I,
To see how wide you and your fountains lie.

On the Ladie Seem-pol.

Drest like her self, her feat discourse is drawn
Latinify'd in fine spun Cobweb lawn;
Each flatuous word swels with verbositie,
And speaks how skild she is in Sophistrie:
How wise your babes would be, if they, so young,
Should learne from you to speak their mother tongue?
Nay she learn'd Aristotle; dares confute
Or, with Bengeli, of the Stars dispute?
Far above humane, much more, womans reach
Or laugh at him that did oth' Sunday preach:
Thus at her tongue most rarely good is she:
She's at her tail as good, or fame doth lie.

On Sir Gervas Loftie.

What what a Spanish gate this portly tal
And glorious Ship doth through the Ocean sail
Of its vast boundless pride? at which the smal
And weaker pinnace must or break or vail?
He wil know no man; this the cause may be,
He hardly knows himself, for every day
He or his garment's not the same, whilst he
Turns shapes like Proteus, looking big and gay.
Poor ship although your sails so wide you bear,
I know ther's twenty have in thee a share.

To the Reader.

Dost wonder Reader why my Satyr-Muse
Hath got no lines ith' front as others use
To set her forth, and so conceive her poore
'Cause friendless as not worth the reading o'r?
Why I bespoke not other men to write
Encomium's there, whose empty praises might
Make the enlarged Preface swel and look
Like Mindus porch, as big as all the book?
She scornd to beg applause, or trouble friends,
Except those she gets: Good wine it self commends.
Why shud a stranger at her feast say grace?
She bids you welcome, fall to, if you please!

Epitaph on a Poor Alchymist.

The ashes of a Golden Ass,
Not worth a monument of brass,
Or Chymist subtle as his gold
Reader this earthen urn doth hold;
Who, his gold vanisht all to air
And dear-bought cinders, through despair
And Deaths more certain Chimestrie,
The Quintessence of Fool did die,
Thus sublimated and calcin'd
To nothing, but poor dust refin'd.

Why men are so unlike.

Why one man is not like another', this;
No one is like himself, and so it is.

To Madam Moyle on her Picture.

Madam! their judgments I commend who said,
Your Pictur's like your self, for it is made
Of fading colours which wil wear away,
To be gaz'd on a while, and then decay;
An empty shadow with a rouling sight,
Looks wantonly on all that look on it;
A wel drest statue, yes; and painted too;
'Tis very like you, Madam! so are you.

Epitaph on a very fat man.

Under this pebble stone,
Here fast sleepeth one,
And that is not two;
Yet was without doubt
Far bigger about,
Then both I, and you.
His kidneys encreast
So much, that his wast
Was hooped all round:
So his girdle Death cuts,
And down fel his guts,
'Bouts heels to the ground.

To Clois.

I know you rich; you are an heir,
You'r courteous, liberal, and fair,
You'r wise too, as most women are,
Jolly, and friendly, debonair:
I like this freedom; but they say
You are to free another way.
Clois farewel! your gold s too light;
And so I may too dearly buy't.

On the English Mounsieur.

An English Mounsieur lately came from France,
Where he had learnt to make a leg, to dance,
To kiss his little finger, ride the Barbe,
And wear his cloaths in the authentick garbe.
Seeing him thus ith' mode, I did demand
In French, how long 'twas since he came to land?
He answer'd not, but said he had been long
In France, but never car'd to learne the tongue.
How many are there whom we thus mistake,
That travel only thus for fashion sake?

On Philautus.

Philautus thinks each woman that doth view
His proper person, streight must love him too:
Alas Town cladder thou'rt mistane I see,
Thou lov'st thy self, and them, they laugh at thee.

On Nab and Plodwel.

Nab gone to Sea two years or more, and dead
Reported since, his wife did Plodwel wed:
Return'd Nab found his wife with child, and though
Her he must keep, the child he would not too.
Plodwel ejected of's new home and wife,
Laid the case thus: Tenant for years or life
When that his time expires, what e'r he leaves
Unto the Freehold fastned, the Law gives
All to the Landlord; and who ploughs, and sowes
Anothers ground, at his own peril do's
The same, and looses all the crop: since I
Have trespass'd, reap the same! he made reply,
The barn and ground's your own; good land should not
Lie fallow. Nab thus gain'd what Plodwel got.

To Lupa.

Thy daughter-Whore, begets a Bawd her mother,
As Ice and water each engender other:
Though thy age freize with her salt mixt like snow
Before her lustfull fires, it thaweth too
By the same heat inflam'd: when she grows ice
So you can warme her bloud with Bawdes advice.

On Priske and Galla.

Some think Prisk's great with Galla; but say I,
She is grown great with him, or fame doth lie.

To a fat Usurer.

Fat folks we say by nature are most free:
You and your purse are fat, and yet I see
Your hand and that stil shut, the reasons this;
In costive flesh thy lean soul buried is.

On Wylde.

His father sick and dying, Wylde mourn'd sore,
But 'twas because he died not before:
At's burial he in mourning weeds was clad,
This was cause th'Mother was not also dead:
She dead, sad soul! he cloath'd himself in Sack
(Cloath I not mean) for th'belly, not the back.
Oh Viperous age! when children shal so soon
Through envy wish their parents dead and gone!

On Smart.

A puritan once; Smart, since conform'd did bow,
Wore a Canonick cassock to his shooe:
Turn'd with the tide he rails 'gainst Bishops now;
This for a quiet living Smart can do:
Instead of Cassock now a cloack he wears,
A broad hat with short hair and longer ears.
As th'Sun moves he sets his Horoscope:
Smart's both a turn coat now, and Heliotrope.

On Brisk.

Brisk brag'd of's ready wit; I tempting him
But for one distick, did propound this theam,
Nothing: It cannot be, he wondring said
That out of Nothing ought shu'd e'r be made.
Dul Brisk thou ne'r couldst tune Apollo's lyre:
A puresteeld wit, wil strike Mercurial fire
Out of the flintiest subject: but thy head
Is all compos'd of softer mettle, lead.

On Mopsa a Chambermaide.

Mopsa advanc'd from th'dairie to her Dame,
With her black bag conceal'd from whence she came:
Mopsa o'r her bodie had a tan'd goose skin,
Yet her cloaths hid it, so that was not seen;
Mopsa her face was chinkt and uglie too,
Yet that she salv'd with Arts adulterate hue:
Mopsa's pretended simpring modestie
Hid her foul thoughts: Stil good she seem'd to be:
Mopsa's wemb swell'd, that fault was also hid
By th'Chaplains cassock whom she married:
But Mopsa's child did like her Master grow:
Alas! poor Mopsa was discover'd now.

To fat Apicius.

Apicius leave! scratch thy bald pate no more
Hark how thy Muse supine doth sleeping snore
In thy diseas'd and bedred soul! She lies
Slumbring resolv'd neither to wake or rise.
Not all thy sprightly Sack or far fetcht chear
Can help as midwives to deliver her.
The fumes from thy ful paunch ascending fil
Thy head with vapours, whose dul mists do kil
And suffocate thy vitals, hurt thy brain,
Where all thy genitive faculties are lane.
The Muses live in hungry air, feed clean,
So must you; els your wit wil ne'r be keen.
As 'tis in Nature so in Poesie,
Seldom or nev'r fat bodies pregnant be.

On a deaf man and his blind wife.

The husband's deaf, the wife cann't see a wink
She's ears to him' and now he's eies to her:
Which hath the happier time on't do you think?
He; since her parlous tongue he cannot hear,
Her noise 'tis thought deaft him; howe'r it be,
Happy is that loss that made them thus agree.

On Lena.

Lena a virgin was so pure,
So holy, sober, chast, demure,
So all o'r mild, as in good sooth
Butter would hardly melt in mouth.
But Lena married grew a scold
Outragious, impudent, and bold;
And when her lustful fires went out,
A Bawd, she threw the sparks about.
Her early goodness did presage
She would degenerate with age.
The double blossom'd Apple-tree
Never bears any fruit we see:
And a forward promising Spring,
Doth but a sterile Autumne bring.
The Proverb thus she verifies,
A young Saint an old Divel is.

Why Justice is painted blind.

Who painted Justice blind did not declare
What Magistrates should be, but what they are;
Not so much 'cause they rich and poor shud weigh
In their just scales alike; but because they
Now blind with bribes are grown so weak of sight.
They'l sooner feel a cause then see it right.

Of Love Sonnets.

Why love so often theams each writers pen
Is this: 'tis spreading Love o'rcomes all men:
Which sicknes though most would hide frō their friends,
Like Agues, yet 'twil work at th'fingers ends.

To Sir Gregorie Nonsense.

When you to little purpose much do talk
Repeating stil the same thing, and I baulk
Your weaker argument to avoid delay;
Angry you'd have me hear you out, you say,
I'have heard thee out too long, where you ha' bin
Wide from the purpose, now lets hear thee in.

To spend-fast a Gamster.

The famous Lers of Belestat that flows
And for four months doth ebb each hower, shows
What tides thy wavering fortune bears, whilst you
By play wax rich, and wain as often too.
But Spend-fast this hath a full Sea to feed
It's thirstie current when it stands in need:
You han't an Ocean of wealth I think,
When all your bags grow drie to make them drink.

To the Ingenious Reader.

Reader be wise! and don't abuse the Poet!
Say not his wit is old, stole; or, I know it!
If nought worth praise you here shal find or see,
Be silent then; Hee'l do as much for thee.

On Sullen.

Sullen wil eat no meat but peevishly
Replies I care not nor I will not, I:
Troth I commend his abstinence, 'tis great,
When having such a stomack hee'l not eat.

To Pistor.

When Pistors bread is found too light, 'tis sent
To the poor Prisoners for his punishment:
I not approve't, 'tis Charity mistane,
Pistor you ar' stil an errant Knave in graine.

On a fruitful Merchants wife.

A merchant newly married went to Sea;
Returning after three years voyage, he
Found his wife busied midst her children two,
And with a third as big as she could goe.
She to prevent a storme said husband! you
By Sea, and I by land have travail'd too.

To a painted Whore.

As rotten worms do breed in gilded books,
So thrives thy carkas under painted looks:
Who reads thy soul shal find that too within
In every line and letter black with sin.

To Brisk.

Brisk when thour't drunk, then in thy own conceit,
Thour't Valiant, Wise, Great, Honest, Rich, Discreet.
Infus'd at once so many qualities?
Oh Virtuous sack from whence all these arise!
Troth! Brisk be alwaies drunk! for wel I know
When you are sober you are nothing so.

To Jeffry the Kings dwarfe.

Smal Sir! me thinks in your lesse self I see
Exprest the lesser worlds Epitomie.
You may write man, ith' abstract so you are,
Though printed in a smaller Character.
The pocket volume hath as much within't
As the broad Folio in a larger print,
And is more useful too. Though low you seem
Yet you'ar both great and high in mens esteem.
Your soul's as large as others, so's your mind:
To greatness Virtue's not like strength confin'd.

To Overwise.

Before a jeast is crackt he laughs and swears
Good before—oh apprehensive ears!
That do like lightning thus prevent the stroke
And conceive thunder e'r the cloud is broke.

On Mounsieur Finedress.

Sr. do but marke yon crisped Sir you meet!
How like a Pageant he doth stalk the street?
See how his perfum'd head is powderd o'r!
Twu'd stink else, for it wanted salt before.

On Philautus.

Philautus with himself is much in love,
Doth his own actions ever best approve;
Nay his own picture he doth look upon,
('Cause 'tis like him,) with admiration:
How wel may he be said and truly too
To court a shadow? he himself is so.

To Gripe.

Gripe to me all when he is dead wil give,
Wil part with nothing whilst he is alive:
What thanks is that to gape for dead mens shoos?
To give them only when you cannot chuse?
Give now; 'tis left then 'gainst your wil I know:
It is twice giv'n, what living we bestow.
He leavs a good name who givs whilst he livs,
And only carries with him what he givs.

On Lurch the match-contriver.

Lurch th'old match-maker with his hunting nose
All the young Heirs both Male and Female knows
In town or Country, widows too, or men
Once married, he can help to wed agen:
Saves them the labour too of wooing, whilst
He bids the bans, and sends them to the Priest
For further copulation: thus doth Lurch
Prey on each party that he brings to Church.
But oh how oft this marriage-Pimp is curst!
'Fore I'd grow rich thus, I'd be hanged first.

To the Reader.

Reader! my Muse thinks not, as beggars do,
Boldly with importunitie to wooe
A farthing worth of praise, no: her desire
Is only, passing, that you'd look on her.
She proudly says on alms she scorns to live:
And as good as you bring she back wil give.

On Proud.

Proud swels like Boreas, with face red as fire,
And keeps a blustring stir in fuming ire,
So Rubies; do resemble flames, and yet
Are neither hot or capable of heat,
Since ther's no fire can warm them: So art thou
As cold with inward fear, as hot in show.
'Tis but false fire thy seeming Passion givs;
Then thine, there's not a tamer spirit livs.

To his dear friend H. N.

With what strange Philtrum's thou didst charm the wine,
Whose powr'ful influence made our souls combine
And melt into our loving cups; or how
First thou didst win me to thee, I not know;
Wast 'cause thou'rt pleasant thinkst thou? with discreet
And harmless mirth setting an edge to wit?
Or 'cause thou'rt liberal, courteous, and free,
The friend and Genius of the companie?
Was't for thy person, wealth, or valour I
So lov'd thee? or was't only sympathie?
Was't this, or altogether made me doate
Upon thee first? no sure, nor this nor that:
I can no certain cause assign thee why,
But this, I love thee without reason, I.

To Gripe and Holdclose.

Gripe sais Rags cloaths are lousie, but Holdclose
Sais they'r so poor, they are not worth a louce:
Though your phrase differ; thus agree you may,
Give him fresh cloaths, heel shift his lice away.

To Gallus.

What's in three bellies in one day, wu'dst know?
'Tis the new egge thou eatst, each morning to
Thy breakfast: first 'twas in the hens, and then
In thine, at night 'tis in thy hen's agen.

On Bib.

Bibs in a seaver alwaies, hot and drie,
Yet I ne'r saw him sick: the reason why?
Lifes liquor sack he drinks, whose healthful sp'rit
Expels both sickness, death, and fear of it.
Oh never dying juyce of th'pow'rful vine!
Thou makst men like thy Immortal self, divine.

Of Loving Husbands.

We observe each loving Husband when the wife
Is labouring, by a strange reciproque strife
Doth sympathizing sicken, and't may be:
In Law their one, and in Divinity.

On Luscus.

Luscus is never wel, but changing stil,
And though he loose by th'bargain change he wil:
No marle he's grown so poor, how shud he els?
Too dear he buys repentance when he fels.

On Stut.

The more Stut strives to speak, he stams the more;
But his cold tongue wel oyld, and hot with store
Of wine, he speaks not like an Oracle then,
But much, and loud, and plain as other men:
Such Eloquence hath pow'rful wine: but he
Drinks oft til he can neither speak nor see.
The Remedie here is worse then the disaese,
Better then none, a tongue imperfect is.

On the strange Death of Eschylus a Poet.

Eschylus foretold by a diviner, he
By th'downfal of a house should ruind be:
Fondly that day to 'void this Destinie
Did keep the field, not yet resolv'd to die:
There, as he stood, a Faulcon in his beak
Having a Tortoys which he meant to break,
Suppos'd his bald pate, as he barehead stood,
To be a stone, on which to get his food
He let it fal: the Tortoys did remain
By this chance safe, and Eschylus was slain.
Oh the unalterd Persian Laws of fate!
Whose fixt decrees none can anticipate!
Bold Poets hence prove mortal, whilst that crown
(Whose radiant temples, laurent with renown,
And deckt with tresses like Apollo's brows)
Is safe from Envies crack, or Deaths fel blows.

On Cob.

From th'College Cob sent to the Ins of Court
Half codled, wu'd seem wise though he pay for't:
A pretty study he hath fil'd with books;
Yet he in that or them but seldom looks.
Not to him but his heire Cob learning buys:
These are Cobs new Fee simple purchases.

On Cleopatra.

Rich Cleopatra striving to outvie
In luxuries excess Mark Anthonie,
A Pearl in value worth three hundred crown
Dissolv'd in vinegar first did swallow down
At one proud draught; and but prevented wu'd
At the next draught have swallowed one as good.
Oh monstrous stomack that could in one houre
Consume an Empire, and a State devoure?

On an Inveighing Poetaster.

See where a snarling Scribler doth inveigh
In toothless jeasts against my Poesie!
The toothach sure torments his head and wit;
Which makes him show his teeth that cannot bite.
Bees when they wound, disarm themselvs: this Ca[illeg.]
So breaks his teeth when he doth biting snarle.

The Dedication to Momus.

I to Mæcenas dedicate my book,
Hee'l read it with no supercilious look;
To each Ingenious Reader I transmit
The same, he best knows how to judge of it;
To th'simple that he may admire't, I give,
Whom 'cause he understands not, I forgive;
To all my Poetizing friends I send it,
But to you only (Momus) I commend it.

On Dul.

Dul readeth much, many a leaf turns o'r,
Yet grows no wiser than he was before;
Can tel you many Authors names by roat,
Which upon all occasions he wil quoat:
Forgets the text, which he ne'r understood,
Thus he eats much, but cann't disgest his food.
Be not too greedie Dul! first learn to spel!
Who rides too fast, at first, he rides not wel.

On Accismus.

Foolish Accismus hath a qualitie
To deny offer'd things in modestie:
By chance one offer'd him an injurie,
He took it: Bless me! what a fool was he?

On Tucca.

Tucca e'r while went to a Bawdy house,
Where for his entrance he not paid a sous:
Oh conscience Tucca! 'las! it is their trade;
I care not he replies, I'm sure I'm paid.
'Tis just; who e'rs caught stealing in the act
If he scape death, shu'd be burnt for the fact.

To Rash.

Rash swear not! think not 'cause you swear that I
Believe you! no: he that wil swear will lie.

To Crispinus.

Crispinus 'cause you lately writ a play,
And then didst put't in print the other day,
You think your self to be a profest Poet,
And where you come, believe, that all men know it:
By which smal work you now are grown so proud,
That now you dare amidst the Homers croud;
And 'cause you'have sipt a little, think you'are free
Oth' learned Arts, and of their companie:
Intrude not yet Crispinus! thou'rt not fit
For th'Muses quire, thine is but suburb wit.

On Howdee.

When at the Court a fashions quite wore out,
And come to Longlane walks the town about,
Then doth my Ladies Howdee get intoi't,
And thinks him gallant in this new old suite:
No matter Howdee, thour't in fashion yet,
For though a great way off, thou follow'st it.

To Brave.

VVher'er he comes, Brave like a Valiant Scot
Freely discharges all, and paies the shot;
Else none wu'd care for's idle companie;
When th'reck'ning comes, then Brave, I'l send for thee.

On Venterwit.

He scrapes up verses, shows them up and down,
And where they are likt, he saies they are his own:
If none commend them, then he swears he found
Them by chance, walking in the Temple round.
He by chance met with some of mine, which he
Had spoild with interlining ribauldrie:
Who showing askt we how I like't the strein?
I told him 'twas a poor and empty vein:
He wondring at my censure, boldly said
They were the best lines that he ever made.
Yes: so they were I told him 'fore the text
Was by his comment thus perplext.
Fool thou'rt discover'd; therfore take advise!
Spoil mine no more, or I'l proclaim thy lies!

On Braggadochio Cit.

Cit now he's rich doth boast his Pedigree
How he's allied to this great familie
And to'ther, whom as customers he knew;
Thus both his kinred and acquaintance grew.
Peace Cit! or I'l proclaim thy stock; I know
That no more arms (poor thou) then legs can'st show.

On Wylde.

Wylde drinks to drown his sorrows, and't may be,
The more he drinks, the more foregetful he.

On Childish love.

Children their mothers more than fathers love.
The cause is plain: the fathers often prove
Uncertain and unknown, and so it is:
For who can love what he nor knows, nor sees?

On Mr Spendall.

I asked Spendall why he spent so fast?
Why he his coin did so profusely wast?
Hee repli'd moneys were but crosses to him,
And gold a gilded bait that would undo him:
Why he sold all his land, I askt agen?
Hang't 'twas but durt, why should he keep it then?
To purchase Heav'n he wou'd sel that and moe,
Where til he left his earth, he could not goe:
Then, why he sold his bed? troth hee did tell
Mee, whilst he kept his bed, he ne'r was well:
At last, I askt him why his clothes he sold?
All to his naked shirt? he was, he told
Me now about to bid to every friend
And th'world good-night, and so hee made his end.
Troth Spendall, I do like each smart reply,
But not thy witty foolish povertie.

On Lawyer Say-much.

Saymuch by chance in's feet had got the gout,
Yet pleaded stil; there hee wou'd ne'r be out,
But talkt apace, though his feet gouty bee,
Yet hee may have a running tongue I see.

To Medicus on Tucca.

When Tucca's sick, then straight he sends for thee,
Look to his water! hee'l give nothing, hee.

To Vetus an old Antiquary.

Vetus upon a Manuscript doth pore,
Tiring himself in reading Hist'ry o'r;
What Noah eat before the floud, or how
Learning increas'd, is all his care to know:
Out of Troys ashes here he rakes a Storie,
Makes him admire its strength, & Priams glorie:
Tels you who Athens built, then talks of Rome,
How many Consuls she hath had, and whom;
The oldest books and writings him best please,
As many love to feed on mouldie cheese:
Thus he remembers things forgot, doth know
All that is past, but knows not what is now.
'Troth now 'tis time to know thy selfe; go die!
Converse with th'dead! here's none can make reply.

On Fine.

Fine carries 'bout him strong perfumes to please
The Ladies sweeter comp'nie, nothing els?
Yet: his breath stunck before of's old disease,
Hoping to hide which, now as strong he smels.

On the Drunkards lavishness.

I'l tel you why the drunk so lavish are,
They have too much, nay more then they can bear.

On Poetizing Momus.

Momus when any Poem he doth read,
Though it deserve just praise, and doth exceed
In wit and judgement; yet he sighs it o'r,
Saying hee has read as good as it before:
Wil ne'r commend it; and if any by
Ask how he likes it? then he makes reply,
'Tis good, indifferent; there's something in't,
Or it may pass, but 'tis scarce worth the print.
Thus though his wisdome can no fault espie,
Yet he denies it praise, in policie:
'Troth Momus if thou had'st, no better friend,
None would thy verses read, much lesse commend.

On Linus.

Linus his Peruque's made of womens hair,
Thus what was lost by women, they repair:
But not long after Linus nose did drop;
'Las! that was such a breach they could not stop.

On Gallus.

Troubled in conscience Gallus weds his whore,
Hopes shee'l as honest prove as she was poore;
What skils saies hee? 'tis but as 'twas before,
I kept her then, and now I do no more:
For better and for worse our wives we take,
A Whore purchance an honest wife may make.

On Histrio.

Though Histrio on the stage doth often die,
Thus put in mind of his mortalitie,
Yet reclames not, but lives licenciously,
As if he were to act eternally.
Believe me Histrio death at last wil come,
Though for a while hee keeps the tyring room.

To a Tobaccoseller.

Men buy thy smoak, but leave it all behind,
Thou sellest nought, grow'st rich, 'cause fools are kind.

To the Reader.

Reader! I am no Epigramatist,
No carping Momus, or fel Satyrist:
I touch no man, but in the generall,
And modest look, like equal day, on all;
I personate none; if you then guilty bee
'Tis your own fault t'apply it; I am free.

To Bankes.

When Spendall asks to borrow, you reply,
You know not when hee'l pay you; troth nor I.

To the Physicians.

Of all the several Professions
I best approve the wise Physicians,
You can kill men, nor fear a Jury for't,
And get experience by anothers hurt;
You can take fees, whether you cure or no,
And large ones too; few other trades do so:
Your shop is alwaies ope in war or peace,
All times alike conspire to your encrease:
Then y'have the opportunity you know
To feel a Ladies tender pulse, or so:
Thus you both purge the purse and body too,
Are counted wise, 'cause fools makes use of you.

To Lupa.

You are a medler Lupa, rotten too,
That's 'cause you are an open-arse you know.

Epitaph on Bibulus.

Here, who but once in's life did thirst, doth lie,
Perhaps the dust may make him once more drie.

On Histrio.

Histrio would needs go write a play of's own,
But could write nought but what's already known,
For hee like th'leaden cisterne held no more
Water, then what the Poet dropt before.

To Gut.

Gut eats and drinks, doth nothing els but swill,
His teeth do grind, his mouth's the water-mil.

To Simple.

Simple you know I gave you good advice;
Little to say, that men might think you wise;
If you'l proclaim your self a fool you may:
I onely tel you now what others say.

To Brisk.

Brisk is in love, yet saies a single life
Is best and freest from sorrow, care, or strife:
What e'r you think, beleeve't 'tis true you say,
Marry! you'l find it so another day.

On Nano being angry.

How Nano swels? how big he looks and high?
What a large spleen he bears? so hath the flie.

To my Reader.

Wonder not why I humbly do not write,
Flatt'ring Encomium's to this Lord, that Knight!
And each known friend, as hungry Poets use!
Mine is a substantive unpension'd Muse;
Nor e'r was hir'd to write an Epigram
In praise of this fool Lord, or that proud Dame.

To one that asked me why I would write an English Epigram after B. Johnson.

How! dost thou ask me why my ventrous pen
Durst write an English Ep'gram after Ben?
Oh! after him is manners, though it would
'Fore him, have writ, if how, it could have told.

On Galla.

Galla Hobgoblins fears, she saies, at night,
And Ghostly Sprights, yet nought can her affright
When any man is with her; shee's afraid
More by the next daies light to be betrai'd.

To Nab.

Nab! thy small wits stil shrink i'th' wetting, why
Then drinkst thou so? I'd have thee sow up, I
Thy lips, but that thy tongue's the fiddle to
The company, drink then! so that but go!

Certain modest deprecations against my malevolent Detractour.

May hee be proud, yet poor against his wil!
May hee be forked, and yet jealous stil!
May his wife beat him sober, when he's drunk!
May his Xantippe prove, what's worse, a punk!
May not the King reign in his purse a day!
May he have ne'r a crosse when he shou'd pay!
May no man mind him what he saies! and hee
May he have neither friend or enemie!
May no man read his lines! may none at least
Commend, or laugh, when ere he breaks a jeast!
May he eat much, and yet stil hungry feed!
May no man lend him, when he stands in need!
May he be deep in love, and ne'r obtain!
May all his hopes be frustrate, and in vain!
May his horse in his haste of business tire!
May he be envious stil, and yet admire!