Skialetheia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Heere coms a Coach (my Lads) let's make a stand,
And take a view of blazing starres at hand:
Who's here? who's here? now trust me passing faire,
Thai're most sweet Ladies: mary and so they are.
Why thou young puisne art thou yet to learne,
A harper from a shilling to discerne?
I had thought the last mask which thou caperedst in
Had catechiz'd thee from this errors sinne,

Taught thee S. Martins stuffe from true gold lace,
And know a perfect from a painted face:
Why they are Idols, Puppets, Exchange babies,
And yet (thou foole) tak'st them for goodly Ladies:
Where are thine eyes? But now I call to mind,
These can bewitch, and so haue made thee blind;
A compound mist of May deaw and Beane flowre,
Doe these Acrasias on thy eye lids powre:
Thou art enchaunted (Publius) and hast neede
Of Hercules, thy reason, to be freede.

Consider what a rough worme-eaten table,
By well-mix'd colours is made saleable:
Or how toad-housing sculs, and old swart bones,
Are grac'd with painted toombs, and plated stones:
And think withall how scoffe-inspiring faces
From dawbing pencils doe deriue their graces:
Their beauties are most antient Gentlemen,
Fetch'd from the deaw-figs, hens dung, & the beane.
Nay, this doth rather prooue them bastard faires,
For to so many fathers they are heires,
Yet their effronted thoughts adulterate,
Think the blind world holds them legitimate.
(Madame) you gull your selfe, thinking to gull
Young puisnes eyes with your ore-varnish'd scull:
For now our Gallants are so cunning growne,
That painted faces are like pippins knowne:

They know your spirits, & your distillations,
which make your eies turn diamōds, to charm passions,
Your cerusse now growne stale, your skaine of silke,
Your philterd waters, and your asses milke,
They were plaine asses if they did not know,
Quicksiluer, iuyce of Lemmons, Boras too,
Allom, oyle Tartar, whites of egges, & gaules
Are made the bawdes to morphew, scurffs & scauls
Then whats a wench but a quirke, quidlit case,
VVhich makes a Painters pallat of her face?
Or would not Chester sweare her downe that shee
Lookt like an Elench, logicke sophistrie?
Or like a new sherifes gate-posts, whose old faces
Are furbisht ouer to smoothe times disgraces?

Then how is man turnd all Pygmalion,
That knowing these pictures, yet we doate vpon
The painted statues, or what fooles are we
So grosly to commit idolatry?
VVhat, are we Ethnicks that we honour beasts?
(They are beasts which paint themselues) or els papists
Whose ouer-fleeting brittle memories
Right worshipfull intitle Images?
But be we any thing; these wenches know
VVe are but fooles to be deluded so:
Who for deluding vs, to plague their sinne,
Are turnd to counterfaits, which their vncasde skin,

Quickly discouers, and to shadowes too,
For making louers shadowes as they doo.
Is not he fond then which a slip receaues
For currant money? she which thee deceaues
With copper guilt is but a slip, and she
Will one day shew thee a touch as slippery:
She's counterfait now, and it will goe hard,
If e're thou find her currant afterward:
A painted vvench is like a whore-house signe,
The old new slurred ouer: or mix'd wine,
Sophisticate, to giue it hew and tast;
A dudgin dagger that's new scowr'd and glast:
Or I could sute her were she not prophane,
To a new painted, and churchwarden'd fane:
Or generall pardons, which speake gloriously,
Yet keepe not touch: or a Popish Iubily.
Thus altering natures stamp, they're altered,
From their first purity, innate maydenhead:
Of simple naked honesty, and truth,
And giuen o're to seducing lust and youth:
Whose stings when they are blunted, & these freede
Then shall they see the horror of this deede:
And leauing it their lothsome playstered skins,
Shall shew the furrowed riuels of their sins:
And now their box complexions are depos'd,
Their iaundise looks, and raine-bow like disclos'd,

Shall slander them with sicknes e're their time,
For pocket-healths, vaine vsage in their prime.
Then shall their owly consciences shun light,
And thus like Bats shall flutter in the night,
Asham'd that any eye should restifie,
Their now impouerish'd beauties beggary,
Nay, they so far shal be asham'd thereof,
That from themselues they shal feare cannon scoffe,
And hate to see themselues: all glasses breake,
By which before they taught their looks to speake:
And parly with their lusts. But I'me a foole,
Which talk to deafe eares, & dull stocks do schoole:
Me thinks the painted Pageant's out of sight,
It's time to end my lecture then: good night.