University of Virginia Library

O braines, what Bounds are set to lymit you,
In madnesse? wil you crack the Pan, your fence?
Will you be mad with Reason? are you true
Vnto my Iudgement, Soueraigne of your Sence?
Lo, how you me expose to endles Spight:
To Censure, that may Patience quel to beare it?
Will you interre my Name in datelesse Night,
And for your Glory must I Shame inherit?
Do you containe such Powrs as are of force
To giue me Honor for Wit well imploid;
Yet make 'twixt Wit and Wisdome such diuorce,
As, with Worlds-hate, I shall bee still anoyd?
Put that hate in one Scale (O Weight past Weight!)
And in the other put Ayres worser name,
(Cal'd fame for Folly, or a vaine conceit)
Wil This, not light; That, heauy make my fame?
Shal aged Thoughts so doat? Shal Childhood now
Inuade my Iudgement with so fierce assault,
That it to idle Fancies so should bow,
As still to beare the weight of Follyes fault?
And shall I sell my Birth-right for such Grewell
As feeds, but fattens not; or, sats but Fooles?
Will you to my good Name become so cruell
As still to haue me whipt in Wisedomes Schooles?
Be quiet Wit, leaue beating of my Braine
To do the Worke of playing but on Crimes:
To Scourge the Follyes of the World is vaine,
If thy Whips Lines be nought but rotten Rymes.
Muses, why sleepe ye? Will ye see me sinke
O're head and eares in shame, who doe adore you?
Stretch out your hands: what! frō me do you shrink
To drowne in deepe disgrace while I implore you?
Braines, seek you glory of Herostratus,
To make your Findings curst to After-times?
Call in my Muse and check her thus, and thus;
What do I now? thus (xxx) crosse I out her Rimes,
VVho knowes how neere the Article of Death
My Fame and I am? And what 'compt I must
Giue for each vaine and ill imployed breath
I fetch for life? To what then doe I trust?
My Fame. Why, that may dye before me? Or
My Pleasure? That dies with mee. VVhat ist then
Makes me thus plague (which I am forty for,
For hauing cause) my selfe and other men?
Faults; Faults & nought but faire & fowlest Faults,
Both in my selfe, and others I espie.
Tush, th' are nere mended with such mad Assaults
As make them worse, and many more thereby.
I hope of better: Aretine, whom Fame
Stil'd Scourge of Princes (such I leaue to such)
Kept them in awe: So may an Epigram
VVith other soft-brow'd Sinners, doe as much,
But, Oh, I am too broad; and, that doth irke.
But how should I scourge broad sinnes otherwise?
Must I not make them bare before I ierke?
Who knowes not that? Why then let that suffice.
VVhat? Wit, how now? Hast 'suces for these scapes?
VVilt thou turne Foole, yet wittily defend it?
Hast thou so many anticke formelesse Shapes?
Yet ween'st it such as Wisdome cannot mend it?
Where art thou Wisdome? wilt thou suffer Wit
To runne wilde now in mee; and hauocke make
Of all my Reason in a franticke fit?
O Heau'ns! where am I? Doe I sleepe, or wake?
In yonder Sky the Skie? Is that the Sunne
Which I haue wakinge seene? Is this the Earth
Where safe I walkt; and now will let me runne
To breake mine Honors neck, in brain-sick mirth?
Are these the Folke I foole with, which I see?
Or shadowes? Shadowes? No. What else? Madmen
The greater number: so, will Martyre mee
For whipping of but One, and fearing Ten.
A hall, mad Bedlams, now my Braines (like yours)
Begin to crow: my Muse, this Afternoone,
Must dance a Brawle: O! looke! Apollo lowres
To see his Priest so subiect to the Moone!
Gods me, how now? what strange confused noise
Of murmur heare I? O! the Earth doth shake:
Powles makes her People volley-foorth her voyce
Against me for their ierks. Harke! O! I quake.
S'foote what are these that pynch me? Goblins? Elues?
A wanion on the Elues for me; What now?
Pinch you behind, ye Nits, to saue yourselues?
Before me too? Saint George; then haue at you.
What Weather's this? how soddain is this Storme?
Whence fall these Stones that so do barter me?
What! from the Winds wide Mouth? can they inorme?
I weigh them not a Mite, so light they be.
Harke how it thunders! All the world's afire
With flashes of the fury of the mad.
Looke, looke, they come; beware, retire, retire:
Hold Braines; this feare, I feare, will make you gad.
Apollo helpe me. No? Wilt leaue me thus?
What! not one glance of fauour in this Case?
Then, Luna help; be thou propitious.
Why, so: thou cheer'st me in this Wild-goose-chase?
But soft! What smell is this: It wounds my Braine?
Breath of Blaspheamers: Fy, is no Place free
From this so banefull Ayre? Can I remaine
No where, but, lik a Plague, 'twill follow me?
O what a Hell is this? A hell? No, no;
It's better than some Scapes, that more offend:
T'is but the bleating of some Calfe, or so,
That feeles my Spleenes iust Ierks; & there's an end.