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The Furies

With Vertues Encomium. Or, The Image of Honour. In two Bookes of Epigrammes, Satyricall and Encomiasticke. By R.N. [i.e. Richard Niccols]
  

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Epig. I. In Authoris intentionem.

No man be captious, my aduice preuent him,
Who first excepts, my Furies, will torment him;
Yet they from guilt of priuate grudge are free,
No man; but vice in man is taxt by me;
None of my lines, detraction doth compose,
To make men laugh, I play with no mans nose:
Nor doe I scandal any great mans name,
So to lose libertie for idle fame.
Breife, not obscure, plaine: yet obscœne I write not,
Pleasant, not wanton, sharpe and yet I bite not.

Epig. II. Ad Poetarum nomine dignos.

VVits rarest wonders, men of most import,
Of all the skilful Clearkes in Natures Court)


[illeg.] I show them,
That [illeg.] may the better know them,
The straine, which my Satyrique Muse doth sing,
Fits not the pinion of an Eagles wing;
Excuse me then, if that these lines be loose,
The pen was but the pinion of a Goose.

Epig. III. Ad Lectorem mas.

Reader) the Furies, if thou faultlesse bee,
Bid thee not vntrust, they wip not thee,
If thou be faultie, let it not offend thee,
Heere to vntrusse; this whipping may amend thee.

Epig. IIII. Ad Lectorem fæm.

The Furies, by your fingers daintie touch,
Doe know your gentle sex, and maruell much
You'le come in danger of their ierking rimes,
Perhaps they thought to passe your pettie crimes,
In hope your faire would bring forth no foule deed;
Yet in faire fruit, since wormes doe soonest breed,
They bid that you your selues with patience arme,
A little whipping will doe you no harme.


Epig. V. Ad Librum.

Let not his dreadfull censure feareful make thee,
Who scarse can read; yet in his hand will take thee,
And with an humerous humh, a nod, a no,
Will say this slight, this scuruie, this so so.
Nor his, who reading thee with eye-browes knit,
Contracting to his brain the whole worlds wit,
As out of deeper iudgment thee disdaining,
Will cast thee downe, and leaue thee thus complaining,
Tush 't hath no pith, tis harsh and yet to plaine,
I loath these lines, that sauour not of braine;
Feare neyther these, nor partially spare those,
Whom to the Furies whips thou canst expose,
What can they doe; thou doing my desire?
They can but cast my rod into the fire.