University of Virginia Library

Author to his Booke.

Come hither Book take counsell, hee that goes
Into the world, meets with a world of foes.
Thy Mother was my Muse, a gentle Dame,
Who much ador'd Apollo's sacred Name;
Then being free-borne, know that thou art going
Into a World of wits, still fresh, still growing:
Yet wonder not that I have got no friend
To write in thy behalfe. What! should I send
Thee like a Serving-man, with Letters? No,
The World shall see thee first, and seeing know
Whether thou merits praise: none shall have cause,
To be condemn'd of folly in the applause
Of thy harsh lines, the worst that can be thought,
Is this, that none would write they were not naught.
Alas, poore Booke! hunt not thou after praise,
Nor dare to stretch thy hand unto the Bayes
Vpon a Poets head: let it suffice
To thee and mee, the World doth us despise.
“'Tis for a better Pen than mine, to say,
“I know 'tis good, and if you lik't, you may.

POEMS.

To Time.

Grave Censurer of Things, long since o'repast,
Of present actions, and what shall be last,
Think't not amisse, that my unlearned quill,
Hath spent some minutes of thee, and so ill;
Ile thanke thy present patience, and in time,
My Muse may give thee thankes in better Rime.

To the Reader.

Most welcome guest, to thee my homely Cates,
If any thing my barren Muse relates,
That may the palate of thy stomacke please,
I wish't Ambrosia, though a pulce or pease;
Here is no forc't, but voluntary dish,
And should be better, had I but my wish.

To his worthy esteemed good Friend Mr. Iohn Wadland (sonne of Mr. George Wadland of Leicester)

and to his vertuous Sisters, Mrs. Anne Wadland, Mrs. Susanna, Mrs. Martha, and Mrs. Mary Wadland, &c.

When I forget to thinke on ye,
My selfe must cease my selfe to be,
For sooner may my flesh dissolve,
And humid earth my bones involve;
Yea sooner shall the glorious Sunne,
Loose its bright lustre, and the Moone,
Rapt in sable Clouds of Night,
Cease to give her silver light,
Than I forget what your desert,
Hath lively graven in my heart.

To his singular good Friend Mr. Thomas Mousley.

If ever there were any, in whose love
I counted my selfe happy, farre above
The rate of common Friends, whose verball gloze
More of false flattery, than true friendship shewes,
'Twas in thy selfe, and that thrice happy day,
Wherein my heart did by mine eyes survey,
Approve thy matchlesse worth, and give consent,
To knit our hearts within one Ligament.

To his affectionate good Friend, Master William Sykes.

Sir, unto you (in faith) I'm much indebted,
For undeserved love from you received;
My debt's a debt, to pay't I know not how,
The more I pay, the more still I doe owe.

To his loving Friend, Mr. Bartholomew Wollocke.

No sooner doe I thinke on thee, but streight
My Muse growes frolique, and as if kind fate,
Had to thy Name, annext a power t'infuse
Life in the deadest, dullest, slowest Muse,
She then begins to revell it, and soare
A higher pitch then ere she flew before;
At least my thoughts suggest so, for I'm sure,
I finde my spirits nimbler, and more pure:
My Verse flowes ranker, and if this
May argue truth in ought, then so it is.

To his kinde Friend, Master George Brooke.

Sith on my worthiest Friends I now doe muse,
how should my Muse to mind you, once neglect?
Sith you are such, then should she but abuse,
should she not use you with all due respect.

To his loving Friend, Master Timothy Langley.

Your large, compleat, solid sufficiencie,
Hid in the veile of your wise modesty;
Your quaint, neat Learning, your acute, quick wit,
And sincere heart for great imployments fit:
But stay, I have not time here to relate
Of your desert, what truely might be spake;
I will referre it till another time,
And I my selfe your servant will combine.

To his deare Mistris, H. P.

Let but thy beauteous eye look on this Line,
And see as in thy Glasse thy beauty shine,
Which beauty, Nature gave thee, to disgrace
Our latter Artists, that make up a face,
Of seeming beauty, for to blind such eyes,
As with Pigmalion them doe Idolize,
Should I not praise, what I praise-worthy see,
I should doe wrong to Nature and to Thee;
Yet while I speake thee faire, so short I come
Of thy perfections, that I'm deem'd by some,
To light the burning Sun, yet from my hand,
Receive this graine unto thy heape of sand.

Loves Hyperboles.

His Mistris Eyes serve Cupid both for Darts and Fire.

To his Mistris, who had vowed Virginity.

Even as my hand, my Pen and paper layes,
My trembling hand, my pen from paper strayes,
Lest that thine eyes which shining made me love you,
Should frowning on my suit, bid cease to move you,
So that I feare like one at his wits end,
Hoping to gaine, and fearing to offend:
But whilst like clouds tost up and downe the ayre,
I wracked hang 'twixt hope and sad despaire,
Despaire is beaten, vanquisht from the field,
And unto conquering hope doth yeeld:
For if that nature love to beautie offers,
And beauty shun the love that nature proffers,
Then, either unjust beauty is too blame,
With scorne to quench a lawfull kindled flame,
Or else unlawfully if love we must,
And be unlov'd, then nature is unjust:
Unjustly then Nature hath hearts created,
There to love most, where most their love is hated,
And flattering them with a faire-seeming ill,
To poyson them with beauties sugred Pill.

That he cannot leave to love, though commanded.

Vpon his Mistris hiding her face.

Goe wailing accents goe,
With my warm teares & scalding teares attended
To the author of my woe,
And humbly aske her why she is offended,
Say, Deare why hide you so,
From him your blessed eyes,
Where he beholds his earthly Paradise,
Since he hides not from you
His heart, wherein Loves heav'n you may view.

Vpon begging a Kisse.

Sorrow slowly killeth any,
Sudden joy soon murthers any,
Then (sweet) if you would end me,
'Tis a fond course with lingring griefe to spend me:
For quickly to dispatch me,
Your only way is, in your armes to catch me;
And give me Dove-like kisses,
For such excessive and unlookt for blisses,
Will so much over-joy me,
As they will straight destroy me.

To Cupid.

Ah Cupid, I mistooke thee,
I for an Archer, and no Fencer tooke thee,
But as a Fencer oft faines blowes and thrusts,
Where he intends no harme,
Then turnes his balefull arme,
And wounds that party which least his foe mistrusts:
So thou with fencing Art,
Faining to wound mine eyes, hast hit my heart.

To his heart being in thraldome.

Vpon his Mistresse Beauty and voyce.

Vpon Visiting his Mistresse by Moone light.

Vpon a scoffing laughter given by a Gentlewoman.

An invective against Women.

SONET.

[Young men flie, when beauty darts]

Young men flie, when beauty darts
Amorous glances at your hearts,
The fixt marke gives the shooter ayme,
And Ladyes lookes have power to maime,
Now twixt their lips, now in their eyes
Wrapt in a kisse, or smile-love lies;
Then flie betimes, for onely they
Conquer love that run away.

SONET.

[Cvpid calls, O young men come]

Cvpid calls, O young men come,
And bring my wanton harvest home
When the birds most sweetly sing,
And flowers are in their prime,
No season but the spring,
Is Cupids harvest time.

SONET.

[Into loves field, or Garden walke]

Into loves field, or Garden walke,
Where Virgins dandle on their stalke,
Blowne, and playing at fiveteene,
And poynting to their beds,
Come bring your sickle then,
And reape their maiden heads.

SONET.

To his Mistresse confin'd.

Sonnet on his Mistresse.

The purest piece of nature is my choice,
to morrowes death,
and this dayes breath,
Have certaine doomes from her all charming voyce,
So beyond faire, that no glasse can her flatter;
so sweetly milde,
that tongue defil'd,
Dare not on her, their envious stories scatter.
The wittie formes of beauty that are shed,
In flowing streames
From Poets Theames,
Like shadowes, when her selfe are fled.
Oh let me live in t'heaven of her bright eye,
Great love I'le be thy constant votary.

A Madrigall.

Sonet Antiphrasticall, to loves fire

SONET.

His Mistresse unkindnesse.

A Pastorall of Phillis and Coridon.

AN ODE.

Cupids Marriage with dissimulation.

1. Satyre.

All haile Tom Tospot, welcome to the coast,
What Paris newes can'st brag of, or make boast?
Thy phisnomy bewrayes thou can'st relate
Some strange exploits attempted in the state.
I know th' ast courted Venus lusting Dames,
'Twas thy intent when thou took'st ship on Thames,
Let's sympathize thy hap, enjoy some sport,
What art thou senselesse, dead-drunke, all a mort?
Gallants this abject object which you see,
Is an old picture of Gentilitie.
With Coriat he travelled hath, by land,
To see Christs Crosse, the Tree where Iudas hang'd,
Divelin and Amsterdam his Sea-crab pace,
With other Countries moe did often trace.
Earths circled orbe, he frequent trudged, went,
With lesse expences then Tom Odcome spent,
With fewer cloaths though furnisht with moe shifts,
With sparing dyet, few received gifts.
Tom had one paire of stockings, shooes, one suite,
But Tospots case Tom Coxcombs doth confute,
For he hath travel'd all earths globe a foot,
Without whole cloaths, good stockin, shooe or boot.
Yet (God be thank't) he is return'd all whole.
Tom had assistants at his Bookes report,
But Tospot travel'd voyd of all consort,
Having no creature with him whiles he slept,
Or walk't, but such as in his bosome crept.
Tospot detests all cloaths, hates new found forme,
Unlesse it were no cloaths at all were worne.
He is no boasting Thraso which will vant,
Of his adventures, penury and scant.
Yet if you please to read my slender Muse,
I shall describe the humour he doth use:
Tobacco, Botle-ale, hot Pippin-pies:
Such trafficke, Merchandize he daily buyes.
With belly-timber he doth cram his gut,
With double Iugs doth his Orexis glut,
Sweares a God, dam-me for the Tapsters shots,
And may pledge no health lesse then with two pots.
He has a sword to pawne in time of need,
A perfect beggers phrase wherewith to plead,
For maintenance, when his exhausted store,
Is profuse lavisht on some pockie whore.
Tibornes triangle trees will be the thing,
Must send this knave to heaven in a string.

2. Satyre of the insatiate woman.

My treatise next must touch before 'tis late,
A woman-creature most unsatiate:
See this incarnate monster of her sex,
Play the Virago, unasham'd perplext.
See Omphale her effeminate King,
Basely captive, make him doe any thing:
Her whole discourse is of Guy Warwicke armes,
Of certaine Knights or of blind Cupids charmes,
Her civill gesture is to faine a lye,
In decent phrase, and true orthography:
Her modest blush, immodest shame, O fie,
'Tis grand disgrace to blush indignity,
She counts her but a Nazard, halfe a mort,
That will not nimbly use dame Venus sport,
To kisse, to cull, t'admire her painted face,
And doe no more, ignoble, vile disgrace,
With costly unguments she paints her browes,
Calls them the Palace of chast Hymens vowes.
And yet this statue for her honor'd trade,
With every vassaile will be underlaid.
Her sole delight is fixed in a Fan,
Or to walke usher'd by a proper man.
Nature hath polisht each externall part
Of this vile dame with Oratories Art;
Doe but conferre and note her private speech,
Her divine frame, will passe your humane reach.
Shee'l complement, Pathetically Act
A tragicke Story, or a fatall fact.
Lively discover Cupid and his Bowe,
Manage his savage Quiver in her browe,
Court so compleatly, rarely tune a song,
That she will seeme a Dido for her tongue,
And by the vertue of all-conquering sight,
Infuse even life in him that has no spright.
Yet this proud Iezabell so nice, demure,
Is but a painted Sepulchre impure.
Though she bestow her vigilancie, care,
In coyning phrases, pouncing of her hayre:
Yet are her Legends, golden masse of wit,
But like Apocrypha, no sacred writ.
Cease austere Muse, this counterfeit to touch,
Y'have spoke Satyricall, I doubt too much,
Ile rather pitty then Envie invay,
Their Kalender of wretch'dnesse to display:
Shutting my Muse in silence, least she strip,
This Saint-like creature with a Satyres whip.

3. Satyre, of gracelesse Grace.

Now in the name of Fate what Saint is shee,
That keeps a shop of publicke brothelrie?
Harbors the sharking Lawyer for his pence,
And Martyr-like consumes his evidence:
Nusles my damned Atheist, makes him curse
Nature and fortune, that his thin-lin'd purse,
Should be depriv'd of crowns: doe you aske what, &c.
This Saint was sent from th' firie Regiment.
A Sodome Apple, a lascivious staine,
To vertuous habite, or a whore in graine.
A suck-blood Hyene, faining Crocodile,
Worse then the monster bred on th' banks of Nyle,
A purple strumpet, gangrene to the State,
Earths curse, hells-blisse, soules-soyle & Angels hate.
Pitty-fac'd Devill of a ginger pace,
Gracelesse in all save that her name is Grace:
Soule running ulcer that infects the heart,
With painting, purfling and a face of Art:
Creature of her owne making, hollow Truncke,
A Christian Paganis'd with name of Puncke.
A cell, a hell, where she'l no others have,
The common Palliard-pandor, Baud, or slave,
A cage of uncleane birds, which is possest,
Of none save such as will defile their nest.
Where bankrupt Factors to maintaine a state,
Forlorne (heaven knowes) and wholly desperate,
Turne valiant Boults, Pimps Haxtars, roaring-boyes,
Till flesht in blood, counting but murthers toyes,
Are forc't in th' end a dolefull Psalme to sing,
Going to heaven by Derick in a string.

[Epigrams]

To the Reader.

Reader I here present you a Shrimpe-fish;
I hope you'l make no bones to taste this dish,
It is no Carpe, unlesse you'l giv't that note:
Which if you doe, I wish 'twere in your throate.

Vpon two Ladyes in strife for the wall.

Two Madams once were striving for the wall,
Each standing much on tearmes of worthinesse,
The one but young (howbeit rich withall)
The other ancient, tho of substance lesse,
Said, soft and faire till time hath tane fruition,
Your Ladiship is of the last Edition.

To Quindeno the Lawyer.

As often as my Tinder-box I see,
So oft Quindeno doe I thinke on thee:
Thy Clyents fall together by the eares,
Like steele and flint, and each the other weares.
Whil'st underneath thou like the willy Fox,
Pursest their golden sparkes within thy box,
And art by Torch-light usher'd thorow Towne,
While (fooles) ith' dark they stumble up and downe.

To Ciclus his tryall of all Trades.

Ciclus the Souldier and Civilian
The Pandar, Painter, and Musician,
Saw nothing could be gotten by the Arts,
By wit, by fortunes friendship or deserts,
Is now a late turn'd foole and gotten more,
Then he could doe with all his wit before:

To excelling Panpædes.

As well as most men Panpædes they say,
Thou sing'st, canst set, and on a Vyoll play,
Pourtract in oyle, and parle the languages,
Fence, dance, discourse of State and policies:
Few would beleeve it, till I told them how,
Most men can none at all, no more canst thou.

Of Severus reading my Booke.

Severus having over-look't my rymes,
With rugged brow, and cought a dozen times;
This fellow saith, hath sure a pretty wit,
Great pitty thus he hath imployed it.

O stendit hædera vinum.

A scoffing mate, passing along Cheapeside,
Incontinent a gallant Lasse espi'd,
Whose tempting breasts (as to the saile laid out,)
Incites this youngster thus to gin to flout,
Lady (quoth he) is this flesh to be sould?
No Lord (quoth she) for silver nor for gold,
But wherefore aske you? (and there made a stop)
To buy (quoth he) or else shut up your shop.

Vpon two Ladyes.

Two Citty Ladyes, pendants of the Court,
Where late I liv'd, did commonly resort,
And in the garden one day as they walked,
Thus gathering flowers each to other talked:
What lives (good Lord) these Country creatures lead,
O're one of us within the Citty bred?
What dainty flowers, what Arbors, walkes, & trees,
Poore soules they have, & look where stand the Bees?
Goodnesse a me, see Madam where Thrift growes,
My sweet-heart loves not it should touch his nose:
And by my patience, quoth the other, I
As ill abide this scurvy honesty,
It beares no flower nor casteth any smell,
Yet Country Ladyes wear't and like it well.

Vpon Vertue Mistresse Milla's Maid.

Saith Aristotle, vertue ought to be
Communicative of herselfe and free,
And hath not Vertue Mila's maid beene soe,
Who's growne hereby as big as she can goe?

Vpon Boone.

When unto Boone a book was brought to sweare,
He praid the Judge he would that labour spare,
For there's no oath (quoth Boone) that you can name,
But perfect I without book have the same.

Se fingit Adultera castam.

Nisa , who from her window glanst her eyes,
Saw Mopsus come, as fast as foot could trot,
For joy whereof, upon her bed she lies,
As who would thinke, she slept and saw him not,
'Twas very strange, unlesse she meant herein,
Her eyes should not be open to her sin.

Degeneres animos arguit.

Monsieur Montanus is no little man,
Of unapproved valour to his foe.
Perswade or woe him with what words you can,
He'l be revenged all the world must know.
But when he found one with his wife in bed,
For feare or shame he durst not show his head,

Rubins glory is soone vanished.

I pray sir, did you note on Sunday last,
How richly Rubin was apparelled?
Well may he be compared to a blast,
Or like to one that's Metamorphosed.
For the next morning ere the day did dawne.
All that he wore, and more, was layd to pawne,

To Emson.

Emson thou once in Dutch would court a wench,
But to thy cost she answered thee in French.

Quæ placuit Domino nupta est Ancilla sodali.

Madame Rugosa knowes not where to find,
One Chamber-maid often to please her mind:
But yet my Lord so likes their comely carr'age,
As he perfers them to his men in marr'age.

Quid queat esse diu?

Signior Fantasmos ne'r such pleasure found,
In any thing as in a deep mouth'd hound,
Small was that pleasure, when upon one day,
He lost his haire, and hunted all away.

Satis est ditescera fama.

Clitus with Clyents is well customed,
That hath the Law but little studyed,
No matter Clitus, so they bring thee fees,
How ill the case, and thy advice agrees.

Timidos fortuna repellit.

When Miles the Serving-man my Lady kist,
She knew him not (though scarcely could resist
So sweet a youth and well apparelled)
Had not the dunce himselfe discovered.
For this, quoth he, my master bad me say—
Which hearing made her frowne and flying away,
Why thus it is, when fooles must make it knowne,
They come on others businesse, not their owne.

Vpon Crab.

Crab being caught, and in the Sergeants power,
For shame and anger look't both red and sower,

Sequitur post gaudia luctus.

Ay me (quoth Amy) who would ere have thought,
So great a mischiefe should arise of naught,
Which had she knowne ere she began to swell,
Each yard of pleasure should have prov'd an ell.

Of Cajus, his amissing a blot that lost his game.

Cajus his Love came to his chamber late,
But he that Grace did not congratulate,
But with too bashfull chat, who for the same,
(Missing to take her Blot) quite lost his game.

Merchants wives conjuring.

Some Merchants wives conjure their Maids, in stormes,
With wands inchanting, working wonders so:
But on their husbands heads some conjure hornes,
By their familiars still with them below.

Friscus secret jesting with a too earnest Lady.

Friscus in secret jesting with a Lady,
(Which jesting Chaucer far more broadly stiles)
Who fearing fainting, call'd him foole and baby;
But he with jesting pli'd her all the whiles:
Then if she cal'd him foole she did not fable,
For fooles are ever jesting with their Bable.

Julias Bookishnesse.

Ivlia is Bookish, and doth study still,
To fashion Natures favours to her will:
Her Mirrour is her booke, her time to passe,
And so she ever studies on her Glasse.

Against perfumed persons.

They that smell least, smell best, which intimates,
They smell like beasts that smell like Givet-cats.

Against Doctour Tangus his swelling Physicke.

Tangus , the Physick Doctour loves a whore
Better then giving Physick to the poore.
He hath the art of baudry better farre
Than Physick, yet in both, doth make and marre;
He makes a maid a whore, so marres her quite,
And makes a sound man sick, or dead out-right.
What Virgin can resist, when he doth boast,
He can restore her Maiden-head, if lost;
Which at her marryage shall be found as strict,
As any girles that love did nere afflict.
When he doth promise by a Physick feat,
To let the wombe and paps from growing great:
To give her unguents and complections store,
To make her Beauties rare reflexions more,
To keep her body still in healthfull state,
And make her merry in despight of fate.
Which having will to promise, skill to do,
What wench can chuse but love and please him too?
Tangus your Art, your nature truly hits,
That helps or hinders loves still burning fits;
But take heed (Tangus) how you empty still,
The wombes which you with working Physick fill,
Least some repentant wench which us'd you have,
Say at her end you us'd her like a knave;
Then let me thee admonish (without stripes)
Give no more Physick with such Glister-pipes.

Covetous Patrons.

Patrons are Latrons, then by this,
Th' are worst of greedy people,
Whose Cognizance a Wolfes-head is,
And in his mouth a steeple.

Lucillas white going.

Lvcilla lightly all in white doe goe,
To lay her chastity a whitning so.

Of no fish call a Salmon.

A man call'd Salmon, Sivern banks dwelt under,
That his wife Salmons spawn'd then, was no wōder.

Stophus marryed a faire foole.

Stophus with his great wit, a foole hath wed,
Strange death, the living's bound so to the dead.

Womens Maskes.

It seemes that Maskes doe women much disgrace,
Sith when they weare them they do hide their face.

Beares bated loose is the worst of loose sports, and why.

I like not (of loose sports) Beares baitings play,
Sith Beares broke loose, teach men to run away.

Of much promising.

Lords promise soone, but to performe are long,
Then would their purse-strings were ty'd to their tongue.

To Severus.

Beleeve Severus, that in these my rymes,
I taske no person, but the common crymes:

Vpon Hugh.

Hvgh should have gone to Oxford th' other day,
But turn'd at Tiborne, and so lost his way.

Of Jack-Cut purse.

Iack -cut-purse is, and hath beene patient long.
For he's content to pocket up much wrong.

Bell the Tinker.

Bell though thou dye decrepit, lame, forlorne,
Thou wast a man of Mettall, Ile be sworne.

Crooke-backs payement.

Crook-back to pay old scores will sell his state,
And though he do, he'l never make all straight

Barbars care.

Neat Barber Trim, I must commend thy care,
Which doest all things exactly, to a haire,

Case is altered.

Tom Case (some doe report) was lately haltered,
If this be true, why then the case is altered.

Of Stupid Binus.

Sith time flies fast away, his fastest flight,
Binus prevents with dreaming day and night.

The Prodigall and the Miser all one.

The ding Thrift and the Misers fault's all one,
For neither wots how well to use his owne.

Of Flavias lookes after her fall.

Flavia lookes feebly since she caught a fall,
So lookes as if she could not doe withall.

Against Gella and her Consumption.

Gella is light and like a candle wasteth,
Ev'n to the snuffe that stinketh more it lasteth.

Of false praise.

The praise of Arts, which ill we deeme,
Like smoake goes out as soone as seene.

In medio consistit virtus.

A gallant courting of a game-some maid,
Said, sweet, oh let me kisse your hands and feet
In signe of humblest love! good sir (she said)
Both those for your sweet lips are most unmeet,
“But vertue's in the mid'st, than (vertue) there,
If you will kisse you may, if not forbeare.

Against Ladyes fantasticall attire.

If Ladyes manners with their gaudes agree,
Then they seeme such they would not seeme to be;
But if they would not be as th' are in sight,
Let them not weare what makes them seeme so light.

Malsters ill measure.

Such Malsters as ill measure sell for gaine,
Are not meere knaves, but also knaves in graine.

Vpon Divine Roscios.

Two famous Roscios chanc't I to espie,
Acting a Metamorphosis, while I,
Sleep under the covert of a shady wood,
Where great Archias for the Empire stood:
Who did their severall actions thus define,
Art-full the one, the other most divine.

Drunken promises.

You promise mountaines unto me,
When over night starke drunke you be:
But nothing you performe next day,
Henceforth be morning drunke, I pray.

The worlds in a Band.

A fellow judg'd to dye for filtching ware,
At his confession did himselfe compare,
In Metaphors unto the world, wherein
Contained is the Centinell of sin.
The hang-man hearing this, when he had pray'd,
Began to scoffe, and thus deriding said:
I may attempt what I desire, wer't land,
For why? I have the world now in a Band.

The Woman Cuckold.

Francisco vants he gave his wife the horne,
She frowns, she frets, and takes the newes in scorne;
And though you did (quoth she) yet you indeed,
Must weare the horne, because you are the head.

A Cuckold.

A Cuckold is a dangerous beast, why so?
Nam Cornu ferit ille: Caveto.

Rest in motion.

All motion ceaseth when it hath it's end,
So say Philosophers, then how is it,
That Cailus loving long old Kate (his friend)
Love being a motion in marryage knit,
Doth beat her every day; what rest is this?
Why, rest of Love, while hate in motion is.

Dols a drab, and yet no Curtezan.

A punk's call'd Courtezan, of courtesie;
Then Dol's a Drab, and yet no Courtezan;
For with her friends she deales most cruelly,
And in loves skirmish spoyleth many a man:
Yet is she kind and courteous where she takes,
And plaies with them, but seld' they have their stakes.

On traversing the errour of an action.

One Lawyer once anothers wife did woe,
That she with him would enter Action too,
The issue joyn'd the husband wronged soe,
Seeing the intruder, quite his wife ore'throwe;
He right well swing'd them both for that compaction,
So canvased the error of their Action.

Of womens Metamorphosis, according to the time and place.

Some women are in Churches Saints or more,
Angels abroad, at home too like the Devill,
At windowes Syrens, Parrots at the dore;
And in their gardens Goates, or more uncivill:
And Tradesmen that nere match till they have much,
In deadly danger are to meet with such.

Against promise breaking.

Ventus doth promise much, yet still doth breake,
So all his promises are great and weake,
Like Bubbles in the water, (round and light)
Swelling so great that they are broke out-right.

No good wives in London.

The Countri's full of good wives, specially
The wives of all the clownes and yeomandry;
But Tripe-wives, Broom-wives, Oyster-wives & all,
We still in London Mistresses doe call:
Then London hath no good wives, sith they abide
All in the Country better to be try'd.

Fast and loose.

Paphus was married all in hast,
And now to rack doth run:
So knitting of himselfe too fast,
He hath himselfe undone.

A Man in Print.

A man in Print, once such a man I saw,
Who whipt but vice in print, and then did draw
Himselfe in print, so much in print, that he
Comes thus in print, reform'd in print to be.
While he that whipt but vice in print doth storme,
For being a vice in print, so much in forme.

Against the bare brests of young women.

Why bare ye so your brests audacious Dames?
Is it to give mens eyes a taste of that,
You yet doe hide, t'augment their lustfull flames?
Or else to draw their tongues to wanton chat?
It seemes y'are hot, that so low naked goe,
And looke for cooling at some vent below.

Laugh and lye downe.

I see and laugh, still laugh at what I see,
Democritus hereing, I play thy part:
I see some Mad-dames, honest held to be,
That oft in sport do (W---) it by their art:
Yet meerely seeme chaste, till they be nie downe,
So still I laugh, to see them laugh, and lye downe.

Master Glaius and bright Mistresse Grace, alight one that lightned a worke of darknesse.

Grace in the darke, stood full in Glaius way,
Whose bravery (like the Sun) turn'd night to day,
She would not moove although she mov'd him much,
Nor speake, although he did her homely touch;
Yea touch her to the quick in sinfull case,
So Glaius quickly deadly sin'd with Grace.

Turpe senilis amor.

Old doting Clandus doth in haste desire,
With beauteous young Penelope to wed;
Whose frozen appetite is set on fire,
Untill the match be throughly finished.
Indeed as good dispatch as make delay,
That must be horned on his wedding day.

Natura paucis contenta

Mecus is now become a frugall sire,
That spends no more then nature doth require;
And yet his wife will proove a traveller,
Although but once a yeere he lye with her.

Frustra timet quisperat nihil.

Tush hang it, have at all (sayes Curio)
Comes not duze ace, as soone as six and three;
Who would not halfe his land forgo,
Then be out-dar'd by such a one as hee.
Dammee Ile venture all upon a cast,
Wer't not as good turne Rogue at first as last?

Impar impares odit.

Sotus hates wisemen, for himselfe is none,
And fooles he hates, because himselfe is one.

The civill Devill.

It chanc't one evening as I went abroad
To cheere my cares, and take away my load
Of disagreeing passions, which were bred,
By the distemper of a troubled head;
Midst of my walke, spying an Alley doore,
Which (I protest) I never spyed before,
I entred in, and being entred in,
I found the entry was to th' house of sin;
Yet much I wondred how sin there could be,
Where the sins protectresse shew'd most modestie.

The honest Lawyer.

Sprightly (my Muse) speak like the son of thunder,
And with a full mouth ring out Albions wonder:
No Sussex Dragon, no Virginian,
But of a Lawyer that's an honest man,
Whose definition (if you wish to know)
Is a blak Swan, faire Moore, or milke-white Crow;
He takes no fees till he conceives the cause,
Nor with an oyly bribe annoints his jawes;
He wants the use of feeling, feares heav'ns curse,
Strings not his conscience with his Clyents purse.

A Cassiered Courtier.

Cvrius Lampert (as he doth confesse)
For he was tane in the nicke of the businesse,
H'as done, soone done, God wot a worthy deed,
Setting the Courts wrath on the Citties head,
But for his wrath, before one termes demurre,
He was degraded of his Courtly spurre,
True badge of honour: and from that time swore,
Ne're to approach the Citties confines more.

Anagramma.

How riches free'd adorne a Gull.

Wise is that foole that hath his coffers full,
And riches freed adorne the veriest Gull,
Yet but uncase the Asse, and you shall see,
An Asse is still an Asse, and so is hee.

Vpon Tarbon a Countrey Gentleman.

Tarbon (they say) is melancholly growne,
Because his wife takes physick in the Towne,
Why? that's no cause, who would not hazard faire,
To leave both land, and name unto his heire;
Yea, but he doubts (so jealous is the man)
That the physick works not, but Physician;
Which if he find, he sweares he meanes to call
The child not Tarbon, but young Urinall.

The Courtier.

Now heav'n preserve mine eye-sight, what is here,
A man made up in wainscot? now I sweare
I tooke him for some Colosse; sure I erre,
This is not he, yes, 'tis the Courtier:
Brave Pun-te vallo, for those Armes he beares,
An Asse head rampant, and that chaine he weares,
By blest S. Martin, doe descrie it's he;
Well, I'le observe his carriage narrowly.

Like to like.

Vpon a time (as I informed am)
A suburbes baud and Countrey Gentleman,
Comming at the doore where I doe lye,
A gallant ruffling wench chanc't to passe by,
Which the Baud observing—sir I pray you see,
How like yon Gallant, and my daughter be,
Indeed they much resemble both in face,
Painting complexion, and in huffing pace;
Yea I should say ne're any, two were liker,
If this be as thy daughter is a striker.

Brawling contention.

Two rayling creatures fell at strife,
and such a clamour made,
That people passing by, stood still
to harken what they said,
Amongst the rest a woman com's
demanding of the rout,
I pray (quoth she) what is the cause
of all this falling out?
One presently made answer thus,
you are a whore (quoth he)
Thou art an arrant scurvy knave,
and rascall rogue, said she,
Why thus (quoth he) these two fell out
the quarrell that they have,
Began at first as we doe know
with calling whore, and knave.

A Prize.

Tree darlings have I, and I know not which
To make a wife on: first is meetely rich,
Faire, wise, but we in faith be different,
And where that is there can be no content.
The next, as loving as the Turtle is,
Whose lippe distils pure Nectar with her kisse.
But this my feare is, her nature is so prone
To give content, she cannot keepe to one.
The third is rich, and wise, and well adorn'd
With inward graces, but she is deform'd.
So as for all that I doe treasure lacke,
I would not get it on Camels backe.
Which should I have of these, they all love me,
One must I have, I cannot have all three.

In Briscum.

Briscus (his father being dead) was told,
And found (ere long) where was his fathers gold,
All Angels rich, but poorely clad in leather;
Briscus tooke pitty on them, and straight hither,
Sends some for Satin, other some for Tissue,
Gloves, Scarfes, Hats, Hangers, but make the issue,
They all being free'd, did all consent together,
And their flight poore Briscus knowes whither,
Which he laments, blaming those former Kings,
Who made a Law he might not clip their wings.

On Luces maintainance.

He that takes paines shall get, the Proverb goes,
But Luce take pleasure, yet doth nothing lose,
Poore labouring Portars with much toyle and sweat,
Scarce get sufficient victuals for to eat;
But if that Luce at any time doth lacke,
She with her belly can maintaine her backe.

In Cornutum

Why should Cornutus wife lye in the Strand,
And he poore silly man lye in the Citty;
Belike the shop was not sufficient man'd,
To part the head and members, yet 'tis pitty,
But what cares she for head, I hope she scornes,
Were he seaven heads, she'd crown them all with horns.

On Age.

If we love things long sought for, age is a thing
That we are fifty yeeres a compassing.

Vpon Church a whore hunter.

Here lyes a Church triumphant still in evill,
That never fought with sin, the world, nor devill,
But still with flesh he changed friendly knocks,
And so to shun the Plague, dy'd of the Pox.

Vpon faire Mistresse Eliz. Ambar

Reader stay, see who lyes here,
Attracting Ambar shining cleare;
Yet death that clearnesse cloudeth now;
But being bright, it shineth through.

Vpon a Colliar.

Here lyes the Colliar Ienkin Dashes,
By whom death nothing gain'd he swore,
For living he was dust and Ashes,
And being dead he is no more.

Vpon a young Gentlewoman.

Stay doe not passe, here fixe your eyes,
Upon a Virgins Obsequies,
Pay tribute to a troubled heart,
'Tis but one teare before you part;
And what are teares? they are but streames
Of sorrow, which like frightfull dreames
Disturbe our senses, yet I crave,
No other sacrifice to have.
But if you passe and let fall none,
Y'are harder then this marble stone.
Your love is colder, and your eyes
Are senselesse of my miseries.

Vpon a great Vsurer.

Ten in the hundred lyes under this stone,
And a hundred to ten but to'th Devill he's gone.

On a young Gentlewoman.

Nature (in this small volume) was about
To perfect what in women was left out:
But fearing least a peece so well begun
Might want preservatives when she was young,
Ere she could finish what she undertooke,
Threw dust upon it and shut up the Booke.

Of one that loved Sack as his soule.

Good Reader blesse thee, be assur'd,
The spirit of Sack lies here immurd,
Who havoc't all he could come by
For Sack, and here quite sackt doth lye.

Of a curst wife.

If it be true what I heare tell,
That some affirme the grave is hell:
And if that hell be then so neere,
The veriest Devill in hell, lyes here.

One that dyed with griefe a few dayes after her husband.

He first deceased, she a little cry'd,
To live without him lik't it not and dy'd.

A double fellow ill composed.

Here lyes one double in his grave;
For he was still a foole and knave.

Vpon faire Elizabeth Butter.

Here lyes sweet Butter turn'd to grasse,
To make sweet Butter as it was.

Vpon John Death a good fellow.

Here Deaths inter'd that liv'd by bread,
Then all should live, now Death is dead.

On a selfe conceited foole.

Here lyes a man that was an Asse;
Then sure he's better then he was.

One that cheated his father.

Here lyes a man who in a span
Of life, beyond his father ran.

On an Vsurer.

Here lyes on Ten per Cent.
In deaths house, and payes no rent:

An Elegie by the Author, upon the death of his deare father, Master Edward Picke.

To tell my losse so well to each man knowne,
Were to lament my selfe, not him that's gone:
That were to cry-out helpe to those that ly,
By the same griefe dead to eternity.
But yet that men may fully understand,
Know 'twas my father, even by whose hand,
I first had breath, and I will give him fame,
By writing in a double kind his name:
I doe confesse he's gone, and yet my losse,
If tould is undervalued, so grosse,
So young are my complaints, that I lament,
In petty notions, sorrowes rudiment:
My infant teares yet knowe not all my woe,
Because I knew not all that was to grow
In him a graft all hope, but riper yeeres,
Shall teach me how to parallell my teares,
And so improove I may, (as he did grow
In vertue) daily thriving in my woe:
Did we not lose enough when Adam fell,
By thee curst fruit? but thou must longer still,
Produce our myseries, and when w'are best,
By tempting one must murther all the rest.
Was he too good for earth, and did heaven call,
To have him there; so that he needs must fall?
If so, 'tis well, for it was equity,
Man-kind and he by the same fate should dye.
But though th' art dead, thy memory survives,
And thy good deeds shall out-last others lives.

An Elegie upon the death of his deare friend Mistresse Priscilla Wadl.

Here though her spot-lesse span-long life be spent,
Are silent steps to shew where goodnesse went.
Nature did in such rare compleatnesse make her,
To shew her Art, and so away did take her.
For she was onely to us wretches lent
For a short time to be our president.
Goods we inherite daily, and possession.
O, that in goodnes were the same succession!
For then before her soule to heaven she breathed,
She had to each of us a part bequeathed,
Of her true wealth; and closing thus her eyes,
Would have enrich'd her sex with Legacies.

Vpon the death of Mistresse Sarah Wadl.

Weepe, weepe, your sorrowes are well paid,
For 'tis a Virgin here is layd,
You that shall see this Monument,
And cannot at this sight lament,
The conscious marble will you show
How to discharge your comely woe.
Either you may the occasion fit,
By melting into teares like it.
Or if you punish not your eye
By weeping, cause it fatally.
Behold her Tombe, then may you moane,
By standing stupid, like the stone.
Yet both these sorrowes are well paid,
For 'tis a Virgin here is laid.