University of Virginia Library

EPIGRAMS.

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!

Epigrams. Lib. 2.

To the gentle Reader.

'Cause second thoughts are best, perhaps you'l look
For higher Gusto in this second book:
If so; read on! fine stomacks pleased are
Better with second cates, though lighter fare.
Sawce here perhaps you'l find unto your meat,
I'l bring the Tart, if you'l but make it sweet.

To the Lady Phanton.

Madam! you wear a feather in your head,
Your face is all Mosaick, coloured
With shining unguents; next your linnen's white,
Your garments too are, as your carriage, light;
Your heel's are cork you walk on: I'l avow't,
That Madam! now y' are light from head to foot.

On Lying.

Poets and Painters by authoritie
As wel as Travellers we say may lie:
Peripateticks lie, few know 'tis so;
Painters for lying have some colour too;
But Bolder Poets when they falsifie,
They do't as neatly, they in Print do lie.

Epitaph on John Newter.

Reader! John Newter who erst plaid
The Jack on both sides, here is laid,
Who like th'herb John Indifferent
Was nor for King or Parliament;
Yet fast and loose he could not play
With death, he took him at a Bay;
What side his soule hath taken now
God or Div'l? we hardly know:
But this is certain; since he dy'd,
Hee hath been mist of neither side.

A Question about Law.

One ask'd why th'Law was now so much neglected!
Marry (said I) it never was respected,
But stil declin'd ee'r since the Judges ruffs
Were turn'd to little falling bands and cuffs.

To my Book-seller.

I'ave common made my book; 'tis very true;
But I'd not have thee prostitute it, too;
Nor show it barefac'd on the open stall
To tempt the buyer: nor poast it on each wall
And corner poast close underneath the Play
That must be acted at Black-Friers that day:
Nor fee some Herring-cryer for a groat
To voice it up and down, with tearing throat.
Nor bid thy 'prentice read it and admire,
That all i'th' shop may what he reads enquire.
No: profer'd wares do smel: I'd have thee know
Pride scorns to beg: Modestie fears to wooe.

On Mr Fanning the Engastrometh.

To speak within, and to ones selfe, and yet
Bee heard, is much, yet Fanning doth it:
So tall and stout a man, 'tis strange to see't
So like a coward should his words down eat:
The belly hath no ears they say; yet his
Hath ears to hear, and tongue to talk, I wis.

On the Invention of Printing and Guns.

A souldier found at first the way to Print,
And 'twas a German Munk did Guns invent:
Thus like arm'd Pallas, learning doth depend
On arms, nor can they without this, defend.

To Megæra.

Megæra! since thy ugly face would fright
The Div'l himselfe, and all that look on it;
Prithee why dost thou wear a looking-glasse?
I cast a figure for that cause, she saies,
To fright him from me, and each lustful eie:
Fear't not! I'l warr'nt thee none shal tempt thee, I;
For he that should on thy face doar, I'd swear,
Both blind, and mad, bewitcht indeed he were.

On Plot.

Plot now he's married, and keeps house, I hear
Is like his butter, mad but twice a year:
In Hymens sheets good-fellowship may lie
Thus bedred, and in time expiring die.

To VV.B. a smal Poet.

One distick well-made's worth two Poems ill;
Prithee contract then thine to disticks Will.

The Stonie Age.

'Tofore there was a Golden Age, next that
A Silver one, but now 'tis Iron all:
To what I tro wilt next degenerate?
To stone I think in stead of Minerall.

To Captain Nym.

Betimes thou findst me e'r I stir, and sai'st
Thy mornings draught o'r night thou promis'd wast,
But thou nor car'st so much for that or me,
My breeches in the chair thou com'st to see;
Thy plot prevented thus thou fliest hence,
In hast to th'next friend with the like pretence,
Whose pockets, you surprising, borrow there
Without his leave a crown perhaps, for fear
More mist, might be discover'd, for thy friend
Shouldst thou but ask it, would not six pence lend:
Thus each friends hinder Phob thy want supplies,
Whence thou dost raise thy daily subsidies,
And pick some crums of comfort; but alas!
Nym th'other night by Festus couzned was,
With whom he needs would lie; for Festus did
Not think his money safe though under's bed,
But hid it in Nyms pocket: thought he, ne'r
Wil, shifting Nym, look once for money there.
Thus Nym protected, what he els had stole;
Better to venter thus, then lose the whole.

To Mutus.

Mutus where e'r he comes in companie
Sits stil, observes, speaks not a word to any:
Are you a spie or State-informer grown?
Set to pick treason, when we are high flown,
From out our harmless mirth? forgive me pray!
I'ave wrong'd you Mutus, you can nothing say.

To Jealous.

Jealous if any laughs is angry straight,
Suspects they jeer at him; oh foolish Wight!
Because another smiling wries his nose
Wilt thou betray thy selfe, and so expose
Thee to more laughter? though you guilty bee,
Yet I dare say there's no man thought of thee.

On Taurus.

I Taurus told that his wife many lov'd;
Hee lov'd her better 'cause she was approv'd:
I said they us'd her; then he made reply,
I care not so they use her wel, not I.
Oh wilful Cuckold! who wil pittie thee,
That when you're told, won't believe til you see?

On Swill.

On fasting-daies Swill eats and drinketh fast,
Plaies fast, hopes thus the world wil alwaies last:
Thus Swil doth fast, while the rule Fast and Pray,
Hee onely changes into feast and play!

On Resolute Bat.

As rough as bear-skins for behaviour,
Abisket face as hard for favour,
As blunt as back of knife, as dul
As whetstone, or cram'd capon ful,
His talk as women backward flat,
And though laught at, he's Resolute Bat;
Hee'l to the Club, and prate his share
Or more, pay lesse than any there;
Oh what a pretty thing is it
To be but bold though without wit?

To Veta an old Shrew.

Your husband musters old things quite forgotten,
As men eat Medlers when they are quite rotten;
All th'rags of time he hangs up, he can see;
Keep out of's sight! or els he'l hang up thee!

To Big.

Big why hast got so smal a wife? 'tis best
Thou sai'st, of evils we should chuse the least:
Thou hop'st to overlay her, that's thy plot,
Kil her and get another, is it not?

To Mæchus.

To be most idle thou maist well be sed,
Whilst lazily thou dost thy work abed.

On Captain Sharke.

Sharkes Creditor promis'd oft, at length did say,
Hee now begun to fear hee ne'r wou'd pay:
You need not fear it Sir! Sharke made replie,
I ne'r intended to repay it, I.

To Boldface.

Boldface I wonder at thy impudence,
That dar'st affirm things so against all sence:
For shame be n't impudent and foolish too!
And think all men are fooles 'cause you are so!

To Phydias a Painter.

I Phydias askt how he could paint a maid?
Find mee but one! I'l paint her then he said.

On Chœril.

Chœril because his wife is somewhat il,
Uncertain in her health indifferent stil
Hee turns her out of doors without reply:
Wondring at which, I askt the reason why?
In sickness and in health saies he, I'm bound
Onely to keep her, either weak or sound;
But now shee's neither, he replies: you'l see,
Shee'l quickly now or mend or end, saies hee.

On Stupro.

Stupro on horseback saies hee'l ride no more,
'Tis 'cause hee hath been jaded much before:
Hee may the Trojan Palfrey now bestride,
The living jades are fiery hot, to ride.

On Swillmore.

Swillmore grown dry with talking, drinks til hee
Was got so drunk he could nor speak nor see:
His windy words foxt him; some drunk have bin,
As well by letting out as taking in.

On Brave.

Braves money melt's in's pocket, 'tmay be so
'Twas warm before, but now 'twil colder grow.

On Pure.

His text no sooner nam'd, but Pure inveigh'd
'Gainst Rome, and run quite from't as one afraid:
A sudden rapture 'twas; his text and hee
I fear wil ne'r again meet, or agree.

On Dull.

So many men, so many minds there be;
Yet in dispute Dull wil not disagree,
But alwaies is on's neighbours mind, 'cause hee
Cannot tel how to contradict, I see.

On Sir Sullen Haughtie.

When I thankt Haughtie for his curtesie,
He said he not expected it from me:
Nor I from him that kindness, wherefore I
Thankt him 'cause't came so unexpectedly.

To his worthy friend T.S. Esquire.

If to be mild be Generositie;
To scorn to give or take an injurie;
If to be patient, and yet valiant too
Be truly noble, then (Sir!) you are so:
Virtu's the best Nobilitie is known,
You're virtuous noble too, in this alone.

To Pantagus.

None can say ought, but you'l say something to't,
There's nought another doth, but you can do't:
You're cunning Pantagus, and singular,
Good at all things, but no particular.

To Lautus.

Lautus thy palate can be pleas'd with nought
But the best cates far-fetcht, and dearest bought;
Sicilian Lampreys, and the Thuscan Boar,
With witty dainties ne'r heard of before
Vitelleus age, such as Minerva's shield,
A dish made of Scares livers, and then fil'd
With milt of Sturgeon, and with brains of Railes,
Pheasants and Peacocks, and Egyptian Quailes,
With tongues of Nightingales, and those more rare
And seld-seen Crimson birds, his usual fare:
Mullets and Celsey Coccles, the Severn Trout,
And what more daintie novels can be bought:
Botargo, Anchovois, Puffins too, to taste
Thy Maronæan wines, at meals thou hast.
Thus all thy lands thou eat'st and drinkest down,
In thy fair Boggards buried lie, thus grown
With dear-bought soil so rich, to dung the small
Acre that's left unsold, and that is all.

On Prophane.

Prophane ne'r speaks of God, but in his oathes,
Which he doth change more often than his cloathes:
Nor thinks he on him when he vainly swears,
Oh Atheist, that nor God, nor Devil fears.

On Bib.

Wisedome doth teach us silence, now Bib is
With drink made speechless, is he not then wise?

The effects of Brainsick's letters.

Your lines were all so sweet, and work't so wel,
So purg'd me too, that I can hardly tel
Whether they wrought on my affections more
Or on my body, I drew thence such store
Of precious Elixer, and so much
Compounded Cates, whose qualitie was such,
That where my Physick promis'd me but seven,
By virtue of your lines I had eleven,
But yet I'l tel you; troth 'twas een forgot
It purg'd and scar'd and wipt off you know what;
It griev'd mee your fair hand should undergo
So foul an office as to wipe it too;
But rather then your hand or paper bee
Stain'd with this act, let the guilt lie on mee.
I did it 'cause I know that you could write
Such lines again as fast as I could—
Write to me oftner pray! so I may save
Physicians fees, and may bum-fodder have.

On Mr Ap-Taffie Shentilman of Wales.

The way to make proud Taffie down on's knees
Is tel him that the Moon's made of green cheese;
Hee then in Heav'n would bee, and wil desire
Nought but to tost his bobbie by her fire.

To an Irish-man.

When I do sneeze, God blesse you, you do say,
Why not the same when I do fart, I pray?
Are not both sudden ruptures that do make
As with an earthquake the whole body shake?
To break before, at Irish, you do find
To be less dang'rous then to break behind;
Besides, this brings a good report you see,
Why is not this as welcome then to thee?
When I break forward, you (Christ help you) say,
But when I backwards break, you backwards pray.
Pardon me Sir! 'tis my infirmitie,
'Tis the windcholick that thus troubles me.

To Spruce.

Spruce wears a comb about him, alwaies he
To prune and smooth his polisht haire:
The Cock's ne'r too without his comb you see,
Spruce 'tis a Coxcomb then you weare.

To Formall.

When Formal knows not what to say, then hee
Oh Lord, Sir! cries with much tautologie:
Now the Lord help thee Formal, 'twas wel meant,
Though you but spoke of him in compliment.

On Swift.

Swift though h'has bin but once 'mongst Gentlemen,
And hath learnt what their Christen names are, then
He speaks to them in such familiar phrase,
As if th'had long acquainted been, and saies,
If any speak of them, he knows 'um wel,
And cals them Jack, Dick, or the like, wil tel
You when, and where he saw them last, and how
Their intimate acquaintance first did grow.
Swift thy too much familiaritie
May breed contempt. Believ't they know not thee.

The Wisdome of this age.

The Wise-men were but seven: now we scarce know
So many fools, the world so wise doth grow.

On Priscus.

Priscus doth poetize now he's in love;
Strange each blind Lover should a Poet prove!
He is inspired sure, how els could he
Be such a Chymist in Loves Poetrie?
He courts his Mistris out of Ovids art
Has th'Amadis and Spencer all by heart,
Whence he extracts his sonnets, and his rime,
And speaks them, dreaming, in and out of time.
Such sudden raptures seldome constant be,
His love is blind, and so's his Poetrie.

On Proud.

Proud quarrels in his cups, and then wil fight,
Is beaten sober, 'troth he is served right.

On Doctor Emperick.

Wise Emperick can all diseases cure,
His Physick though't be strong it worketh sure:
A litte mors in ollâ which expels
Disease and life together, nothing els.
Happy thy patient, you dispatch him quick;
Your mighty art won't let him long be sick.

On Bib.

To quench his sorrows Bib drinks very free,
Sorrow is drie, he saies, and so is hee.

On Nokes.

One askt why Nokes discoursing shakt his head?
A Rattle-head 'twas 'cause he was, I sed:
Therefore he shakt his empty sconce, to find
Whether within with any braines 'twer lin'd:

To his friend and Companion Mr H.N.

Wit's all the younger sons inheritance,
A small estate, which cannot much advance:
Virgil may talk of Bees, and dunging land,
But 'tis the Heir that has them in his hand:
To him th'indulgent father all doth give,
While they alas have nought wherewith to live
But what Dame Nature, like a careful mother,
Laid up, and said 'twas for a younger brother.
A store of Wit, heav'n knowes 'tis all she gave,
And yet you're rich enough, while this you have.
A Fico for thy brothers lands! thou'ast more
In Mount Pernassus, than is all his store:
There with Apollo thou maist sit and dine
With heav'nly Nectar, sup with th'Muses nine;
The lustie Gods and Goddesses wil be
With all the Graces there in companie:
There we have fields to walk in; oh what fine
Mirth there is in good company and wine!
Lastly to make you fully happy, Bettie;
Will meet i'th' arbour; oh shee's wondrous prettie!
Now tel me friend, is not this better sport,
Than to have money, and no pleasure for't?

To Levinus.

I have lent Sharke monies, which Levinus, you
Perswade me, long put off, he'l pay me now:
When tro? at the Greek Calends? when the Fleet
Wants guests? when he and I; two Sundaies meet?
If he solve he, deceives me, if not, he
Cozens me worse; stil I deceiv'd must be
Whither he pay or not: I'ad rather tho
Be thus deceiv'd then cozend: tel him so!

On Vulpe.

As Ravens 'bout the breathless Carkass flie,
So swarm Vulpe's friends, now he but seems to die:
Each greedy angler hook and line doth lay,
Baited with gifts to catch this Aurata
Which swallows both, escapes, takes all they give,
Thus old get heirs each day, and stil doth live:
Vulpe preys o'th, living, he most Vulter is;
These Harpies hope for prey, but when Vulpe dies,

Blessed Ignorance.

Hee is most happy sure that knoweth nought,
Because he knows not that he knoweth not.

To a poore Begger.

If thou hadst said th'hadst had no money, I
Would then have thee believed, but now you lie,
'Cause you do say you want it, for 'tis mad
To say one wants that which he never had:
A word wel plac't may serve one at a need,
Learn to beg right, or you may want indeed.

On Thais her Bastard.

Thais the mother, but the father who?
Thais her self nor any else doth know:
Can th'son oth' people want a father? when
For parents he can claime so many men?

On Gamster.

Play fair and swear not? burn the tables! I
Wil neither th'one nor th'other by this die:
Gamester I'l now believe thee valiant too,
'Cause you'l not swear less then you mean to do.

Epitaph on the Preaching Cobler How.

Translated here lies Cobler How,
Who, when he liv'd could rip and sow
Divide and stitch a text together
Just as he us'd to spoil his leather.
Or rather here he's underlaid,
Who oft o'rlay two chairs and praid,
That his inspired tongue might mend
More souls then e'r his Coblers end
Or hands could cure: he often said
Walk ye uprightly in your trade!
And when your soles do tread awry
Bring them to me I pray! and I
Wil set them streight: be mending stil
As I am! 'Tis Gods heav'nly wil.
Many were wrought on thus, but th'time was past,
And so he finisht when death brought his last.
Cobler thou hast set up enow
That since can prate like Cobling How.

On Sir John Lackland.

Jack Lackland bringing gracious news to Court,
The King was hap'ly pleas'd to Knight him for't:
He proud of's honour writes to all his friends,
And with—Yours Sir Iohn Lackland—Knight—he ends.
'Tis fit he shud, for wer't not under's hand
None would believe him Knight, that had no land.

On Cosmo.

Cosmo in's new and holiday array,
Then to be sure he walks abroad that day;
Goes to a play, wil stand i'th' pit, and talk,
Whiffe smoak, or to be markt, out often walk.
'Tis pitty Cosmo wears no oftner new,
For then he oftner would appear in view.

On Lowsi-Patch.

Who saies Patch low sie vestments weareth, when
They are so threadbare that no vermin can
Upon them stick? Yes: though that they be thin
His loving lice stick closer to his skin.

On Light.

Light steals a jeast, and then to mak't his own
He walks from one to th'other, up and down;
By oft repeating thus he prostrates it;
Light hath a common, though a running wit.

On a fire in a Town.

One night through all the streets the men did crie
Fire fire! at which I wak't and wondred by;
Not that drie wood should burn, but because all
Did crie fire, when they should for water call.

Epitaph on Hocas Pocas.

Here Hocas lies with his tricks and his knocks,
Whom Death hath made sure as his Juglers box:
Who many hath cozen'd by his Leiger demein,
Is presto convey'd and here underlain:
Thus Hocas he's here, and here he is not,
While death plaid the Hocas, and brought him toth' pot.

To one that talked finely.

How prettily it talks as you would say
His speech did wear her holiday array?
With fine spun language drest is his discourse,
It talks in print where not a word of course
Drops from his tongue, but all so finely wove
So smooth so soft as you would swear he strove
To outdo the silkworm, whilst each word he saies
Was studied for before, for th'better grace.
Speak like a man stil to be neatly drest
Is womanish: your homespun cloath is best,
Because 'twil longer last and finer wear,
Labour'd invention holds not out the year.

To Cosmo on his fair scolding wife.

Smoak makes one fair, yet saies the Proverb, where
It alwaies smoaks, 'tis a soul sign that there
A dangerous Scold doth dwel, whose fiery tongue
Outdo's the fire and draws the smoak along.
The troubled house. Cosmo th'hast light upon
A fair scold to thy wife, the Question
Whither her tongue, that charm'd these clouds to rise,
Or the smoak, cause so many crying eies.

On Silly.

Silly observes the company and hears
How each man throws about his jeasts and jeers,
Lest any spie him he about him looks
And forth his pocket steals his table-books.
To glean those crums which wise men throw away,
With which he feasts himself another day.
Silly by chance did loose his Diarie
Of wit, which he had got o'th' companie:
No marl he now so mute and pensive sits,
How can he chuse, since he hath lost his wits?

To Momus.

Because I no Mæcenas get
To patronize my verse as yet
Nor wooing e'r bespok my friend
To swear them witty or wel pen'd;
Momus dares say they'ar poor, not worth
The owning, silly, and so forth:
Ingenious Readers are my Judges here,
But Momus you are none of those I fear.

On Bib.

A drunken man can catch no harme they say,
How then came drunken Bib so poxt I pray!
He was not drunk enough when that he caught,
He could not so have done or suffer'd ought.

To Moore.

A Pockhold-lean-swarth-face with ugly hair
And yet be trim'd each morn to make thee fair?
If 'bout that face thoult keep so much ado,
Get thee a Barbar, a Facemender too?

To Madam Cr. wearing a lookinglass at her Girdle.

Madam! you look so often on your glass,
I fear you doubt whither or no your face
Be stil your own, or the same yesterday
It was: for colours change or fade away.
Then view no more thy own fair Physnomie!
Because I'd have thee look the more on me.

On Squire Huffe.

Squire Huffe had got a vap'ring trick to talk
High ranting words, then 'bout the room to walk
Like bold Andrea acting on the stage
Often in speech would personate his rage:
Sometimes he grew Satyrick and would strein
To jeer each man in King Cambyses vein.
Blunt being toucht grew angry, made reply
Though I cann't prate yet you shal find that I
Can fight, and beat him soundly: 'tis the way
Thus to cure madmen, as I have heard say.

On Philip Soupe and Jone his wife.

Lo I the tragick story sing o'th' life
And death of Philip Soupe and Ione his wife;
A friendly pair of Turtles that did love
Goodfellowship and lusty ale above
All earthly good: for why? they oft wu'd say
'Tis high and mighty Ale doth griefs allay,
And when 'tis nappy and spirituall,
Ale is both meat and drink, and cloath, and all,
For all's included in this sentence Ale:
Lets drink it then they cryd, or new or stale.
It hap't these two once wanting companie
Which made them sad, and sadness made them drie,
Set foot to foot, and tryd the masterie,
Each lookt to th'to'ther too with narrow eie,
Phil drunk to Iug, and Iug cryd Phil again
Til none could stand or speak one sentence plain,
Fild up toth' throat when both could drink no more
And th'rest o'th' drink left running 'bout the floor,
'Cause neither could the spicket wield aright,
Resolving as 'twas time to sleep that night,
They shok their cloaths off both at last, and so
Stumbled into their beds with much ado:
But oh the sad disasters that befel them
At this encounter! You anon shal smel them:
For when Iug rows'd to buss her Philip, she
Her stomack being o'r-charg'd did rain a sea
Of pow'rful Ale in poor Phil's face and breast,
Whose gaping mouth, and stomack thus opprest
With the receipt of his wives spew'd-up liquor
Grew sick, no vomit could have made him sicker,
He turn'd and groan'd as if he were to die,
Then straightwaies fac't about, and furiously
Reverst, he charg'd her body with his rear
On her right flanck all-to-bedighting her,
Then he drew up and spew'd, then charg'd agen
Til he had routed all her bodie, then
After a Parley sounded, Iug did say
Thou'rt pestlence hot, draw off now, Philip, pray;
The place soon grew too hot indeed for them,
For the foul Stygian lake did never steam
With such gross vapours as did thence arise,
Ready to choak them both in woful wise.
At last Phil reacht for th'Iordan where he might
Convert his Ale to Lees, but missing it
He fel a ground: the like did Iug bety'd
Who reaching for the drink o'th' other side
Fel down with th'chamberpot upon her head,
Beside themselves, and both beside the bed;
Nak'd and asleep i'th' morning both were found
In pickle prostrate on the spawled ground:
Sad chance! this loving couple never were
Known until now to fal out any where:
Oh cursed Ale could thus part man and wife!
'Twas in their cups, let that excuse the strife.

On Poet Cordus a Rimer.

When Poet Cordus writes, he oftentimes
Doth wier draw his matter to his rimes,
Provide but reason, rime wil flow; but he
Harps more upon the words, then sence, I see.

On Fusk.

Why should Fusk of his wife so jealous be
Unless his own sins taught him jealousie?
(For we are often more suspicious far
Of that wherein our selves most guilty are:)
Some rather think Fusk insufficient,
And 'cause he cannot give his wife content
Therefore he fears she seeks abroad, for why
Women they wil be satisfi'd, or cry:
Some say he thinks she's wiser far then he,
And so turns Envie into jealousie:
Stil the fault lies in him not her, you see,
While Fusk grows lean with triple jealousie.

To an old deformed Woman.

Thou art a Remedie for love, for he
That thee beholds, in love shal never be.

To Cit.

I wonder Cit thou art so confident
Sure I ne'r gave thee such encouragement,
I never borrowed of thee, nor was I
Ever once drunk in thy base companie,
Nor did you e'r pimp for me, or bid me come
To dinner with your friendly wife at home,
You ne'r yet offer'd to be bound for me
Nor canst claim kinred by affinitie:
How dare you then be so familiar
With me? what! do you think because you are
Free of the City, and in time may be
The grave Cinquater of your Companie
Or 'cause sometimes you walk in scarlet gowne,
Reverenc'd by boys and watermen oth' town,
Or 'cause your sattin doublet's girt with gold,
I'm therefore bound to you? are you thus bold
Because you are grown rich by wicked gain?
To your shop Squundrel! and your wares again!
And converse there with thy Apprentices.
If thou'lt oblige me with true curtesies
And lend gentilely, then perhaps I'l own
Thee for a friend, else thou'rt a Cit: be gone.

To Plagiarie.

Feloniously thou stealst anothers wit,
'Cause sure thou art to have thy book for it:
Thou art no learned thief yet, for although
Thou readest wel thou canst not write wel too.

To Lysippus a Barber.

Lysippus! some mistane, have said that you
Are a Barbarian, but I think a Jew,
You circumcise so much, and for your ends
So smoothly stroak the faces of your friends,
Making young novices of all that you
Can circumvent: thus you are a Barbarous Jew.

To a corrupt Judge.

Why thou so dear dost law and Justice sel,
Dost hear and take on either side so wel,
I wonder not: the Court Seianus made
Thee buy thy place so dear as some have said;
Great reason then that who so dear doth buy,
Should th'price enhance when he doth sel, as high.

Lydia encountered.

Francis and Lydia in a jeasting way
Each other strove to jeer; he won the day
At last, and silenc'd her; at which she grew
So vext, that in her passion she flew
Upon young Francis, and 'twixt rage and fear
Saluted him with a fair box o'th' ear,
He threw her down o'th' bed, and kist her 'til
She cri'd agen, for madness, 'gainst her wil:
Oh sweet revenge! who would not thus fall out
If he might have but such a kissing bout?
Kiss and be friends was the old way you know
Of reconciling, so it seems 'twas now.

On Gaming.

Some play for gain, to pass time others play
For nothing, both do play the Fool I say:
Nor time or coin I'l lose or idly spend;
Who gets by play, proves loser in the end.

On Brag.

Brag his right glove draws often off and on,
To show his wounds on each occasion:
Tel not for shame, Brag, where thou gotst those scars;
A tavern broil did mark thee, not the wars.

To Cosmo.

Reading my verses Cosmo wonders why
They swel not with Poetique Historie,
Why I not use their pretty fables, whence
I may suck matter to enlarge my sence?
As now to speak of Danae's golden show'r,
Then of Narcissus turn'd into a flow'r,
Ixions wheel, or Sysiphu his stone,
Or how the Moon kiss'd lov'd Endymion;
Then to display Medusa's snakie locks,
Or talk of wise Pandora and her box,
Or him that wisht that all he toucht were gold,
And how this granted all his meat resolv'd
At the first touch to gilded baits, and he
Not able to disgest them, forc't to die:
Then of slain Pelops Ivory shoulder, how
Io by jove was turn'd into a cow:
Of th'Minotaur's born of Pasiphe
And of Leucothee turn'd into a tree
Of frankincense: or of Tiresias
Who sometimes man and sometimes woman was:
Then of Minerva born of Jupiters brain
Or by his wife how Hercules was slain
With Nessus poison'd shirt: or of the maid
Turn'd to a spider, how she first was said
To invent spinning: these he did conclude
With many more you may ofttimes allude
Unto your purpose, where each fiction
By allegoricall allusion
Becomes your own, and thereby also you
Are both Historian and Poet too.
Troth I wil tel thee why I did omit
Such fabulous phansies, first because I writ
Not only to be read but understood;
And next 'cause lies, down not with all, for food.
The finest web is by the spider spun;
He's poor that borrows his invention.

On Mounsieur Congee.

A proper handsome courtly man indeed,
And wel set out with cloaths, can for a need
Discourse with legs, and quarter congies, and
Talk half an howr with help of foot and hand.
But when I viewd this Mounsieur clean throughout
I found that he was only man without.

On Gripe.

Gripe to himself talks of the sums he lent
And of the debts he ows, but to prevent
Others from borrowing more; away you Iew
Dost think I'd ask of such a knave as you?
Besides if I of thee to day should borrow,
I know th'whole town should hear of it to morrow.

To Harsh.

Musick that once could move each rock and tree
Not a whit moves thee Harsh, or pleaseth thee;
Thy inharmonious soul how wilt thou bring
To Heav'n, where Angels nothing else but sing?
A Hellish sure and untun'd soul hath he
That is not rapt with musicks extasie:
Knowst not what evil-spirits it expels?
It cur'd afflicted Saul, and nothing else:
It doth inspire the soul and heighten it;
Tho' hadst better lose thy ears than once be bit
By a Tarantula whose deadly wound
Is only healed by soft musicks sound.

To Cupid.

His Armes blazoned.

Luna he bears, in a cross Saturn plain
A flaming heart transfixed Sol; thus slain
In the wounds orifice it bleeds Mars, from whence
Bloudie drops flow, and under the pretence
For Motto this inscribed more is,
Sanat Amor vulnus amoris.
Thy Arms do speak thee Noble, Cruel too,
Else thou wouldst ne'r so many hearts undo:
How much thou dost degenerate I find,
For thy fair Goddesse Mother was more kind.

On proud Mrs. Minx.

Pride takes no cold, yet Pride oft takes a fal:
Both which are true in this our finical
Proud Mrs. Minx fair Madams waiting maid
For though she went like her spruce Dame arraid
In her cast gowns, bare, all the neck and breast
Down to the shoulders, and sometimes the rest;
Yet took no cold, pride and lust kept her warm
Though she went stript up above half the arm.
Yet did the pride of this She-goat at last
Catch a shrewd fal, for by a stumbling cast
I'th' Lobby room her heels flew 'bove her head
And so she broke her elboe 'gainst the bed.
Yet though she fel her belly riss: what else?
Pride naturally when 'tis at lowest swels.

On three Knights without spurs.

Sir Iohn in's spurs no rowels had, because
There was no need, his horse twice roweld was:
Sir George but one spur wore, for if one side
Will go, to'ther wil follow he reply'd:
I askt Sir Lancelot why no spurs he wore?
Because saies he, a free horse needs no spur.
If spurs shew Knights and Horsemen; then I fear
'Mongst them was neither Knight or Chivalier.

On Copernicus his opinion who thought the earth went round.

In vain did Drake with pains the Earth sail round,
Here's one could do it easier on the ground.

On Doctour Love-Self.

Love-Self when th'Plague in London reigned sore,
Grown rich himself shuts up and wu'd no more
When most his help was wanted: it seems then
Hee'd not his patients keep as married men
Must keep their wives in Sickness and in Health,
Such is the fearful cowardize of wealth.
Though thou with th'Plague would'st nothing ha' to do,
A Plaguy cunning Doctour yet wer't thou.

To my smal friend with a great beard.

Thy face and self are smal, but large thy beard:
Lop't off! thy wood wil hide thee I'm afferd.

To Ignorant Zoile.

Zoile I am told you pish and pough, when e'r
You any do my lines commending hear:
Pish on! 'cause you stil in the wrong place pish,
Aspersing most the best, as I could wish.

To the Reader.

It is enough: but if you think too much,
Then Reader! say you saw me not! for such
As I for writing what is bad, will you
By others be for reading counted too.