Amanda A Sacrifice To an Unknown Goddesse, or, A Free-Will Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweet-Heart. By N. H. [i.e. Nicholas Hookes] |
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To his best friend Mr. T. H.
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 | Amanda |  |
To his best friend Mr. T. H.
True SIR,
The Countrey Gentleman who never mist,
When he walk't out his Faulc'ner at his fist:
Who once besides his hounds was able,
To keep a pack of servants at his Table;
Now trudges through the streets in any fashion,
To a Committee, and returnes in passion,
Chewing his lips for cud; it is not hard,
To know'n by's silver-haire malignant beard,
And his delinquent boots, in which he goes,
Wetshod i'th' sweat of's dirtie mellow toes;
'Tis pity troth such good old Gentlemen,
Are forc't to wear their old boots o're agen.
When he walk't out his Faulc'ner at his fist:
Who once besides his hounds was able,
To keep a pack of servants at his Table;
Now trudges through the streets in any fashion,
To a Committee, and returnes in passion,
Chewing his lips for cud; it is not hard,
To know'n by's silver-haire malignant beard,
And his delinquent boots, in which he goes,
Wetshod i'th' sweat of's dirtie mellow toes;
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Are forc't to wear their old boots o're agen.
Nay Sir, the Prelates beg, his Lordships grace,
Walks with a scurvie Sequestration face,
The good old honest Priest is grown so poor,
He sayes his grace at another mans door;
You may know'n by the reliqus of's old Querpo coat,
By's Canonical rags he's a Priest you must know't,
His girdle is greasie, he doth all to befat it,
Black puddings he hangs, and sauciges at it,
Though once he preach't well, and learnedly spoke,
Now he hath not so much as a pig in a poke.
Walks with a scurvie Sequestration face,
The good old honest Priest is grown so poor,
He sayes his grace at another mans door;
You may know'n by the reliqus of's old Querpo coat,
By's Canonical rags he's a Priest you must know't,
His girdle is greasie, he doth all to befat it,
Black puddings he hangs, and sauciges at it,
Though once he preach't well, and learnedly spoke,
Now he hath not so much as a pig in a poke.
True Sir, the Clergie suffers, none can teach,
The truth with freedome, or with courage preach,
Instead of some good worthy pious Knox,
W' have nothing now but a Iack in a box;
The people without life or soul lie dead,
As under th' aspect of Medusa's head;
The Gentrie groans, the Nobles muzled are,
The heavie taxes make the Bumpkins swear,
And Tradesmen break; the truth o'th' storie's this,
The times are bad, and all things are amisse;
It is an iron age, an age that swarmes
With vipers, yet had I within mine armes
My lovely sweet one, that same Fairest she,
Whose love accepts my bribing Poetrie;
Pretty Amanda's kissing Alchymie,
Can make this age a golden age to me.
The truth with freedome, or with courage preach,
Instead of some good worthy pious Knox,
W' have nothing now but a Iack in a box;
The people without life or soul lie dead,
As under th' aspect of Medusa's head;
The Gentrie groans, the Nobles muzled are,
The heavie taxes make the Bumpkins swear,
And Tradesmen break; the truth o'th' storie's this,
The times are bad, and all things are amisse;
It is an iron age, an age that swarmes
With vipers, yet had I within mine armes
My lovely sweet one, that same Fairest she,
Whose love accepts my bribing Poetrie;
Pretty Amanda's kissing Alchymie,
Can make this age a golden age to me.
| Amanda | |