Amanda :: :: University of Virginia Library

Go ye great Ranters, into th' wilde embraces
Of your stew'd Madams; lick their varnisht faces,
Where slimie snailes have crept; brag of the fee,
Wherewith they bribe your spending lecherie;
Then swash it to the Taverne, and confesse
That lust maintaines your pride and drunkenness.

Go, you mad City-Huffs, who fright young heirs,
And fill those Lack-wits with strange jealous feares
Of your pretended valour make fair showes,

But dare as little as they to come to blowes;
Go with your Guardian Hectors who maintain
(Some petty booty, some small prize to gaine,)
A windfall Ladies honour, keep for pay
The old Troy-ruines of some Hecuba;
Jumble her bones within her shrivled skin,
And take the mud-walls of her carcase in;
Hug rotten Countesses which pockeaten are,
As if their Master-Coffin-wormes were there,
Who for a legacie would swear 'twere sweet
To spend o'th' stinking Corps i'th' winding sheet.

Go, cursed Misers, damned o're and o're,
For grinding the lean faces of the poor;
Morgage your carking soules and bodies to
A Usurer as mercilesse as you:
To fill your bags seek and scrape every where,
Dig to the centre, and die beggars there;
Go cheat and over-reach only to fill,
And take up paper with a tedious Will;
Create trouble to th' Executors to prize
Your wealthie goods, and pay out legacies,
Then your heir laughing, play at Hoop-all-hid
As once your rustie coffin'd money did:
Depart in hopes to be sav'd after all,
For the repairing an old Hospital,
Or some poor School-masters augmentation,
An exhibition to some Corporation
To set young Tradesmen up or so, then die
Rich in your gifts, and poor in charitie.

Go, ye State-leaches, in your blessings curst,

Sweetly suck blood and money till you burst,
Fleece a whole Kingdom, then like silly sheep,
Which butchers in some fat'ning pastures keep
Only for slaughter, amongst cut-throats fall,
Pil'd, poll'd and snip't, shier'd and cashier'd of all;
Empsons and Dudleyes, Speakers and men o'th' chair,
Spoil'd as the Sultans griping Basha's are.

Go, ye Court-spaniels, quest in honours sent,
Perfum'd and polish't with a complement,
Fawne and shake tailes to Ladies, keep them fed
With bribing viands of the banquet-bed,
With them their little dogs and Cupids play,
Till you be crack't and broken too as they,
Then your hope's lost, you slighted and forgot,
Down quickly to some Countrey goal, and rot;
But say, your Princes Favourite you be,
Grace't with the loose-hamm'd Courtiers knee;
Know there is Autumne in the midst o'th' spring
I'th' Court, and if the smiling face o'th' King
In which your honour lives, be overcast
With clouds, you only blossome to a blast.

Go, plodding Students, ramble through the Arts,
Learn all that science to the soul imparts,
Let notions huddle, swim and multiplie,
Till they do muster into heresie;
Receive those Centaur's and Chimera's in,
Which monster-like against true Reason sinne;
Go crack your braines with Elenches which are bred
By swarmes within a crazie brooding head;
Bring to the wrack your judgement, reason, sense,

To screw a truth from non-Intelligence;
Infect thy wits, with buzzing thoughts which flie
About like gnats, and sting out Reasons eye;
Reade errors till thou squint on truth; and make
Unity double and treble seem, so mistake,
And then at last be serv'd like th' Logick elfe,
Prov'd two egges three, supp'd on the third himself;
What a great businesse 'tis! what strength we spend,
What wit and time, all to no other end
Then to want parts and words, and wrangle still,
As if in chaines, we needs must prove free-will!
To hold predestination or decrees,
Or some such ridling, needlesse points as these!
What an act 'tis to write a book, then die,
And be confuted by posterity!

These are sad heavy thoughts of working brains,
Most fruitlesse projects, yet require paines;
The Huffes and Hector, do contrive and plot
To hug a Madam or a pottle-pot.

Both, which they love alike, although their drink
And wine be sweet, perhaps their Madams stink:
The Miser toyles, and all his carking care
Can seldom purchase from his heire a teare,
Nay, whil'st he labours, strives and gaspes for breath
The frolick wag laughs the old fool to death,
The Statesman hatches Cuckows egges, gets in
A stock, then bever-like dies for his skin:
The Courtier lives on hopes, his Princes frown
Till the next smile kills him, and casts him down,

Still his preferment is adulterate,
Subject alike to honour and to hate:
The Scholar keeps a stir t' immortalize
His name, tumbles and tosses Libraries,
Puts on his doting winter-rug at night,
Sits up till two, two or three lines to write.

Well, well, Amanda, be but rul'd by me,
We'l spend our time in no such foolerie,
May I but make thee Dearest to my minde,
We will leave children, and not books behinde.