University of Virginia Library

Cvrio , aye me! thy mistres Monkey's dead,
Alas, alas, her pleasures buried.
Goe womans slaue, performe his exequies,
Condole his death in mournfull Elegies.
Tut, rather Peans sing Hermaphrodite,
For that sad death giues life to thy delight.

Sweet fac'd Corinna, daine the riband tie
Of thy Cork-shooe, or els thy slaue will die:
Some puling Sonnet toles his passing bell,
Some sighing Elegie must ring his knell,
Vnlesse bright sunshine of thy grace reuiue
His wambling stomack, certes he will diue
Into the whirle-poole of deuouring death,
And to some Mermaid sacrifice his breath.
Then oh, oh then, to thy eternall shame,
And to the honour of sweet Curios name,
This Epitaph vpon the Marble stone,
Must fayre be grau'd of that true louing one;
Heere lyeth hee, hee lyeth heere,
that bounc'd, and pitty cryed,
The doore not op'd, fell sicke alas,
alas fell sicke, and dyed.
What Mirmidon, or hard Dolopian,
What sauage minded rude Cyclopian,
But such a sweet pathetique Paphian
Would force to laughter? Ho Amphitrion,
Thou art no Cuckold, what though Ioue dallied
During thy warres, in faire Alckmenas bed,
Yet Hercules true borne, that imbecilitie
Of corrupt nature all apparantly
Appeares in him, ô foule indignitie,
I heard him vow himselfe a slaue to Omphale,
Puling (aye mee) ô valours obloquie!
Hee that the inmost nookes of hell did know,
Whose nere craz'd prowesse all did ouer-throw,
Lies streaking brawnie limmes in weakning bed,
Perfum'd, smooth kemb'd, new glaz'd, faire surphuled,
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be subiected to such base controule!

Big limm'd Alcides, doffe thy honors crowne
Goe spin huge slaue least Omphale should frowne.
By my best hopes, I blush with greefe and shame
To broach the peasant basenes of our name.

O now my ruder hand begins to quake,
To thinke what loftie Cedars I must shake:
But if the canker fret the barkes of Oakes,
Like humbler shrubs shal equall beare the stroakes
Of my respectlesse rude Satyrick hand,

Vnlesse the Destin's adamantine band
Should tie my teeth, I cannot choose but bite
To view Mauortius metamorphiz'd quite
To puling sighes, & into (aye me's) state,
With voyce distinct, all fine articulate
Lisping, Fayre saint, my woe compassionate,
By heauen thine eye is my soule-guiding fate.

The God of wounds, had wont on Cyprian couch
To streake himselfe, and with incensing touch
To faint his force onely when wrath had end:
But now, mong furious garboiles, he doth spend
His feebled valour, in tilt and turneing,
With wet turn'd kisses, melting dallying.
A poxe apon't, that Bacchis name should be
The watch-word giuen to the soulderie.
Goe troupe to fielde, mount thy obscured fame,
Cry out S. George, invoke thy Mistres name;
Thy Mistres, and S. George, alarum cry,
Weake force, weake ayde that sprouts from luxurie.

Thou tedious workmanship of lust-stung Ioue,
Downe from thy skies, enioy our females loue,
Some fiftie more Beotian gerles will sue
To haue thy loue, (so that thy back be true.)

O now me thinks I heare swart Martius cry
Souping along in warrs fain'd maskerie,
By Lais starrie front he'le forth-with die
In cluttred blood, his Mistres liuorie.
Her fancies colours waues vpon his head,
O well fenc'd Albion, mainly manly sped,
When those that are Soldadoes in thy state,
Doe beare the badge of base, effeminate,
Euen on their plumie crests, brutes sensuall,
Hauing no sparke of intellectuall.
Alack, what hope? when some ranck nasty wench
Is subiect of their vowes and confidence?

Publius hates vainely to idolatries,
And laughs that Papists honor Images,
And yet (ô madnes) these mine eyes did see
Him melt in mouing plaints, obsequiously
Imploring fauour, twining his kind armes,
Vsing inchauntments, exorcismes, charmes.
The oyle of Sonnets, wanton blandishment,
The force of teares, & seeming languishment,
Vnto the picture of a painted lasse:
I saw him court his Mistres looking-glasse,
Worship a busk-poynt, (which in secrecie
I feare was conscius of strange villanie.)
I saw him crouch, deuote his liuelihood,
Sweare, protest, vow pesant seruitude
Vnto a painted puppet, to her eyes
I heard him sweare his sighes to sacrifice.
But if he get her itch-allaying pinne,
O sacred relique, straight he must beginne
To raue out-right, then thus. Celestiall blisse,
Can heauen grant so rich a grace as this?
Touch it not (by the Lord Sir) tis diuine,
It once beheld her radiant eyes bright shine:
Her haire imbrac'd it, ô thrice happie prick
That there was thron'd, and in her haire didst sticke.
Kisse, blesse, adore it Publius, neuer linne,
Some sacred vertue lurketh in the pinne.

O frantick fond pathetique passion!
Ist possible such sensuall action
Should clip the wings of contemplation?
O can it be the spirits function,
The soule not subiect to dimension,
Should be made slaue to reprehension
Of craftie natures paint? Fie, can our soule
Be vnderling to such a vile controule?

Saturio wish'd him selfe his Mistres buske,
That he might sweetly lie, and softly luske
Betweene her pappes, then must he haue an eye
At eyther end, that freely might discry
Both hills and dales. But out on Phrigio,
That wish'd he were his Mistres dog, to goe
And licke her milke-white fist, ô prettie grace,
That prettie Phrigio begs but Pretties place.
Parthenophell, thy wish I will omit,
So beastly tis I may not vtter it.
But Punicus, of all I'le beare with thee,
That faine would'st be thy Mistres smug Munkey,
Here's one would be a flea, (iest comicall)
Another his sweet Ladies verdingall
To clip her tender breech; Another he
Her siluer-handled fanne would gladly be,
Here's one would be his Mistres neck-lace faine,
To clip her faire, and kisse her azure vaine.
Fond fooles, well wish'd, and pittie but should bee,
For beastly shape to brutish soules agree.

If Lauras painted lip doe daine a kisse
To her enamor'd slaue, ô heauens blisse
(Straight he exclaimes) not to be match'd with this!
Blaspheming dolt, goe three-score sonnets write
Vpon a pictures kisse, ô rauing spright!

I am not saplesse, old, or rumatick,
No Hipponax mishapen stigmatick,
That I should thus inueigh gainst amorous spright
Of him whose soule doth turne Hermaphrodite,
But I doe sadly grieue, and inly vexe
To view the base dishonors of our sexe.

Tush, guiltles Doues, when Gods to force foule rapes,
Will turne themselues to any brutish shapes.
Base bastard powers, whom the world doth see
Trans-form'd to swine for sensuall luxurie;
The sonne of Saturne is become a Bull,
To crop the beauties of some female trull.
Now, when he hath his first wife Metim sped,
And fairely chok'd, least foole gods should be bred
Of that fond Mule. Themis his second wife
Hath turn'd away, that his vnbrideled life
Might haue more scope. Yet last his sisters loue
Must satiate the lustfull thoughts of Ioue.
Now doth the lecher in a Cuckowes shape
Commit a monstrous and incestuous rape.
Thrice sacred gods, and ô thrice blessed skies
Whose orbes includes such vertuous deities!

What should I say? Lust hath confounded all,
The bright glosse of our intellectuall
Is fouly soyl'd. The wanton wallowing
In fond delights, and amorous dallying,
Hath dusk'd the fairest splendour of our soule:
Nothing now left, but carkas, lothsome, foule.
For sure, if that some spright remained still,
Could it be subiect to lewd Lais will?

Reason by prudence in her function
Had wont to tutor all our action.
Ayding with precepts of philosophy
Our feebled natures imbecilitie:
But now affection, will, concupiscence,
Haue got o're Reason chiefe preheminence.
Tis so, els how, how should such basenes taint
As force it be made slaue to natures paint?
Me thinkes the spirits Pegase Fantasie
Should hoise the soule from such base slauery,
But now I see, and can right plainly show
From whence such abiect thoughts & actions grow.

Our aduerse body, beeing earthly, cold,
Heauie, dull, mortall, would not long infold
A stranger inmate, that was backward still
To all his dungie, brutish, sensuall will:
Now here-vpon our Intellectuall,
Compact of fire all celestiall,
Invisible, immortall, and diuine,
Grewe straight to scorne his Land-lordes muddy slime.
And therefore now is closely slunke away
(Leauing his smoakie house of mortall clay)
Adorn'd with all his beauties lineaments
And brightest iemms of shining ornaments.
His parts diuine, sacred, spirituall
Attending on him, leauing the sensuall
Base hangers on, lusking at home in slime,
Such as wont to stop port Esqueline.
Now doth the body ledde with sencelesse will,
(The which in reasons absence ruleth still)
Raue, talke idlie, as't were some deitie
Adoring female painted puppetry
Playing at put-pin, doting on some glasse
(Which breath'd but on his falsed glosse doth passe)
Toying with babies, and with fond pastime
Some childrens sport, deflowring of chast time,
Imploying all his wits in vaine expence,
Abusing all his organons of sence.

Returne, returne, sacred Synderesis,
Inspire our truncks, let not such mud as this
Pollute vs still. Awake our lethargie,
Raise vs from out our brain-sicke foolerie.