University of Virginia Library

From out the sadnes of my discontent,
Hating my wonted iocund merriment,
(Onely to giue dull Time a swifter wing)
Thus scorning scorne of Ideot fooles, I sing.
I dread no bending of an angry brow,
Or rage of fooles that I shall purchase now.
Who'le scorne to sitte in ranke of foolery
When I'le be maister of the company?
For pre-thee Ned, I pre-thee gentle lad,
Is not he frantique, foolish, bedlam mad,
That wastes his spright, that melts his very braine
In deepe designes, in wits darke gloomie straine?
That scourgeth great slaues with a dreadlesse fist,
Playing the rough part of a Satyrist,
To be perus'd by all the dung-scum rable
Of thin-braind Ideots, dull, vncapable?
For mimicke apish schollers, pedants, gulls,
Perfum'd Inamoratoes, brothell trulls?
Whilst I (poore soule) abuse chast virgin Time,
Deflowring her with vnconceiued rime.
Tut, tut, a toy of an idle empty braine,
Some scurrill iests, light gew-gawes, fruitlesse, vaine.
Cryes beard-graue Dromus, when alas, God knowes,
His toothles gums nere chaw but outward showes.
Poore Budgeface, bowcase sleeue, but let him passe,
Once fur and beard shall priuiledge an Asse.

And tell me Ned, what might that gallant be,
Who to obtaine intemperate luxurie,
Cuckolds his elder brother, gets an heire,
By which his hope is turned to dispaire?
In fayth, (good Ned) he damn'd himselfe with cost,
For well thou know'st full goodly land was lost.

I am too priuate. Yet mee thinkes an Asse,
Rimes well with VIDERIT VTILITAS.
Euen full as well, I boldly dare auer
As any of that stinking Scauenger
Which from his dunghill hee bedaubed on
The latter page of old Pigmalion.
O that thys brother of hypocresie,
(Applauded by his pure fraternitie)
Should thus be puffed, and so proud insist,
As play on mee the Epigramatist.
Opinion mounts this froth vnto the skies,
Whom iudgements reason iustly vilefies.
For, (shame to the Poet,) reade Ned, behold
How wittily a Maisters-hoode can scold.

An Epigram which the Authour Vergidemiarum, caused to bee pasted to the latter page of euery Pigmalion that came to the stacioners of Cambridge.

I ask'd Phisitions what theyr counsell was
For a mad dogge, or for a mankind Asse?
They told mee though there were confections store,
Of Poppy-seede, and soueraine Hellebore,
The dog was best cured by cutting &

Mark the witty allusion to my name.

kinsing,
The Asse must be kindly whipped for winsing.
Nowe then S.K. I little passe
Whether thou be a mad dog, or a mankind Asse.

Smart ierke of wit, did euer such a straine
Rise from an Apish schoole-boyes childish braine?
Doost thou not blush (good) Ned, that such a sent
Should rise from thence where thou hadst nutriment?
Shame to Opinion, that perfumes his dung,
And streweth flowers rotten bones among,
Iugling Opinion, thou inchaunting witch,
Paint not a rotten post with colours rich.
But now this Iugler with the worlds consent
Hath halfe his soule; the other, Compliment,
Mad world the whilst. But I forget mee I,
I am seduced with this poesie:
And madder then a Bedlam spend sweet time
In bitter numbers, in this idle rime,
Out on this humour. From a sickly bed,
And from a moodie minde distempered,
I vomit foorth my loue, now turn'd to hate,
Scorning the honour of a Poets state.
Nor shall the kennell route of muddy braines,
Rauish my Muses heyre, or heare my straines
Once more. No nittie pedant shall correct
Ænigmaes to his shallow Intelect.
Inchauntment, Ned hath rauished my sence
In a Poetick vaine circumference.
Yet thus I hope, (God shield I now should lie)
Many more fooles, and most more wise then I.