Follies Anatomie :: :: University of Virginia Library

The crane-throate hell, of this depraued age,
Earths belly-god, let's view vpon the stage.
See how the squadron of his full fraught panch
Out-squares the straightnes of his narrow hanch;
Making his stumppes supporters to vpholde
This masse of guttes, this putrefied molde.
His belly is a Cesterne of receit,
A grand confounder of demulcing meate.
A Sabariticke Sea, a depthlesse Gulfe,
A sencelesse Vulture, a corroding Wolfe.
Behold this Helluo, how he doth glut,
Fill (like a wallet) his immeasurde gut,

Cramming his stomack with vncessant loade,
Like a stuft bladder, hates bigge swelling Toade;
And rammes his panch, that bottomlesse abysse,
As if to glut were legall, promis'd blisse.
All's fish that comes to net, this Harpy's tooth
Eates what's within the compasse of his mouth.
His table-talke hates hunger, more then vice,
Railes against fortune, cheating, cards, and dice,
Enuies 'gainst actors, taxing such as fight,
Or in Tobacco doe repose delight,
And thousand subiects mo exactly scannes,
Rayling on cloakebagge breeches, yellow bands;
Wishing the fencing-schooles might be supprest,
And all saue belly-timber doth detest.
This large discourse his gluttony doth cloake,
Are motiues his Orexis to prouoke.
Which being fraught, till sences are a mort,
At no one tide to concoct he takes a snort.
His drowsie sences hudwinkt in a cap,
Leaning vpon his chaire do take a nap.
Conferre his belly with his lower part,
And you'l adiudge dame Natures rarest art
Made not this bulke, infusing life, or blood,
In such vnsquared timber, vnheawn wood.
He's more mishapen then Crete's monstrous sin,
Deformed both without, and eke within.
His circled panch, is barrell like rotound,
Like earths vast concaues hollow, and profound.

His hanches which are lockt as in some box,
With the straight compasse of a Par a-dox,
He doth into so little compasse bring,
As if they should be drawne through Gyges ring,
So that he seemes as if black Vulcans art,
Of diuerse fossiles had compil'd each part;
As if some taylor had bound on with points,
Nero's great belly, to staru'd Midas ioynts.
I could discipher this huge map of shame,
And liuely pourtrait his abhorred name,
Wer't not that Criticks would debase, reuile,
Censure the sharpenesse of a Satyres stile!
'Tis shame, such vipers, all deuouring Hell,
Should be indured in our Coasts to dwell.
We can frame nothing of such naughtie Earth,
Except a storehouse in the time of dearth;
Or beg this Minotaure, when he doth die,
T' make dice of's bones or an Anatomie.
Ile therefore leaue him in his pan-warm'd bed,
Resting on's pillow his distempr'd head.
Wer't not for censures, I should make him prance
Skip at the Satyr's lash, leade him a dance,
Vnrip his bowels, and Anatomize
His filthy intrailes, which he doth much prize.
But taxing times such proiects doe confute,
Silence sterne Satyres, warnes them to be mute.
The golden dayes are chang'd, when Foxes sins
Passe scot free, marching in the Lyons skins;

Whē corrupt times may complot wrong, or right
Without controule, of contradicting might.