SKIALETHEIA. OR, A shadow of Truth, in certain Epigrams and satires.  
At London, Printed by I. R. for Nicholas Ling, and are to bee sold at the little West door of Poules. 1598.   

To the Reader.  
instead of Ingling terms for thy good will.  
Reader fall to, read, iest, and carp thy fill.   

EPIGRAMS.  

Prooemium. 1.  
AS in the greatest of societies,  
The first beginners, like good natured souls,  
bear with their neighbors poor infirmities:  
But after, when ambition controls  
their calm proceedings, they imperiously  
"( As great things still orewhelme themselves with weight  
envy their countrimens prosperity,  
And in contempt of poorer fates delight.  
So Englands wits( now mounted the full height,)  
having confounded monstrous barbarisines,  
puffed up by conquest, with selfe-wounding spite,  
engrave themselves in civil warres Abismes,  
Seeking by all means to destroy each other,  
The unhappy children of so deere a mother.   

To the Reader. 2.  
Whose hap shall be to read these pedlar rhymes,  
Let them expect no elaborat foolery,  
Such as Hermaphroditize these poor times,  
With wicked scaldiests, extreme gullerie:  
Bunglers stand long in tinck'ring their trim Say,  
Ile onely spit my venom, and away.   

Of Titus. 3.  
Titus oft vaunts his gentry every where,  
Blazoning his coat, deriuing's pedigree;  
What needest thou daily Titus jade mine ear?  
I will beleeue thy houses auncestry;  
If that be ancient which we do forget,  
Thy gentry is so; none can remember it.   

To Liuia. 4.  
Liuia, I kon thee thank, when thou dost kiss  
Thou turnest thy cheek: see what good nature is!  
For well thou knowest thy breaths infection,  
Able to turn my stomach upside down.  
Which when I think on, but for manners sake,  
I'd pray thee thy cheek too away to take.   

Of Matho. 5.  
Matho in credite bound to pay a debt,  
His word engagde him for, doth still reply,  
That he will answer it with sophistry,  
And so defers daily to answer it:  
Experience now hath taught me sophistry,  
He gave me his word; that is, he coussend me.   

Of Faber. 6.  
Since marriage, Faber's prouder then before,  
Yfayth his wife must take him a hole lower.   

Of a railing humour. 7.  
( Good Lord) that men should haue such kennel wits  
To think so well of a scald railing vain,  
Which soon is vented in beslauered writs.  
As when the cholicke in the guts doth strain,  
With civil conflicts in the same embraced,  
But let a fart, and then the worst is past.   

To Deloney. 8.  
Like to the fatal ominous raven which tolls,  
The sick mans dirge within his hollow beak,  
So every paper-clothed post in Poules,  
To thee ( Deloney) mourningly doth speak,  
And tells thee of thy hempen tragedy,  
The wracks of hungry tyburn nought to thine.  
Such massacre's made of thy balladry,  
And thou in grief, for woe thereof mayst pine:  
At every streets end Fuscus rhymes are red,  
And thine in silence must be butted.   

Of paul. 9.  
paul daily wrongs me, yet he daily swears  
He wisheth me as well as to his soul:  
I know his drift, to damn that he nought cares  
To please his body: therefore( good friend paul)  
If thy kind nature will afford me grace,  
hereafter love me in thy bodies place.   

Of Syluio. 10.  
Syluio the Lawyer, hunting for the same  
Of a wise man, studies philosophy,  
And oddly in his singularity,  
From being odd, thinks wisdom hath her name.  
So long hath he turned over Scaliger,  
Old Cardan and the other chimick wits,  
Which haue to after-times demisde their writs,  
That a fift Element he doth aver:  
deserves not he to make the wise men even,  
Who oddly thus makes odd the nerves of heaven?   

To Gue. 11.  
Gue, hang thyself for woe, since gentlemen  
Are now grown cunning in thy apishnes:  
Nay, for they labour with their foolishness  
Thee to undo, procure to hang them then:  
It is a strange seeld seen vncharitie,  
To make fools of themselves to hinder thee.   

Of Cotta. 12.  
Behold a wonder, never seen before,  
Yonder's Cotta's picture, dancing trenchmore.   

Of the same. 13.  
I saw not Cotta this half year before,  
When he was angry that I spoken not to him,  
He hath no reason to take it so sore,  
Being so painted that I did not know him.   

To Licus. 14.  
Licus, thou often tell'st me iestingly,  
I am a fine man, and so tyrannously  
Hast thou now tired that phrase, that every one  
Is a fine man in thine opinion:  
In thine opinion? no it's but thy word,  
Which doth that fine addition afford:  
And yet I see no cause but many may,  
Be even as fine as Licus every way;  
In dancing, vaulting, and in rhyming too,  
In their conceits there are as good as you.  
Then wherein is't that you so far surpass  
Other plain jades, like Lucius golden ass?  
I hear thee say the foulest day that is,  
Thou art shod in velvet, and in Naples bisse:  
Nay then I yield, for who will strive in it,  
May haue fine clothes, but a most filthy wit.   

Of Zeno. 15.  
Zeno desirous of the idle famed  
Of stoic resolution, recklesly  
seems to esteem of good report or blame;  
So proving himself dull, most foolishly,  
To every thing he hears, he saith he cares not:  
He cares not for his book, nor yet for wit,  
For pleasant catch-fooles in like sort he spares not  
To swear he's careless, careless to forget  
Or think vpon his duty, souls comfort;  
careless to thrive, or live in decency;  
careless of virtuous, and a good consort,  
careless of wisdom, and of honesty;  
To all this carelessness, should one declare  
His fathers death, I am sure he would not care.   

Of Riuus. 16.  
Once Riuus saw a pretty lasse,  
And liquorous tooth'd desired to taste,  
But knowing not how to bring't to pass,  
He vowed to hang himself in hast:  
I feared him not, the wench was gone,  
And he was loth to hang alone.   

Of Clodius. 17.  
Clodius oft saith he hath chaleng'd been by many,  
But never tells me he hath answered any.   

Of Curio. 18.  
Curio threats my death in an epigram,  
Yfayth he'll eat his word, he is too blame,  
And yet I think he'll writ; then ware of bleeding,  
Nay fear not, he writes nothing worth the reading.   

Of Faustus. 19.  
Faustus in steede of grace, saith Fuscus rhymes,  
Oh graceless manners! oh unhallowed times!   

To Candidus. 20.  
Friend Candidus, thou often dost demand,  
What humours men by gulling understand:  
Our English Martiall hath full pleasantly,  
In his close nips describde a guile to thee:  
I'll follow him, and set down my conceit  
What a guile is: oh word of much receipt!  
He is a guile, whose indiscretion,  
Cracks his purse strings to be in fashion;  
He is a guile, who is long in taking roote  
In barren soil, where can be but small fruit:  
He is a guile, who runs himself in debt,  
For twelve dayes wonder, hoping so to get;  
He is a guile, whose conscience is a block,  
Not to take interest, but wastes his stock:  
He is a guile, who cannot haue a whore,  
But brags how much he spends vpon her score:  
He is a guile, that for commodity  
pays ten times ten, and sells the same for three:  
He is a guile, who passing finicall,  
Peiseth each word to be thetoricall:  
And to conclude, who self conceitedly,  
thinks al men gulls, ther's none more guile then he.   

Of Procus. 21.  
Procus instead of more fitting discourse  
To entertain his Mistris ears withall,  
Tells her a long tale of a roasted horse,  
Of a great brabble did to him befall;  
When she demands the occasion of the brawl,  
He in a gallant bravery, gull-like swore,  
The reason that he forth with him did fall,  
Was, for the other grutcht him of his whore:  
( Ye who do love your loues better conceit,)  
judge if this guile deserved his mistris favour,  
Who thus his goatish humours did relate:  
Or what pain wish you for this rude behaviour?  
Whomsoe're he marries may she a whore prove,  
For this speech shows that he a whore doth love.   

To Clodius. 22.  
I prithee Clodius, tell me what's the reason,  
Thou dost expect I should salute thee first,  
I haue sized in Cambridge, and my friends a season  
Some exhibition for me there disburst:  
Since that, I haue been in Goad his weekly role,  
And been acquaint with monsieur Littleton,  
I haue walked in Poules, and duly dined at noon,  
And sometimes visited the dancing school:  
Then how art thou my better, that I should  
speak always first, as I incroch fain would?  
But in a whore-house thou canst swagger too,  
Clodius good day; tis more then I can do.   

Of Sextilius. 23.  
Sextilius sighed, for Leuca let a fart,  
Hath not the youth a marvelous kind hart?   

Of Fuscus. 24.  
When Fuscus first had taught his Muse to scold,  
He gloried in her rugged vain so much,  
That every one came to him, hear her should,  
First Victor, then Cinna, nor did he grudge  
To let both players, and artificers,  
deal with his darling, as if confident,  
None of all these he did repute for Lechers,  
Or thought her face would all such lusts prevent;  
But how can he a bawds furname refuse,  
Who to all sorts thus prostitutes his Muse?   

Of Gnatho. 25.  
My Lord most court-like lies in bed till noon,  
Then, all high-stomackt riseth to his dinner,  
Falls strait to Dice, before his meate be down,  
Or to digest, walks to some female sinner.  
Perhaps fore-tyrde he gets him to a play,  
Comes home to supper, and then falls to dice,  
There his devotion wakes till it be day,  
And so to bed, where until noon he lies.  
This is a Lords life, simplo folk will sing.  
A Lords life? what to trot so foul a ring?  
Yet thus he lives, and what's the greatest grief,  
Gnatho still swears he leads true virtues life.   

To Pollio. 26.  
Th'art a fine fellow trust me Pollio,  
And every one reputes thee so to be,  
Both for thy ingles face, and goodly show,  
Of thine apparraile and thy naperie:  
Then, for thou pertly knows to wag thy head,  
Like some old palsey-strucken usurer,  
chiefly, for that this Christmas thou hast lead  
An unthrifts life,( gramercy Creditor,)  
But for this last thou must be fain to go,  
Into the country for a year or two.   

Of the same. 27.  
Pollio at length's fallen in my good conceit,  
Not for his wanton face and curled hair,  
Nor his fat buttock, nor that I delight  
In his french Galliard, which is nothing rare,  
Nor for that others think him to be so,  
( For others credits cannot better me,)  
But for he thinks himself a fine fellow,  
For his own state who better knows then he?   

Of Zeno. 28.  
Zeno would fain th'old widow Aeagle haue,  
Trust me he's wise, for shee is rich and brave:  
But Zeno, Zeno, shee will none of you,  
In my mind shee's the wiser of the two.   

Of Arion. 29.  
Arions thoughts are grown so musical,  
That all his talke's of crotchets, and of quavers,  
His very words to sembriefe time do fall,  
And blowing of his nose of music savours:  
he'll tell you of well freting of a Lute,  
even till you fret, and of the harmony,  
Is either in a still Cornet or Flute,  
Of rests, and stops, and such like trumpery,  
Yet loues he more, for all sweet music sense,  
His mistris belly, then these instruments.   

Of Chrysogonus. 30.  
Chrysogonus each morning by his glass,  
Teacheth a wrinkled action to his face,  
And with the same he runs into the street,  
Each one to put in fear that he doth meet:  
I prie thee tell me( gentle Chrysogone)  
What needs a borrowed bad face to thine own?   

Of Torques. 31.  
Torques a Knight, and of indifferent living,  
Is neither free of house-keeping, nor giuing:  
Yet stands he in the Debet book vncrost:  
Wonder not man, he keeps a whore to his cost.   

Of Lais. 32.  
Wanton young Lais hath a pretty note,  
Whose burden is, pinch not my petticoat:  
Not that she fears close nips, for by the rood,  
A privy pleasing nip will cheer her blood:  
But she which longs to taste of pleasures cup,  
In nipping would her petticoat wear up.   

Of Fidens. 33.  
Fidens instructs young Gentlemen to play,  
Who teach his wife, they get true fingring:  
But she learns to play false; no marvel, they  
Of a master, she of Schollers got her learning.   

Of Orpheus. 34.  
Orpheus hath wed a young lusty wife,  
And all day long vpon his Lute doth play:  
Doth not this fellow led a merry life,  
Who plays continually both night and day?   

Of Cotta. 35.  
I wonder ( Cotta) painters Art can like thee,  
Who drew thy picture being nothing like thee.   

Of Metius. 36.  
Metius of late hath greatly cozened me,  
I took him for an earnest catholic,  
He talked so much of alms and charity;  
But I was mightily deceived belike.  
He praiseth charity and alms, because  
He was made Barrister for alms, not laws.   

Of the same. 37.  
With what conscience can Metius sell law dear,  
When of mere alms he was made Barrister?   

To Licus. 38.  
Licus, thou art deceived in saying, that  
I me a fine man: thou saist thou knowst not what.  
He's a fine fellow who is neat and fine,  
Whose locks are kem'd, & never a tangled twine,  
Who smells of Musk, civet, and Pomander,  
Who spends, and out-spends many a pound a year,  
Who piertly iets, can caper, dance, and sing,  
Play with his Mistris singers, her hand wring,  
Who companying with wenches nere is still:  
But either skips or mows, or prates his fill,  
Who is at every play, and every night  
Sups with his Ingles, who can well recite,  
whatsoever rhymes are gracious ( Licus) leave,  
injure not my content then, to bereave  
My fortune of her quiet: I am I,  
But a sine fellow in my fantasy  
Is a great trouble, trouble me not then,  
For a fine fellow, is a fine fool mongsemen.   

Of Chrestina. 39.  
I  told Chrestina I would lye with her,  
When she with an old phrase doth me aduise,  
To keep myself from water and from fire,  
And she would keep me from betwixt her thighs,  
That there is water I do make no doubt,  
But I'll be loth( wench) to be fired out.   

Of Naeuia. 40.  
Naeuia is one while of the inns of Court,  
toiling in brook, Fitzherbert, and in Dyer:  
Another while th'exchange he doth resort,  
moiling as fast, a seller, and a buyer:  
Will not he thrive( think ye) who can devise,  
Thus to unite the law and merchandise?  
doubtless he will, or cousin out of doubt;  
What matter's that? his law will bear him out.   

Of the same. 41.  
Naeuia's a Merchant, and a Gentleman:  
That is, scarce honest, live he how he can.   

Of the same 42.  
Pardon me( Reader) I will not bewray  
Who Naeuia is, not that I fear to say,  
But that he should be punishd I am loth,  
For engrossing occupations as he doth.  
He is a Lawyer, and a Merchant to,  
And shortly will I doubt haue more to do:  
He is a busy fellow, and may be  
A knave Promoter for his honesty.   

Of Clodius. 43.  
Clodius me thinks looks passing big of late,  
With Dunstons brows, and Allens Cutlacks gate:  
What humours haue possessed him so, I wonder,  
His eyes are lightning, and his words are thunder:  
What means the Bragart by his alteration?  
He knows he's known too well, for this fond fashion:  
To cause him to be feared: what means he than?  
Belike, because he cannot play the man.  
Yet would be awde, he keeps this filthy revel,  
Stalking and roaring like to Iobs great devill.   

Of Phrix. 44.  
Phrix hath a nose; who doubts what each man knows  
But what hath Phrix know-worth besides his nose?   

In Zelotypum. 45.  
Thy wife so nimph-like sitting at the board,  
Why frown'st thou that I look on her? good Lord.  
What sin is't to look on a pretty lasse!  
We look on heaven, the Sun & Moons bright face.  
wouldst haue me turn away, as I did see  
Some filthy slut, or lewd deformity?  
Why, iealousy herself may suffer sight;  
Sight cannot cuckolded thee, nor do thee spite:  
If thow'lt not haue her looked on by thy guests,  
Bid none but Harpers hence-forth to thy feasts.   

Of Gellia. 46.  
The world finds fault with Gellia, for she loues  
A skip-lack fiddler, I hold her excused,  
For loving him, sith she herself so proves:  
What, she a fiddler? tut she is abused?  
No in good faith; what fiddle hath she used?  
The Viole Digambo is her best content,  
For twixt her legs she holds her instrument.   

To the Reader. 47.  
Excuse me( Reader) though I now and than,  
In some light lines do show myself a man,  
Nor be so sour, some wanton words to blame,  
They are the language of an epigram.   

To Lydia. 48.  
( Lydia) so mote I thee thou art not faire,  
A plain brownetta when thou art at best:  
Yet worst not thou come forth into the air,  
When no wind stirs, and sun's hide in the west.  
But masked forsooth, I prithee what's thy reason,  
That having( God he knows) no faire to loose,  
Thou hidest that pitteous None so out of season?  
Oh th'art a mummer, and perhaps dost choose,  
A faire calm even as fittest for thy gain:  
Sayest thou me so? nay, then we'll haue about,  
Come, trip the dice, haue at your box ( madam)  
Ile cast at all, for sure I go not out.  
Nothing but mum? nay then we are agreed,  
Be I well chanced, my chance may be to speed.   

To Cotta. 49.  
Be not wrath, Cotta, that I not salute thee,  
I used it whilst I worthy did repute thee:  
Now thou art made a painted Saint, and I  
Cotta will not commit idolatry.   

To Women. 50.  
ye that haue beauty and withall no pitty,  
Are like a prick-song-lesson without ditty.   

Of Chrestina. 51.  
talk bawdry and Chrestina spets and spals,  
So much her chast thoughts hate it, tut that's false,  
She loues it well, wherefore then should she spit?  
Her teeth do water but to hear of it.   

Of Pansa. 52.  
Fine spruce young Pansa's grown a malcontent,  
A mighty malcontent though young and spruce,  
As heresy he shuns all merriment,  
And turned good husband, puts forth sighs to use,  
Like-hate-man Timon in his Cell, he sits  
Misted with darkness like a smoky room,  
And if he be so mad to walk the streets,  
To his sights life, his hat becomes a tomb.  
What is the cause of this melancholy,  
His father's dead: no, such news revives him,  
Wants he a whore? nor that, loues he? that's folly,  
Mount his high thoughts? oh no, then what grieves him?  
Last night which did our Ins of court men call  
In silken suits like gaudy Butterflies,  
To paint the Torch-light summer of the hall,  
And show good legs, spite of slops-smothering thies  
He passing from his chamber through the Court,  
Did spoil a pair of new white pumps with dirt   

Of Cornelius. 53.  
See you him yonder, who sits o'er the stage,  
With the Tobacco-pipe now at his mouth?  
It is Cornelius that brave gallant youth,  
Who is new printed to this fangled age:  
He wears a jerkin cudgeld with gold lace,  
A profound slop, a hat scarce pipkin high,  
For boots, a pair of dag cases; his face,  
furred with Cads-beard: his poniard on his thigh.  
He wallows in his walk his slop to grace,  
swears by the Lord, deigns no salutation  
But to some jade that's sick of his own fashion.  
As farewell sweet captain, or ( boy) come apace:  
Yet this Sir bevis, or the fayery Knight,  
Put up the lye because he durst not fight.   

Of Issa. 54.  
Issa from me to a player took her way,  
No marvel, for she always loved to play.   

To Mira. 55.  
Many ask Mira, why I named thee so:  
Let them ask Nature why she framed thee so.   

De Ignoto. 56.  
There's an odd fellow,( i'le not tell his name,  
Because from my lines he shal get no famed:)  
Reading mine Epigrams baths every limb,  
In angry sweat swearing that I mean him:  
Content thyself I writ of better men,  
Thou art no worthy subject for my pen.   

Of Nigrina. 57.  
Why should Nigrina wear her mask so much?  
Her skins lawn's not so fine, so soon to stain,  
Her tenderest poultry may endure the touch,  
Her face, face and out-face the wind again:  
The cherry of her lip's a winter Cherry,  
Then weather-proof, & needs no masks defence:  
Her cheeks best fruit's a black, no Mulberry,  
But fearless of sharp gustes impouerishments:  
And to be brief, she being all plain Ione,  
Why is she masked to keep that where is none?  
O sir, she's painted, and you know the guise,  
Pictures are curtaind from the vulgar eyes.   

Of Drus. 58.  
Drus for a cuckolded, and miserable's famed,  
May not he well a hard-head then be named?   

To Mira. 59.  
Thou fearest I love thee, for I praise thee so:  
Should I dispraise thee, what wouldst fear I trow?   

De Ignoto. 60.  
You fellow thinks mine Epigrams him mean,  
Then let me writ of every bawd and quean.   

Of Nigrina. 61.  
Painted Nigrina vnmask'd comes ne're in sight,  
Because light wenches care not for the light.   

Of the same. 62.  
Painted Nigrina with the picture face,  
having no mask thinks she's without grace,  
So with one case she doth another case,  
Doth not her mask become her then apace?   

Of Bassus. 63.  
Eloquent Bassus speaks all with a grace,  
Not so much but good morrow, and good night:  
I wonder when the Somner did him city,  
For his sweet sin, how he spake in that case:  
I am sure he could with no grace well refuse it  
And worse I doubt with any grace excuse it.   

To Mira. 64.  
Thou fearest I am in love with thee( my dear)  
I prithee fear not, It comes with a fear.   

Of Nigrina. 65.  
Because Nigrina hath a painted face,  
Many suspect her to be light and base:  
I see no reason to repute her such,  
For out of doubt she will abide the touch.   

Of Gellia. 66.  
Gellia enticed her good-man to the city,  
And often threateneth to give him the lurch,  
See how this sweet sin makes the simplest witty:  
She ( too profane) whilst he is at the church,  
Ringing the first peal at the greatest bells  
At home will ring all in with some one else.   

Ad Crocum. 67.  
Crocus, thou sayst that thou dost know more queans  
Then many a poor man ears in autumn gleans?  
But Crocus, Crocus, if they all know you,  
I fear I-faith you haue too much to do.   

Of Caius. 68.  
As Caius walks the streets, if he but hear  
A blackman grunt his note, he cries oh rare!  
He cries oh rare, to hear the Irishmen  
Cry pippe, fine pippe, with a shrill accent, when  
He comes at Mercers chapel; and, oh rare,  
At Ludgate at the prisoners plaine-song there:  
Oh rare sings he to hear a cobbler sing,  
Or a wassaile on twelve night, or the ring  
At could S. Pancras church; or any thing:  
He'll cry, oh rare, and scratch the elbow too  
To see two Butchers curres fight; the Cuckoo,  
Will cry oh rare, to see the champion bull,  
Or the victorious mastiff with crowned skull:  
And garlanded with flowers, passing along  
From Paris-garden he renews his song,  
To see my L. Maiors Henchmen; or to see,  
( At an old Aldermans blessed obsequy)  
The hospital boyes in their blew aequipage,  
Or at a carted bawd, or whore in cage:  
He'll cry, oh rare, at a Gongfarmers cart,  
Oh rare to hear a ballad or a fart:  
briefly so long he hath used to cry, oh rare,  
That now that phrase is grown thin & threadbare,  
But sure his wit will be more rare and thin,  
If he continue as he doth begin.   

To the Reader. 69.  
Some dainte ear, like a wax-rubd city room,  
will haply blame my Muse for this salt rheum,  
Thinking her lewd and too vnmaidenly,  
For dancing this Iigge so lasciviously:  
But better thoughts, more discreet, will excuse  
This quick Couranto of my merry Muse;  
And say she keeps Decorum to the times,  
To womens loose gowns suiting her loose times:  
But I, who best her humorous pleasance know,  
Say, that this mad wench when she iesteth so  
Is honester then many a sullen one,  
Which being more silent thinks worse being alone:  
Then my quick-sprighted lasse can speak: for who  
knows not the old said saw of the Still Sow.   

Conclusion to the Reader. 70.  
( Reader) when thou hast red this mad-cap stuff,  
Wherein my Muse swaggers as in her ruff:  
I know these joint-tenants shal be soon renounced,  
Of every one, and unto death denounced:  
I know thow'lt doom them to th' Apotheta,  
To wrap soap in, and Assifoetida:  
And justly to: for thou canst not misuse,  
More then I will, these bastards of my Muse:  
I know they are passing filthy, scuruey lines,  
I know they are rude, harsh, and vnsauory rhymes:  
Fit to wrap plasters, and odd vnguents in,  
Reedifiers of the wracks of sin.  
Viewing this sin-drownd world, I purposely,  
Phisick'd my Muse, that thus vnmannerly,  
She might bewray our folly-soyled age,  
And keep Decorum on a comic stage,  
Bringing a foule-mouth jester who might sing  
To rogues, the story of the lousy King.  
I care not what the world doth think, or say,  
There lies a moral under my lean play:  
And like a resolute Epigrammatist,  
Holding my pen, my Rapier in my fist:  
I know I shall wide-gaping Momes convince.  
My Muse so armed is a careless Prince.    

satire praeludium.  

FIe on these Lydian tunes which blunt our sprights  
And turn our gallants to Hermaphrodites:  
give me a Doricke touch, whose Semphony,  
And dancing air may with affinity  
move our light vaulting spirits and capering.  
woe Alexander from lewd banqueting  
To arms. Bid hannibal remember Cannas,  
And leave Salapian Tamyras embrace.  
Hence with these fiddlers, whose oyle-buttred lines,  
Are Panders unto lusts, and food to sins,  
Their whimpring Sonnets, puling Elegies  
slander the Muses; make the world despise,  
Admired poesy, mar Resolutions ruff,  
And melt true valour with lewd ballad stuff.  
here one's elegiac pen pathetical,  
His parting from his Mistris doth bewail:  
Which when young gallant Mutio hath perused,  
His valour's crestfalne, his resolves abused,  
For whatsoe're his courage erst did move,  
He'll go no voyage now to leave his love.  
Another with his suppling passion  
Meaning to move his Pigsney to compassion,  
Makes puisne Lucius in a sympathy  
In love with's pibald Laundres by and by.  
A third that falls more roundly to his work,  
Meaning to move her were she Iew or turk:  
Writes perfect Cat and fiddle, wantonly,  
Tickling her thoughts with masking bawdry:  
Which red to captain Tucca, he doth ware,  
And scratch, and ware, and scratch to hear  
His own discourse discoursed: and by the Lord  
It's passing good: oh good! at every word:  
When his Cock-sparrow thoughts to itch begin,  
He with a shrug sweares't a most sweet sin.  
Some others Lady Muse is comical,  
Thalia to the back, nay back and all,  
And she with many a salt La volto iest  
Edgeth some blunted teeth, and fires the breast  
Of many an old could gray-beard citizen,  
Medea like making him young again;  
Who coming from the curtain sneaketh in,  
To some odd garden no●ed house of sin.  
But oh worse yet! for some Capritcious humour  
Making an issue of his vlcerous tumour.  
Some profane Clodian pen daring display  
( Like connicatching) bawdries Orgia,  
With the provost Martiall, ransacks every room  
Of a vaulting house, and ribbald doth presume,  
With Midwife Albert, or the womans book  
To anatomize each corner, and fond nook.  
Let rabelais with his dirty mouth discourse  
No longer blushy, for they'll writ ten times worse:  
And Aretines great wit be blamed no more,  
They'll story forth the errand arrant whore:  
And speaking painters excuse Titian,  
For his Ioues loues; and Elephanticke vain.  
Thus all our Poets as they had carousde  
A health to Circes, are in hogsties housde,  
Or else transformd to Goates lasciviously,  
Filthing chast ears with their pens Gonorrhey,  
For even the staliest and most generous,  
The heroic poem is lascivious,  
Which midst of Mars his field, & hote alarms,  
Will sing of Cupids chivalry and arms.  
The satire onely and Epigramatist,  
( Concisde epigram, and sharp satirist)  
keep diet from this surfet of excess,  
Tempring themselves from such licentiousness.  
The bitter censures of their Critticke spleens,  
Are Antidotes to pestilential sins,  
They heal with lashing, sear luxuriousness,  
They are Philosophicke true Cantharides  
To vanities dead flesh. An epigram  
Is popish displing, rebel flesh to tame:  
A plain dealing lad, that is not afraid  
To speak the truth, but calls a jade, a jade.  
And monsieur Guulard was not much too blame,  
When he for meat mistook an epigram,  
For though it be no cates, sharp sauce it is,  
To lickerous vanity, youths sweet amiss.  
But oh the satire hath a nobler vain,  
He's the Strappado, rack, and some such pain  
To base lewd 'vice; the Epigram's Bridewell,  
Some whipping cheer: but this is follies hell.  
The Epigram's like dwarf Kings scurrill grace,  
A Satyre's Chester to a painted face;  
It is the bone-ach unto lechery,  
To Acolastus it is beggary:  
It is the scourge, the tamburlaine of 'vice,  
The three square Tyborne of impieties.  
But to come near the verses of our time,  
It is( oh scuruey) to a Lenten rhyme;  
It is the grand hiss to a filthy play,  
Tis peoples howts and showts at a pot fray.  
Itch farther yet, yet nearer to them, fie  
Their wits haue got my Muse with tympany:  
And with their loose tayld pens to let it loose,  
It's like a Syring to a Hampshire Goose.  
These critic wits which nettle vanity,  
Are better far then food to foppery:  
And I dare warrant that the hangingst brow,  
The sowrest stoic that will scarce allow  
A rhyming ston vpon his fathers grave,  
( Though he no reason haue no rhyme to haue:)  
The strictest ( Plato) that for virtues health:  
Will banish Poets forth his common-wealth.  
Will of the two afford the satire grace,  
Before the whining loue-song shall haue place:  
And by so much his night-cap's over awde,  
As a Beadle's better states-man then a bawd.    

Explicit the satires flourish before his fencing.  
Alterius quifert vitia ferendo facit sua.  

SHall I still much in silence and give aim,  
To other wits which make court to bright famed?  
A school boy still, shall I lend ear to other,  
And mine own private Muses music smother?  
Especially in this sin leapered age,  
Where every Player 'vice comes on the stage:  
masked in a virtuous rob? and fools do sit  
More honoured then the Prester John of wit?  
Where virtue, like a common gossop shields  
'vice with her name, and her defects ore-guilds:  
No no, my Muse, be valiant to control,  
Play the scold bravely, fear no cucking-stoole,  
Begall thy spirit, like shrill trumpets clangor,  
Vent forth th'impatience, and alarm thine anger:  
'gainst sins invasions, rend the foggy cloud,  
whose al black womb far blacker 'vice doth shrowd  
Tell giant greatness a more great did frame,  
Th'imaginary coloss of the same;  
And then expostulate why Titus should  
Make show of Aetnas heat, yet be as could  
As snow-drownd Athos in his frozen zeal,  
Both to Religion and his commonweal?  
Or why should Caelius injure thrift so much,  
As to entitle his extortion such?  
Or desperat Drus cloak the consusion,  
Of heady rage with resolution,  
Pale trembling Matho dies his milke-staind liver  
In colour of a discreet counsell-giuer:  
And cool advisement: yet the world doth know,  
he's a rank coward: but who dares tell him so?  
The world's so bad that virtue's ouer-awde,  
And forced poor soul to become vices bawd:  
Like the old moral of the comedy,  
Where Conscience favours Lucars harlotry.  
In spite of valour martiall Anthony,  
Doth sacrifice himself to lechery:  
Wasting to skin & bones( true map of ruth,)  
Yet terms it solace, and a trick of youth.  
Oh world, oh time, that ever men should be  
So blind besotted with hypocrisy:  
poison to call an wholesome Antidote,  
And made carovie the same, although they know't.  
How now my Muse, this is right womans fashion,  
To fall from brawling to a blubbering passion?  
Haue done haue done, and to a nimbler key,  
Set thy wind instrument, and sprightly play.  
this leaden-heeled passion is to dull,  
To keep place with this Satyre-footed guile:  
This mad-cap world, this whirlygigging age:  
Thou must haue words compact of fire & rage:  
terms of quick camphor & Salt-peeter phrases,  
As in a mine to blow up the worlds graces,  
And blast her antic apish compliments.  
Her juggling tricks and mists which mock the sense,  
Make Catiline or Alcibiades,  
To seem a Cato, or a Socrates.  
This vizar-fac't pole-head dissimulation,  
This parrafite, this guide to reprobation,  
this squynt-eyde slave, which looks two ways at once,  
This forkt Dilemma, oil of passions,  
Hath so bereyde the world with his foul mire,  
That naked truth may be suspect a liar.  
For when great Foelix passing through the street,  
Vayleth his cap to each one he doth meet,  
And when no broome-man that will pray for him,  
Shall haue less truage then his bonnets brim,  
Who would not think him perfect courtesy?  
Or the honny-suckle of humility?  
The devill he is as soon: he is the devill,  
Brightly accoustred to bemist his evil:  
Like a Swartrutters hose his puff thoughts swell,  
With yeastie ambition: signor Machiauell  
Taught him this mumming trick, with courtesy  
T'entrench himself in popularity,  
And for a writhen face, and bodies move,  
Be Barricadode in the peoples love.  
Yonder comes Clodius, give him the salute,  
An oily slave: he angling for repute,  
Will gently entertain thee, and prevent  
Thy worse conceit with many a compliment:  
But turn thy back, and then he turns the word,  
The foul-mouthd knave will call thee goodman Tord.  
Nothing but cossenage doth the world possess,  
And stuffs the large arms of his emptiness.  
Make suit to Fabius for his favour, he  
Will strait protest of his loues treasury:  
Beleeu'st thou him, then wear a motley coat,  
He'll be the first man which shall cut thy throat.  
Come to the Court, and Balthazer affords  
fountains of holy and rose-water words:  
Hast thou need of him? & wouldst find him kind?  
Nay then go by, the gentleman is blind.  
Thus all our actions in a sympathy,  
do dance an antic with hypocrisy,  
And motley faced Dissimulation,  
Is crept into our every fashion,  
Whose very titles to are dissembled:  
The now all-buttockt, and no-bellied  
Doublet and hose which I do revel in,  
Was my great grandsires when he did begin  
To wooe my grandam, when he first bespoke her,  
And witness to the jointure he did make her:  
( towns some ancient painted history  
Of Assuerus, Haman, Mardoche.  
For though some gulls me to beleeue are loth,  
I know they'll credite print, and painted cloth)  
Yet, like th'old Ballad of the Lord of Lorne,  
Whose last line in King Harries dayes was born,  
It still retains the title of as new,  
And proper a fashion, as you ever knew.  
All things are different from their outward show,  
The very poet, whose standish doth flow  
With Nectar of Parnassus, and his brain  
Melts to Castalian due, and showers wits rain,  
Yet by his outward coutnaunce doth appear  
To haue been born in wits dearths decrest year.  
So that Zopirus judging by his face,  
Will pronounce Socrates for dull and base.  
This habit hath false larumd-seeming won  
In our affections, that threescore is done  
Must be new coynd with sly dissemblance stamp,  
And give a sunshine title to a lamp.  
This makes the foisting quarreler to swear,  
And face out many a lye within the year.  
And if he haue been an hour or two aboarde,  
To spew a little gull: then, by the Lord,  
He hath been in both the Indias, East and West,  
talks of Guiana, China, and the rest:  
The straights of Gibraltare, and Aenian,  
Are but hard by, no nor the Magellane,  
Mandeuile, Candish, sea-experienst Drake  
Came never near him, if he truly crack;  
Nor ever durst come where he laid his head,  
For out of doubt he hath discovered  
Some half a dozen of th'infinity  
Of Anaxarchus worlds. Like foppery  
The Antiquary would persuade us to:  
He shows a piece of blacke-iack for the shoe,  
Which old Aegeus bequeathd his valiant son:  
apiece of pollisht mother of pearle's the spoon  
Cupid eat pap with; and he hath a dagger  
Made of the sword wherewith great Charles did swag ger.  
Oh that the whip of fools, great Aretine,  
Whose words were squibs, and crackers every line,  
lived in our dayes, to scourge these hypocrites,  
Whose taunts may be like gobblins and sprights:  
To haunt these wretches forth that little left them  
Of ayery wit;( for all the rest's bereft them.)  
Oh how the varges from his black pen wrung,  
Would sauce the idiom of the English tongue,  
give it a new touch, livelier Dialect  
To hear this two-neckt goose, this falsehood checked.  
Me thinks I see the pie-bald whoresone tremble  
To hear of Aretine: he doth dissemble,  
There is no trust to be had to his quaking,  
To him once more, and rouse him from his shaking  
fever of feigned fear, hold whip and cord,  
Muse, play the Beadle, a lash at every word:  
No, no, let be, he's a true cosoner still,  
And like the Cramp-fish darts, even through my quill  
His sly insinuating poisonous juice,  
And doth the same into my Spirit infuse:  
Me thinks already I applaud myself,  
For nettle-stinging thus this fayery elf:  
And though my conscience says I merit not  
Such deere reward, dissembling yet( God wot)  
I hunt for praise, and do the same expect:  
Hence( crafty enchanter) welcome base neglect,  
scoffs make me know myself, I must not err,  
Better a wretch then a dissembler.   

Satyra secunda.  
here comes a Coach( my Lads) let's make a stand,  
And take a view of blazing stars at hand:  
Who's here? who's here? now trust me passing faire,  
Thai're most sweet Ladies: mary and so they are.  
Why thou young puisne art thou yet to learn,  
A harper from a shilling to discern?  
I had thought the last mask which thou caperedst in  
Had catechized thee from this errors sin,  
Taught thee S. Martius stuff from true gold lace,  
And know a perfect from a painted face:  
Why they are Idols, Puppets, Exchange babies,  
And yet( thou fool) tak'st them for goodly Ladies:  
Where are thine eyes? But now I call to mind,  
These can bewitch, and so haue made thee blind;  
A compound mist of May dew and bean flower,  
do these Acrasias on thy eye lids power:  
Thou art enchanted ( Publius) and hast need  
Of Hercules, thy reason, to be freed.  
Consider what a rough worm-eaten table,  
By well-mix'd colours is made saleable:  
Or how toad-housing skulls, and old swart bones,  
Are graced with painted toombs, and picked stones:  
And think withall how scoffe-inspiring faces  
From daubing pencils do derive their graces:  
Their beauties are most ancient Gentlemen,  
fetched from the deaw-figs, hens dung, & the bean.  
Nay, this doth rather prove them bastard fairs,  
For to so many fathers they are heires,  
Yet their effronted thoughts adulterate,  
Think the blind world holds them legitimate.  
( madam) you guile yourself, thinking to guile  
Young puisnes eyes with your ore-varnish'd skull:  
For now our Gallants are so cunning grown,  
That painted faces are like pippins known:  
They know your spirits, & your distillations,  
which make your eyes turn diamonds, to charm passions,  
Your cerusse now grown stale, your skaine of silk,  
Your philterd waters, and your asses milk,  
They were plain asses if they did not know,  
quicksilver, juice of lemons, Boras too,  
alum, oil Tartar, whites of eggs, & gaules  
Are made the bawds to morphew, scurffs & scauls  
Then whats a wench but a quirk, quidlit case,  
Which makes a Painters palate of her face?  
Or would not Chester swear her down that shee  
looked like an Elench, logic sophistry?  
Or like a new sheriffs gate-posts, whose old faces  
Are furbisht over to smooth times disgraces?  
Then how is man turned all Pygmalion,  
That knowing these pictures, yet we dote vpon  
The painted statues, or what fools are we  
So grossly to commit idolatry?  
What, are we ethnics that we honour beasts?  
( They are beasts which paint themselves) or else papists  
Whose ouer-fleeting brittle memories  
Right worshipful entitle Images?  
But be we any thing; these wenches know  
We are but fools to be deluded so:  
Who for deluding us, to plague their sin,  
Are turned to counterfeits, which their vncasde skin,  
Quickly discovers, and to shadows too,  
For making louers shadows as they do.  
Is not he fond then which a slip receives  
For currant money? she which thee deceives  
With copper guilt is but a slip, and she  
Will one day show thee a touch as slippery:  
She's counterfeit now, and it will go hard,  
If e're thou find her currant afterward:  
A painted wench is like a whore-house sign,  
The old new slurred over: or mixed wine,  
Sophisticate, to give it hue and taste;  
A dudgin dagger that's new scoured and glast:  
Or I could suit her were she not profane,  
To a new painted, and churchwarden'd fane:  
Or general pardons, which speak gloriously,  
Yet keep not touch: or a Popish worthily.  
Thus altering natures stamp, they're altered,  
From their first purity, innate may denhead:  
Of simplo naked honesty, and truth,  
And given o'er to seducing lust and youth:  
Whose stings when they are blunted, & these freed  
Then shall they see the horror of this deed:  
And leaving it their loathsome playstered skins,  
Shall show the furrowed riuels of their sins:  
And now their box complexions are deposed,  
Their jaundice looks, and rainbow like disclosed,  
Shall slander them with sickness e're their time,  
For pocket-healths, vain usage in their prime.  
Then shall their owly consciences shun light,  
And thus like Bats shall flutter in the night,  
ashamed that any eye should testify,  
Their now impouerish'd beauties beggary,  
Nay, they so far shal be ashamed thereof,  
That from themselves they shal fear cannon scoff,  
And hate to see themselves: all glasses break,  
By which before they taught their looks to speak:  
And parley with their lusts. But I me a fool,  
Which talk to deaf ears, & dull stocks do school:  
Me thinks the painted Pageant's out of sight,  
It's time to end my lecture then: good night.   

Satyra tertia.  
MAry and gup! haue I then lost my cap?  
It shall be a warning for an after-clap,  
Not that I weigh the tributary due,  
Of cap and courtship compliments, and new  
Antike salutes, I care not for th'embrace,  
The Spanish shrug, kiss'd-hand, nor cheuerell face,  
God save you sir, good sir, and such like phrases,  
pronounced with lisping, and affencted graces,  
move me no more then t'hear a parrot cry  
Her by-roate lesson of like courtesy:  
But this I wonder, that th'art so estranged,  
And thy old English looks to outlandish changed,  
howsoe'er thyself by English birth art freed,  
Thou hast need to haue thy looks endenized:  
With thee I haue been long time well acquainted:  
But those beyond-sea looks haue now disjointed  
Our well knit friendship, for whose sake I doubt  
Th'art quiter turned Dutch, or some outlandish lowt,  
Thou hast clean forgot thine English tongue, & then  
Art in no state to salute Englishmen:  
Or else th'hast had some great sickness of late,  
Whose tyranny doth so extenuate  
Thy frail remembrance, that thou canst not claim  
Thine old acquaintance, mothers tongue, nor name  
given thee in thy baptism: for I cannot, I,  
Impute it unto pride, Philosophy  
having so well fore-season'd thy minds cask.  
Of gulls and fools I will no question ask,  
wherefore they look so strange, because I know  
They are but poor in wit, though rich in show.  
look on Panduris, with whom in th'infancy  
Of my then green, now riper iudgment, I  
Was well acquainted: he sir will not speak,  
Thinking himself the better man belike  
Because his father with bartering, and truck  
Of bad greene-sicknes wines, hath heaped up muck,  
And for his mother with her greedy gripes,  
Hath out of neats-feet, chitterlings, and tripes,  
Scrapt many a dirty pound: this is he,  
That looks like Guazzo, or pedant gravity,  
Spits controversies, prates of Bellarmine,  
And yet perhaps nere saw of his a line.  
Then there is Cynops, whose grand-mother sold  
Good ale and wigs, in curtesey grown could,  
Because his father with a cossening fetch,  
purchased land for him, which his conscience stretch  
Hath almost sworn the whole world, that the man  
Is damned, to make his son a gentleman.  
With them in rank La volto Publius,  
Who's grown a reueller ridiculous:  
And for his dad with Chimicke usury,  
turned iron to sterling, dross to land and fee,  
And got so by old horseshoes, that the fool  
entered himself into the dancing school;  
Thinks scorn to speak: especially now since  
H'ath been a player to a Christmas prince.  
When these, & such like do themselves estrange,  
I never muse at their fantastic change:  
Because they are Phantasmas butterflies,  
Inconstant, but yet witless Mercuries.  
I know some of their humorous near of kin,  
Which scorn to speak to one which hath not been  
In one of these last voyages: or to one  
Which having been there yet( though he haue none)  
Hath not a Cades-beard: though I dare swear  
That many a beardless chin hath marched where  
They durst not for their berds come, though they dare  
Come where they will not leave their beards one hair  
But I do wonder what estrangeth thee,  
New cast in mould of deep philosophy:  
Thee whom that queen hath taught to moderate,  
Thy mounting thought, nor to be elevate  
With puffingst fortunes? though( for ought I know)  
Thy fortunes are none such to puff thee so.  
How like a Musherom art thou quickly grown,  
I knew thee when thou war'dst a threadbare gown:  
sized eighteen pence a week, and so did I,  
As then thou wert fain of my company,  
Of mine acquaintance glad; how art thou altered?  
Or wherein's thine estate so bettered?  
Thou art grown a silken dancer, and in that  
turned to a caper, skipst from love to hate,  
To dance Ma piu, French-galliard, or a measure,  
dost thou esteem this cunning such a treasure?  
never be proud of that, for dost thou know,  
That laureate bachelor deal Phrygio?  
He with a spade-beard can full mannerly,  
lead the old measures to a company  
Of bare chind-boyes, and with his nimble feet,  
Make our fore-wearied counsellors to sweat:  
For envy at his strange activity,  
Because they cannot do't as well as he.  
But then a simplo reueller, thou art more,  
Thou hast had some doings with the prince d'Amore  
And played a noble mans part in a play:  
Now out vpon thee Fabian, I dare say,  
If Florus should allege that cause of pride,  
hiss him thou wouldst to death for't: and beside,  
thou mightst haue had some doings with that prince  
which would haue made thee less proud ever since.  
Yet art thou stately, and so stately to,  
That thou forget'st thy state, and wilt not know  
Them which know thee and it: so long thou hast  
True follower been of fashions, that at last  
Thou art grown thyself a fashion: for to day  
Thou art common, popular, in use every way  
Fitting the various world, but by and by  
Thou art disusde, growst stale, and too proudly  
Wringst thyself from the humorous worlds conceit,  
Now art thou like the wide breech, doublet straight,  
But er't be long, thou wilt estranged be,  
Like the French quarter slop, or the gorbelly,  
The long stocked hose, or close Venetian.  
Now fie vpon this pride, which makes wise men  
look like expired leases; out of doubt  
Thou wert wise, but thy lease of wit is out:  
For such fond toys thou hast estrangde thyself  
For vain brave Bragardisme, and dirty pelf,  
And yet I think, thy pelf with thee'll dispense  
To kiss the Counter, ere twill bale thee thence.  
These foolish toys haue quiter disparaged  
Philosophy thy Mistris, and tis said,  
Thou art like to Damasippus, for thy hair  
Precisely cut, makes thee Philosopher,  
And nothing( God wot) else. But what care I?  
Why should I reason with thy surquedry?  
I smile at thy attorneys silken pride,  
Tufttaffeta state, and make my Muse deride,  
In these her scoffing rhymes thy being strange,  
And haue good pastime at thy motley change.  
prithee be proud still, strange still, stately still,  
And with thy wind my Muses organs fill,  
To sound an anthem of thy folly forth,  
It will be merry music, richly worth  
The laughing at, for I will play a Iigge,  
And thou shalt dance, my Muse shall play the rig  
Once in her dayes, but shee shall quittance thee,  
For thy contemptible inconstancy.  
Well, if thou wilt speak, so, and so farewell,  
If not, I think thee worse fool then I'll tell.   

WHat a scald humour is this jealous care,  
Which turns a man to a familiar?  
See how Trebatio yonder haunts his wife,  
And dares not loose sight of her for his life:  
And now there's one speaks to her, mark his grace,  
See how he basts himself in his own grease:  
Note what a squint askew he casts, as he  
Already saw his heads hornd-armory.  
foul weather jealousy to a forward spring,  
Makes weeds grow rank, but spoils a better thing:  
sows tares( 'gainst harvest) in the fields of love,  
And dogged humour Dog-dayes-like doth prove:  
Scorching loues glorious world with glowing tongue;  
Aserpent by which love to death is stung,  
A fire to wast his pleasant summer bowers,  
ruin his mansions, and deface his towers.  
Yonder goes Caelius playing fast and loose  
With his wives arm, but not for love God knows,  
suspicion is the cause she well doth know,  
Can she then love him that doth wrong her so?  
If she refuse to walk with him he'll frown,  
Fore-wearied both, they rest, he on her gown  
Sits for his ease she saith, afraid in hart,  
Least suddenly she should give him the start:  
Thus doth he make her prisoner to his fear,  
And himself thrall to selfe-consuming care.  
A male-kind sparrow once mistook his nest,  
And sled for harbour to faire Liuias breast:  
Her husband caught him with a jealous rage,  
Swearing to keep him prisoner in a Cage:  
Then a poor fly dreading no netty snare,  
Was caught in curled meshes of her hair,  
Humming a sad note for's imprisonment;  
When the mad beast, with ruder hands doth rent  
That golden fleece, for hast to take the fly,  
And straightways at a window 'gins to pry,  
busy, sharp-sighted blind-man-hob, to know  
Whether t'were male or female taken so,  
mark how severus frigs from room to room,  
To see, and not to see his martyrdom:  
peevish disease which doth all food distaste,  
But what kills health, and that's a pleasing feast:  
Like weavers shuttles which run to and fro,  
Rau'ling their own guts with their running so.  
He which infects these with this lunacy,  
Is an odd figgent jack called iealousy,  
His head is like a windmils trunk so big.  
wherein ten thousand thoughts run whirligigge,  
Play at barly-breake, and dance the Irish hay  
civil and peaceful like the centaurs fray  
His body is so fallen away and lean,  
That scarce it can his logger-head sustain.  
He hath as many hundred thousand eyes  
As Argus had, like stars placed in the skies,  
Though to no purpose, for blind love can see  
having no eyes, farther then iealousy.  
Gulfe-brested is he, silent, and profound,  
Cat-footed for sly place, and without sound,  
Porpentine backed, for he lies on thorns,  
Is it not pitty such a beast wants horns?  
Is it not pitty such a beast should so,  
possess mens thoughts, and timpanize with woe  
Their big swollen harts? for let severus hear,  
A cuckoo sing in june, he sweats for fear:  
And coming home, he whurries through the house,  
Each hole that makes an inmate of a mouse  
Is ransacked by him for the cuckold-maker,  
He beats his wife, & 'mongst his maides doth swagger  
T'extort confession from thē who hath been  
Familiar with his wife, wreeking his thirteen  
Vpon her ruffs and jewels, burning, tearing,  
Flinging and hurling, scolding, staring, swearing.  
he's as discreet, civil a gentleman,  
As Harry Peasecod, or a Bedlam man,  
A drunken captain, or a ramping whore,  
Or swaggering blew-coate at an ale-house door.  
What an infection's this, which thus doth fire  
Mens most discreetest tempers, and doth tyre  
Their souls with fury? and doth make them thirst  
To carovie bowls of poison till they burst?  
Oh this it is to be too wise in sin.  
Too well experienst, and skilld therein:  
" For false suspicion of another, is,  
" A sure condemning of our own amiss.  
unless a man haue into practise brought  
The Theoricke art of love which ovid wrote,  
unless his own lewd life haue taught him more  
Then Aretines adventurous wandring whore,  
unless he haue an ancient soldier been,  
Brags of the marks, and shows the scars of sin,  
How could he be so gorgde with loving hate,  
As to think women so insaciate?  
How could he know their stratagems and shifts,  
Their politic delays and wily drifts?  
No no, tis true, he hath been nought himself,  
And lewdness fathereth this wayward elf,  
Then take this for a Maxim general rule,  
No jealous man, but is or knave, or fool.   

Satyra Quinta.  
LEt me alone I prithee in this Cell,  
Entice me not into the cities hell;  
Tempt me not forth this Eden of content,  
To taste of that which I shall soon repent:  
prithee excuse me, I am not alone  
Accompanied with meditation,  
And calm content, whose taste more pleaseth me  
Then all the cities luscious vanity.  
I had rather be encoffin'd in this chest  
Amongst these books and papers I protest,  
Then free-booting abroad purchase offence,  
And scandal my calm thoughts with discontents.  
here I converse with those diviner spirits,  
Whose knowledge, and admire the world inherits:  
here doth the famous profound Stagarite,  
With Natures mystic harmony delight  
My ravished contemplation: I here see  
The now-old worlds youth in an history:  
here may I be grave Platos auditor;  
And learning of that moral Lecturer,  
To temper mine affections, gallantly  
Get of myself a glorious victory:  
And then for change, as we delight in change.  
( For this my study is indeed m'Exchange)  
here may I sit, yet walk to Westminster  
And hear Fitzherbert, Plowden, brook, and Dier  
canvas a law-case: or if my dispose  
persuade me to a play, I'll to the Rose,  
Or curtain, one of Plautus Comedies,  
Or the Patheticke Spaniards Tragedies:  
If my desire doth rather wish the fields,  
Some speaking Painter, some Poet straightway yields  
A flower bespangled walk, where I may hear  
Some amorous swain his passions declare  
To his sun-burnt love. Thus my books little case,  
My study, is mine All, mine every place.  
What more variety of pleasures can  
An idle Citty-walke afford a man?  
More troublesone and tedious will I know  
T'will be, into the peopled streets to go,  
witness that hodge-podge of so many noises,  
Black-saunts of so many several voices,  
That Chaons of rude sounds, that harmouy,  
And Dyapason of harsh Barbary,  
composed of several mouths, and several cries,  
Which to mens ears turn both their tongs & eyes.  
There squeaks a cart-wheele, here a tumbrel rumbles  
here scolds an old Bawd, there a Porter grumbles.  
here two tough Car-men combat for the way,  
There two for looks begin a coward fray,  
Two swaggering knaves here brable for a whore,  
There brauls an Ale-knight for his fat-grown score.  
But oh purgation! yond rotten-throated slaves  
Engarlanded with coney-catching knaves,  
Whores, Bedles, bawds and Sergeants filthily  
chant Kemps Iigge, or the Burgonians tragedy:  
But in good time, there's one hath nipped a bong,  
Farewell my harts, for he hath marrd the song.  
Yet might all this, this too bad be excusd,  
Were not an Ethicke soul much more abused,  
And her still patience choked by vanity,  
With unsufferable inhumanity:  
For whose gull is't that would not overflow,  
To meet in every street where he shall go,  
With folly masked in diuers semblances?  
The city is the map of vanities,  
The mart of fools, the magazine of gulls,  
The painters shop of Antickes: walk in Poules,  
And but observe the sundry kindes of shapes,  
Th'wilt swear that London is as rich in apes  
As afric Tabraca: One wries his face.  
This fellows wry neck is his better grace.  
He coynd in newer mint of fashion,  
With the right Spanish shrugge shows passion.  
There comes one in a muffler of Cad'z-beard,  
Frowning as he would make the world afraid,  
With him a troupe all in gold-dawbed suits,  
Looking like Talbots, Percies, Montacutes,  
As if their very countenances would swear,  
The spaniard should conclude a peace for fear:  
But bring them to a charge, then see the luck,  
Though but a false fire, they their plumes will duck  
What marvell, since life sweet? But see yonder,  
One like the vnfrequented theatre  
walks in dark silence, and vast solitude,  
Suited to those black fancies which intrude,  
Vpon possession of his troubled breast:  
But for blacks sake he would look like a jest,  
For he's clean out of fashion: what he?  
I think the Genius of antiquity,  
Come to complain of our variety,  
Of tickle fashions: then you iest I see.  
Would you needs know? he is a malcontent:  
A Papist? no, nor yet a Protestant,  
But a discarded intelligencer,  
Here's one looks like to a king Arthurs fencer,  
With his case of rapiers, and suited in buff,  
Is he not a sergeant? then says a muffe  
For his furrd satin cloak; but let him go,  
Meddle not with him, he's a shrewd fellow.  
Oh what a pageant's this? what fool was I  
To leave my study to see vanity?  
But who's in yonder coach? my lord and fool,  
One that for ape tricks can put Gue to school:  
heroic spirits, true nobility  
Which can make choice of such society.  
He more perfections hath than y'would suppose,  
He hath a wit of wax, fresh as a rose,  
He plays well on the triple Violin,  
He soothes his Lord up in his grossest sin,  
At any rhymes sprung from his Lordships head,  
Such as Elderton would not haue fathered:  
He cries, oh rare my Lord, he can discourse  
The story of Don Pacolet and his horse,  
( To make my Lord laugh) swears and iest,  
And with a Simile non plus the best,  
( unless like place his wit be ouer-awde)  
But his best part is he's a perfect bawd,  
Rare virtues; farewell they. But who's yonder  
Deep mouthed Hound, that bellows rhymes like thunder  
He makes an earthquake throughout Paules churchyard,  
Well fare his hart, his larum shall be heard:  
Oh he's a puisne of the inns of Court,  
Come from th'Vniuersity to make sport  
With his friends money here: but see, see,  
here comes Don Fashion, spruce formality,  
Neat as a Merchants ruff, that's set in print,  
New halfpenny, skip'd forth his Laundres mint;  
Oh brave! what, with a feather in his hat?  
He is a dancer you may see by that;  
Light heels, light head, light feather well agree.  
Salute him, with th'embrace beneath the knee?  
I think twere better let him pass along,  
He will so daub us with his oily tongue,  
For thinking on some of his Mistresses,  
We shall be curried with the brisk phrases,  
And prick-song terms he hath premeditate,  
speak to him woe to us, for we shall ha'te,  
Then farewell he. But soft, whom haue we hear?  
What brave Saint George, what mounted Caualiere?  
He is all court-like, Spanish in's attire,  
He hath the right duck, pray God he be no friar:  
this is the Dictionary of compliments,  
The Barbers mouth of new-scrapt eloquence,  
Synomicke Tully for variety,  
And madam Conceits gorgeous gallery,  
The exact pattern which Castilio  
took for's accomplish Courtier: but soft ho,  
What needs that bound, or that curuet( good fir)  
There's some sweet Lady, and tis done to her,  
That she may see his Iennets nimble force:  
Why, would he haue he in love with his horse?  
Or aims he at popish merit, to make  
Her in love with him, for his horses sake?  
The further that we walk, more vanity  
Presents itself to prospect of mine eye,  
Here swears some Seller, though a known untruth,  
Here his wife's bated by some quick-chapt youth.  
There in that window mistress minkes doth stand,  
And to some copesmate beckneth her hand,  
In is he gone, Saint Venus be his speed,  
For some great thing must be adventured:  
There comes a troupe of puisnes from the play,  
Laughing like wanton schoolboys all the way.  
You go a knot to bloom is Ordinary,  
Friends and good fellowes all now, by and by  
Thei●le be by the ears, vie stabs, exchange disgraces,  
And bandy daggers at each others faces.  
Enough of these then, and enough of all,  
I may thank you for this time spent; but call  
Henceforth I'll keep my study, and eschew,  
The scandal of my thoughts, my follies view:  
Now let us home, I'm sure tis supper time,  
The horn hath blown, haue done my merry rhyme.   

Satyra sexta.  
OH that mens thoughts should so degenerate,  
Being free born, t'admit a slavish state:  
They disclaim Natures manumission,  
Making themselves bond to opinion:  
Whose galleyslaves they are, tost on the sea  
Of vulgar humors, which doth rage and play,  
According as the various breath of change  
claims or perturbs her smooth brow. Is't not strange  
That heaven bread souls, descended from above  
Should brook such base subiection? fear reproof  
From her could northern gales, or else be merry  
When her Fanonian praise breaths a sweet perry?  
( Rason) thou art the souls bright Genius,  
Sent down from Ioues throne to safe conduct us  
In this lifes intricate Daedalian maze:  
How art thou buffuld? how comes this disgrace,  
That by opinion thou art bearded so,  
Thy slave, thy shadow: nay, out-bearded too?  
She earthworm doth derive her pedigree  
From bodies dirt, and sensuality,  
And marshald in degree fitting her birth  
Is but a dwarffe, or jester to make mirth.  
Thou the souls, bodies queens ally most near,  
The first Prince of her blood, and chiefest peer,  
Nay, her protector in nonage, whilst she  
lives in this bodies weak minority,  
Art yet kept under by that underling,  
That dream, that breath, nay that indeed Nothing,  
The ale-house ethics, the worlds upside down  
Is verified: the prince now serves the clown.  
If reason bandy with opinion,  
Opinion wins in the conclusion:  
For if a man be once opinionate,  
Millions of reasons nill extenuate  
His fore-ceited malice: conference  
Cannot assuage opinions insolence.  
But let opinion once lay battery  
To reasons fort, she will turn heresy,  
Or superstition, wily politist,  
But she will win those rampires which resist.  
Then sith such innate discord is maintained  
Twixt reason and opinion; what staid-brain'd,  
True resolute, and philosophic head  
Would by opinion be distempered?  
Opinion is as various as light change,  
Now speaking Court-like friendly, strait-wayes strange;  
She's any humours perfect parasite,  
displeased with her, and pleased with her delight,  
She is the echo of inconstancy,  
Soothing her no with nay, her I with yea.  
Then who would weigh this feather, or respect  
The fickle censure of shallow neglect?  
Shall grave Lycurgus straite repeal his laws,  
Because some cobbler finds fault with this clawse,  
Some Ale-konner with that? or shall the state  
Be subject to each base-groomes arbitrate?  
No, let's esteem Opinion as she is,  
fools bawble, innovations Mistris,  
The Proteus Robin-good-fellow of change,  
Smithfield of iaded fancies, and th'exchange  
Of fleeting censures, nurse of heresit,  
Begot by Malice on inconstancy:  
It's but the hiss of goose, the peoples noise,  
The tongue of humours, and fantastic voice  
Of haire-brain'd Apprehension: it respects  
With all due titles, and that due neglects  
even in one instant. For in these our times  
Some of Opinions gulls carp at the rhymes  
Of reverend Chawcer: other-some do praise them,  
And unto heaven with wonders wings do raise them  
Some say the mark is out of Gowers mouth,  
Others, he's better then a trick of youth.  
Some blame deep Spencer for his grandam words,  
Others protest that, in them he records  
His maister-peece of cunning giuing praise,  
And gravity to his profound-prickt lays.  
Daniel( as some holds) might mount if he list,  
But others say that he's a Lucanist.  
Markham is censured for his want of plot,  
Yet others think that no deep staining blot;  
As Homer writ his Frogs-fray learnedly,  
And Virgil his Gnats unkind Tragedy:  
So though his plot be poor, his Subiect's rich,  
And his Muse soars a Falcons gallant pitch.  
Drayton's condemned of some for imitation,  
But others say t'was the best Poets fashion,  
In spite of sick Opinions crooked doom,  
traitor to kingdom mind, true iudgments tomb,  
Like to a worthy roman he hath won  
A three-fold name affined to the sun,  
When he is mounted in the glorious South,  
And Drayton's justly firnam'd Golden-mouth.  
The double volum'd satire praised is,  
And liked of diuers for his Rods in piss,  
Yet other-some, who would his credite crack  
Haue clapped Reactioes Action on his back.  
Nay, even wits Caesar, Sidney, for whose death  
The Fates themselves lamented Englands scath,  
And Muses-wept, till of their tears did spring  
Admiredly a second Castal spring,  
Is not exempt for profanation,  
But censured for affectation.  
Thus doth Opinion play the two edged sword,  
And vulgar iudgments both-hand plays afford,  
Then who but fools, and empty cask like minds,  
Would be engrossed with such fantastic winds?  
Let Players, Minstrels, silken Reuellers,  
Light minded as their parts, their airs, their feathers,  
Be slaves t'Opinion, when the people shoute  
At a quaint iest, crosse-poynt, or well touched Lute,  
Let their slight frothy minds be bubled up,  
And break again at a hiss, or howt, or hup.  
Let Caius when his horse hath won the bell,  
conceive more ioy than his dull tongue can tell:  
Or let Lycanor fear a tennis set  
More then his souls loss, and for it more fret.  
Pollio me thinks is going into the town,  
Boy, set your Maisters ruff, and brush his gown,  
Least some spruce tailor sitting on his stall,  
Say, there goes a slouen, careless of all,  
here comes young Pansa: whether away so fast?  
Why, going to the Barbers in all hast,  
Thy hair's all short enough: but I must crave  
A little labour to be smug'd, and haue  
A blessing of Rose-water, ere I go  
To see such and such Ladies, for you know  
they'll flowt a man behind his back, if he  
Be not trim furbish'd, and in decency.  
Oh what a slauerie's this? shall a free mind  
sick of a Cockneys Ague, fear the wind?  
No, let's be stoics, resolute, and spare not  
To tell the proudest critic that we care not  
For his wooden censure, nor to mitigate  
The sharp tart veriuice of his snap-haunce hate  
Would change a line, a word, no not a point  
For his deep mouthed scoffs, as soon disioynt  
His grind-iest chaps as hurt our credits, who  
Are careless of what and can say or do.  
Oh Epictetus, perfect libertine,  
Who though a slave, tired daily in the mine,  
Yet hadst as free a soul, as free a power  
To calm content as any Emperour,  
Thou wert no busy Polypragmons thrall,  
No slave to censures, caring not at all  
Which way the vulgar wind stood, negligent  
Whether the world were angry or content.  
Thy vertue-purged soul, thy Genius  
Made all thine inclinations virtuous:  
Which thou didst follow, careless of th'event,  
Or of the worlds applause, or discontent.  
True pattern of a philosophic soul,  
Not subject to mechanic mates control,  
Nor puffed up with the praises of each hind  
Which gave a frothy battery to thy mind.  
With such resolve, such perfect temperature  
Should a Socratique mind her thoughts assure:  
And as he taught young Alcibiades  
Audacity to plead, and to despise  
The popular scarecrow estimation;  
For that such bodies composition  
Consisted but of Brokers, cobblers, slaves,  
Black-men, trap-makers, and such kind of knaves,  
Whose many headed dooms he never weighd,  
Nor of their giddy union was afraid:  
So let all others care for vulgar breath,  
Which neither can preserve, nor plague with death,  
( unless their sent of garlic poison vs.)  
Should I take it at hart, or for heinous,  
To hear some Prentize, or some Players boy  
Hath jested at my Muse, and scoffed my ioy?  
Or that some chandler slopt a mustard pot,  
Or wrapped soap in some leaves, her petticoat?  
Or perfumed Courtiour in a peevish scorn,  
Some pages thereof, tyrant-like hath torn,  
To scauenger his back door from the dirt?  
Which if he do( though me it shall not hurt)  
May my harsh style( the Muses I beseech)  
Be but as arse-smart to his tickled breech:  
Or shall I think myself t'haue better hap,  
If that some weeuil, mault-worme, barly-cap,  
Hearing my lines halfe-snorting ore his kanne,  
swears them for good, and me a proper man?  
Or shall I wax proud if some Pedant deign  
The Epethite of Pretty for my pain?  
The pox I will as soon: let others care,  
Ile play the Gallant, I, the Caueleire;  
Once in my dayes Ile ween, and ouer-weene,  
And cry, a Fico for the critic spleen:  
For let them praise them, or their praise deny,  
My lines are still themselves, and so am I.   
FINIS.