Folly's Anatomy. OR satires AND Satirical Epigrams.  
With a compendious History of Ixion's Wheel.  
Compiled by Henry Hutton, Dunelmensis.  
LONDON Printed for Matthew Walbanke, and are to be sold at his shop at Graies-Inne Gate. 1619.   

TO THE READER, Upon the Author, his Kinsman.  
OLd Homer, in his time made a great feast,  
And every Poet was thereat a guest:  
All had their welcome; yet not all one fare.  
To them above the salt (his chiefest care)  
He spewed abanquet of choice Poesy,  
Whereon they fed even to satiety.  
The lower end, had from that end their Cates.  
For, Homer setting open his dung-gates,  
Delivered, from that dresser, excrement,  
Whereon they glutted, and returned in Print.  
Let no man wonder that I this rehearse;  
Nought came from Homer but it turned to verse.  
Now where our Author was at this good cheer,  
Where was his place, or whether he were there:  
Whether he waited, or he took away;  
Of this same point I cannot sooth say:  
But thus I guess. Being then a dandiprat,  
Some witty Poet took him in his lap  
And fed him from above, with some choice bit.  
Hence his Acumen, and already wit:  
But praises from a friendly pen ill thrive.  
And truth's scarce truth, spoke by a relative.  
Let envy therefore give her vote herein:  
Envy and th' Author sure are nought akin.  
I'll personate had Envy: yet say so,  
He licked at Homer's mouth, not from below.  
R. H.   

Ad Lectores.  
TO stand on Terms 'twere vain. By hook & crook  
One Term I was defrauded of a Book.  
Now Readers your assistance I must crave,  
To play at Noddy; to turn up a knave.  
My foe at Tick-Tack plays exceeding well:  
For Bearing (Sirs) believe't, he bears the Bell.  
He's of a bloodhounds kind, because his Nose  
Utters each new made sent; be't verse, or prose.  
Could ye attach this Felon, in's disgrace  
I would not bate an inch (not Boltons' ace)  
To bait, deride, nay ride this silly Ass,  
I would take pains; he should not scotfree pass.  
All filching knaves (be't spoken as a Trope)  
Will once be played, displayed by a Rope:  
And be this proud disperser of stole works  
Once caught (that now in clanks & corners lurks)  
Lest he delude some kind affecting Scholar,  
Pray, have him twiched in a Hempen collar:  
Once burntieh ' hand, he will example give,  
To such Time's turncoats as by filching live.   

TO THE WORTHILY Honoured Knight, Sir Timothy Hutton.  
NOblest of minds, unknown, I would invite  
Rich Pyrrhus to accept a Codrus mite.  
My lame-legd Muse, near clomb Parnassus' Mount  
Nor drunk the juice of Aganippe's Fount:  
Yet doth aspire with Dedall's wings, appeal  
To you, sole Patron of our common weal.  
The foul masked Lady, night, which blots the sky,  
Hath but one Phoebe, fever-shaking eye.  
Olympus' azure clime, one golden light,  
Which drowns the starry curtain of the night:  
And my rude Muse (which Satirists would rend  
One generous, grave Patronizing friend.  
You this Maecenas are, peruse my writ,  
And use these Metroes of true meaning wit:  
Command; commend them not: such humile Art  
Disclaims applause, demerits no desert.  
Value my verse according to her worth:  
No mercenary hope hath brought her forth.  
Time's puny, Penny-wits, I loathing hate.  
Though poor, I'm pure, from such aseruile state.  
These works (fram'don the anvil of my brain)  
My free born Muse, enfranchise from such shame:  
In which large Calendar, Timists may view,  
I only writ to please the World, and you.  
Your worship's friend Nomine & Re: Henry Hutton.   

satires.  

IVrge no time, with whipped, stripped Satyrs Lines,  
With furies scourge whipping depraved times.  
My muse (though fraught) with such shall not begin  
T'vncase, unlace, the sentinel of sin:  
Yet let earth's vassals, packhorse unto shame,  
Know I could lash their lewdness, evil fame;  
Read them a Lecture, should their vice imprint  
With sable lines, in the obdured flint;  
Their Maps of knavery and shame descry,  
In lively colours, with a sanguine die;  
And tell a tale, should touch them to the quick;  
Should make them startle; fain themselves cap-sick;  
But, that no Patron dare, or will maintain  
The awful subject of a Satyre's vain.   

WHat have we here? a mirror of this age,  
Acting a Comicks part upon the stage.  
What Gallant's this? His nature doth unfold  
Him, to be framed in Phantastes mould.  
Lo how he jets; how stern he shows his face,  
Whiles from the wall he passengers doth chase.  
Muse touch not this man, nor his life display,  
Ne with sharp censure 'gainst his vice inveigh:  
For, sith his humour can no jesting brook,  
He will much less endure a Satyre's book.  
Beshrew me, sirs, I durst not stretch the street,  
Gaze thus on conduits scrowls, base vintners beat,  
Salute a Madam with a french cringe grace,  
Greet with God-dam-me, a confronting face,  
Court a rich widow, or my bonnet vail,  
Converse with Bankrupt Mercers in the gail,  
Nor in a Metro show my Cupide's fire,  
Being a french-poxt Lady's apple-squire;  
Lest taxing times (such folly being spied)  
With austere satires should my vice deride.  
Near breath, I durst not use my Mistress Fan,  
Or walk attended with a Hackneyman,  
Dine with Duke Humphrey in decayed Paul's,  
Confound the streets with Chaos of old brawls,  
Dancing attendance on the Blackfriars stage,  
Call for a stool with a commanding rage,  
Nor in the night time open my Lady's latch,  
Lest I were snared by th' allseeing Watch:  
Which Critic knaves, with Lynx's piercing eye,  
Into men's acts observantly do pry.   

Muse, show the rigour of a satires art,  
In harsh sarcasms, dissonant and smart.  
First, to you mass of humours, puff of wind,  
Which, Polipe-like, doth interchange his mind.  
Note how this Timist, scratching of his pate,  
Invent'st a fable to advance his state,  
Venting a Legend of Man, devils lies,  
Which in the ears of potentates must fly.  
See how he squares it, takes a private stand,  
To Gnathonize, to act it with his hand.  
Behold his gesture, and his brazen face,  
How stoutly he doth manage his disgrace.  
Lo how he whispers in his Master's ear,  
In's Closet tattles lest the servants hear;  
Winks of an eye, and laughs his Lord to scorn,  
By his attractive fingers making horns.  
His swimming brain, thus being brought to bed,  
As motives to his wit, he rabs his head:  
Then like a ledger at the Tables end,  
Takes place for an invited friend;  
Applauding in discourse his Master's speech,  
Admiring's virtue, o'er the pot doth preach:  
Inueies against dingthrifts, that their lands have spent  
Detesting Riot more than thin cheeked Lent:  
Censures base whoredom, with a Mustard face.  
With a sour pisspot visage, doth disgrace  
A Ruffled Boot, and will in no case stand,  
In view of a (sir reverence) yellow band.  
He rails on Music, pride, and wines excess,  
And from an Organ-pipe himself doth bless.  
Abhors a Satin suit, or velvet cloak,  
And says Tobacco is the devils smoke;  
The thought of To. his entrails more doth gripe,  
Then Physics art, or a strong Glister-pipe.  
Go tell this slave, his vices shall not pass,  
Such crafty colts, must feel the satires lash.  
The lions skin a while may shade the Ape:  
But yet his worship shall not scotfree escape.  
Though he seem nice, demean himself demure,  
The world perceives, this Sycophants impure.  
His Harpies face, dissembling Siren's voice,  
Which in each corner make a whistling noise,  
Cannot be sconced with each male pretence,  
Nor blind the world with some misconstrued sense.  
We know his thought concurs not with his word,  
His mouth speaks peace, his heart intends a sword.  
None can discern whence Titan framed this mould,  
Which, Gnato like, doth blow both hot & cold.  
O subtle Tyrant, whose corroding hate,  
Deprives both life, and consummates the state  
Of senseless Noddies, who repose in rest,  
Foster hot embers, Serpents in their breast,  
Which sparkling flames, t' accomplish vain desire,  
Makes fools, their subjects, fuel to the fire;  
And like the Viper, fraught with spleenful maw,  
The entrails of their Patron's states do gnaw.   

NExt, le's survey the Lechers obscene shame,  
Rouse him from's squat, pursuing of the game,  
Deprive this well mouthed dog of his intent,  
Tracing each footestep, by his fresh made sent,  
And pinch him with a scandaled soul, impure,  
Note him with Theta, for ay to endure.  
Wil't please you view this monster in his glass?  
It best discovers a Fantastic Ass.  
See how, Narcissus like, the fool doth dote,  
Viewing his picture, and his guarded coat;  
And with what grace, bold actor like he speaks,  
Having his beard precisely cut i'th' peake;  
How neat's Mouchatoes do a distance stand,  
Lest they disturb his lips, or saffron band:  
How expert he's; with what attentive care,  
Doth he in method place each straggling hair.  
This idle Idol, doth bestow his wit,  
In being spruce; in making's ruff to sit:  
His days endeavours are to be complete,  
To use his vestures nitid and facete:  
For vulgar oaths, he raps forth blood and heart,  
As coadjutors in the wenching art:  
In's frizzled Periwig, with bended brow,  
Swears at each word: for, to confirm his vow,  
He holds an oath's the ornamental grace  
Of venial discourse, befitting's place;  
And doth maintain, in's humour, To be drunk,  
Is the preparative to love a punk;  
A pipe of To. th' indulgence of his brains,  
Using Potatoes to preserve the Rains.  
Pale horned Luna, sister to dark Night,  
In Venus' sport he useth for a light;  
Thinking Earth's sable mantle hides his shame,  
Deprives the terror of swift winged Fame.  
When darkness doth eclipse Don Phoebus' rays,  
When night's vast terror hath expelld the days,  
Then doth this subject pace it to Pickt-hatch,  
Shoreditch, or Turnbull, in despite o'th' Watch,  
And there reposing on his Mistress lap,  
Beg some fond favour, be 't a golden cap:  
Plays with her plume of feathers or her Fan,  
Wishing he were accepted for her man;  
And then at large in ample terms doth show  
His Cupid's dart, and much endured woe,  
Desiring cure to salve his languished care,  
T' expel the willow-garland of despair:  
And that he may obtain his lust, compares  
Her eyes to stars, to Amber her pounced hairs:  
Equals her hand to cygnets purest white,  
Which in mad'st streams do take delight:  
Her sanguine blush, and ruby painted mould,  
Unto Aurora's red, rich Indies gold.  
Having earth's weaker vassal overcome,  
He bribe's a Pander with some trifling sum;  
Doth frolic with the Music in this vain,  
Hearing the Diapason of their strain.  
Perhaps he'll cut a caper, neatly prance,  
And with his Curtail some odd Galliard dance;  
Then glutted with his lust make quick dispatch,  
Pretending he's in danger of the Watch:  
So taking Vale, till some other night,  
Must be conducted by a Tapers light,  
Along the street to his polluted Cell,  
Where this vile lecher doth inhabit, dwell.  
He thinks the secret quietness of night,  
Which with phantasms doth possess each spirit,  
Is a safe shelter to conceal his fact,  
Having no witness to record his act.  
O stupid fool! the heavens all-seeing eye,  
Beholds thy base frequented infamy;  
And will repay thee treble, with a pox,  
For the night-hanting of base Shoreditch smocks   

ALl hail Tom Toss-pot: welcome to the Coast.  
What Paris news canst brag of, or make boast?  
Thy phisnomy bewrays thou canst relate  
Some strange exploits attempted in the State.  
I know thoust courted Venus lusting dames,  
'Twas thy intent when thou tookst ship on Thames.  
Let's sympathise thy hap, enjoy some sport.  
What art thou senseless, dead-drunk, alla mort?  
Gallants, this abject object which you see,  
Is an old picture of Gentility.  
With Coriat he travelled hath by land,  
To see Christ's cross, the tree where judas hanged.  
Divelin and Amsterdam his sea crab pace,  
With other country's more, did often trace.  
Earth's circled orb, he frequent trudged, went,  
With less expenses than Tom Odcombe spent:  
With fewer clothes, though furnished with more shifts,  
With sparing diet, few received gifts.  
Tom had one pair of stockings, shoes, one suit;  
But Tosspots case Tom Coxcombs doth confute.  
For he has travelled all Earth's globe afoot,  
Without whole clothes, good stocking, shoe or boot.  
His ragged journal, I bemoan, condole;  
Yet (God be thanked) he is returned all-hole.  
Tom had assistants, as his books report:  
But Toss-pot travelled void of all consort;  
Having no creature with him whiles he slept,  
Or walked; but such as in his bosom crept.  
Toss-pot detests all clothes, hates new found form,  
Unless it were no clothes at all were worn.  
Which Method (I dare say) he would observe,  
Go naked with his com-ragges, beg, and starve.  
He is no boasting Thraso which will vaunt  
Of his adventures, penury, and scant.  
Yet if you please to read my slender Muse,  
I shall describe the humour he doth use.  
Tobacco, Bottle ale, hot Pippin-pies:  
Such traffic, merchandise, he daily buys.  
With belly-timber, he doth cram his gut,  
With double jugs doth his Orexis glut,  
Swears a God-dam-me for the tapster's shots,  
And may pledge no health less than with 2. pots.  
He has a Sword to pawn in time of need,  
A perfect beggars phrase wherewith to plead  
For maintenance, when his exhausted store  
Is profuse lavished on some pocky whore.  
tiborne's triangle trees will be the thing,  
Must send this knave to Heavens in a string.   

monsieur Bravado, are you come t'outface,  
With your Mouchatoes, gallants of such place▪  
Pack hence, it is an humour to contend,  
In a bravado, with your nearest friend.  
we'll not contest or squabble for a wall,  
Nor yet point field, though you us vassals call.  
Invent some other subject to employ  
Your gilded blade, your nimble footed boy.  
Correct your frizzled locks, and in your glass  
Behold the picture of a foolish Ass.  
Barter your lousy suits for present gain,  
Unto a Broker in rich Birchin lane.  
Compile a sonnet of your Mistress glove.  
Copy some Odes t'express conceited love.  
Ride with your sweetheart in a hackney coach.  
Pick quarrels for her sake, set frays on broach.  
Use musics harmony (which yields delight)  
Under your Lady's window in the night.  
Stretches with a plume, & cloak wrapped under theyarm.  
Young Gallants glories soon will Ladies charm.  
'Sfoot walk the streets, in cringing use your wits.  
Survey your Love, which in her window sits.  
Blackfriars, or the Palace-garden Bear,  
Are subjects fittest to content your ear.  
An amorous discourse, a Poet's wit,  
Doth humour best your melancholy fit.  
The Globe to morrow acts a pleasant play,  
In hearing it consume the irksome day.  
Go take a pipe of To. the crowded stage  
Must needs be graced with you and your page.  
Swear for a place with each controlling fool,  
And send your hackney servant for a stool.  
Or if your Mistress frown, seem malcontent.  
Then let your Muse be cloistered up, ypent.  
Be love sick, and harsh Madrigals express,  
That she may visit you in such distress.  
I'm sure you have some pamphlet, idle toy,  
Which you rate high, esteem a matchless joy.  
Where's your Tobacco box, your steel & touch?  
Roarers respect, and value these too much.  
Where is your alarm watch your Turkeys Ring,  
Muske-comfits, bracelets, & such idle things?  
Y'are naked as Adam if you have not these,  
And your endeavours cannot Ladies please.  
If you the Gallants title will assume,  
Go use th'Apothecary for perfume,  
Wear ear-rings, jewels, cordivants strong sent,  
Which comely ornaments dame Nature lent.  
Fie, fie: you are to blame, which times misspend,  
That for a trifling cost will lose a friend.  
Do not contend in each frequented Lane,  
With ever idle coxcomb, busy brain:  
But your Minerva's industry employ,  
Your Ladies golden tresses to enjoy.  
Record your name in some rich Mercer's note,  
That tradesmen may come pull you by the coat.  
And in th'abyss of Vintners chalked score,  
Shipwreck good fortune, run thy state on shore.  
Dive in Mechanics books, till in the street  
Seargeants arrest, convey thee to the Fleet,  
And there in durance caged, consume with woe,  
Beg with a purse, and sing Fortune's my foe.   

Writ, Poetaster: fie for shame, your days  
Will die without remembrancers of praise.  
'T pity, such a pregnant witty verse  
Should be entombed in the fatal hearse.  
Confine your Muse some tractates to compile,  
In scanned Metre, or condigner style;  
That Earth's mild censure may applauding blaze  
Your Phoenix quill, with volleys of great praise.  
Why art so slow? the Trophies will be lost,  
Unless you wright, all Fortunes shall be crossed.  
What canst thy style prohibit? gazing mute,  
Where Earth's contending for the golden fruit?  
You vilify yourself with endless shame,  
Imposing scandal to each Poet's name.  
I grieve he should be silent, in despite  
Of all the Muses, which Sarcasmies write.  
He doth resemble Minstrels in each thing;  
Invited once, he ' l neither play, nor sing;  
Unbidden, will inveigh against each friend,  
Incessant write great volumes without end.  
The amorist which doth your wardrobe keep,  
Admires your sluggish Muse is yet asleep.  
He should a rhyming Madrigal compose;  
And wanting you, must tell his griefs in prose.  
The wenches they exclaim, cry out, and call  
For Poetaster works extemporal.  
The alehouse tippler, he protests, your Muse  
Greatly dishonours him, with gross abuse,  
Infringing promise: which you lately made,  
Concerning Libels, that should touch the trade,  
He gave you earnest after you were wooed,  
A dozen of strong liquor he bestowed,  
To bathe your Muse, to make your fluent vai  
Apt to despise a satires taxing brain.  
The idle Minstrel, he cries out of wrong,  
Because you do his sonnets still prolong.  
You injure much his treble squeaking note,  
Deprives him of the townships arms, red coat.  
Such wrongs may not pass free: invent a theme,  
Rouse up your Muse from her conceited dream.  
Give him a cup of Ale, a pipe of To:  
And let him to his private study go.  
he'll break a jest, when he has drunk a glass,  
Which shall for currant 'mongst the tapsters pass,  
And rhyme to any word you can propound,  
Although a Metre for it, near were found,  
Wright Panegyrics in the praise of's friend,  
Make complete verses, on his finger's end.  
He has a subject he did late invent,  
Will shame the rhyming sculler, jack a Lent.  
'Tis writ in print; perhaps you'll see't anon,  
'Twas made of Robin Hood and little john.  
'Twil be discovered ere 't be long; and lie  
Under the bottom of a pippin-py,  
Be pinned to Capon's backs to shroud the heat,  
Fixed to some solid joint of Table meat.  
Wish it be put to no worse service, then  
To shelter the scorched Caponet or Hen.  
I pray 't may have such office, worthy place,  
Yet fears 'tmust suffer vile rebuke, disgrace.  
jack out of office we 't ere long shall find  
‛ ●th house of office, being mewed, confined.  
Well though it be, yet for the Muse's sakes,  
he'll pen a pithy tractate of Ajax.  
I wish he would reserve Ajax in mind,  
'twill serve but for Ajax and come behind:  
For men adjudge the volumes of this fool,  
Worthy no chair, scarce to deserve the stool.  
Let cease the clamour of thy hodge-podge verse,  
The stupid pots, or senseless streets to pierce.  
The doggerel discord of thy long legged rhyme,  
Defameth Poets, scandalise the time.  
Your mock-verse Muse deserveth nought but fire,  
The beggars whipstock, or the Gallows hire.  
In silence spend the relics of your days:  
For being mute you will attain most praise.  
Avoid each satires lash, censures of times,  
Which do deriding read pot-Poets rhymes.   

THe crane-throate hell, of this depraved age,  
Earth's belly-god, let's view upon the stage.  
See how the squadron of his full fraught paunch  
Out-squares the straightness of his narrow haunch,  
Making his stumppes supporters to uphold  
This mass of guts, this putrefied mould.  
His belly is a Cistern of receipt,  
A grand confounder of demulcing meat.  
A Sabariticke Sea, a depthless Gulf,  
A senseless Vulture, a corroding Wolf.  
Behold this Helluo, how he doth glut,  
Fill (like a wallet) his immeasurde gut,  
Cramming his stomach with uncessant load,  
Like a stuffed bladder, hates big swelling Toad;  
And rams his paunch, that bottomless abyss,  
As if to glut were legal, promised bliss.  
All's fish that comes to net, this Harpy's tooth  
Eats what's within the compass of his mouth.  
His tabletalk hates hunger, more than vice,  
Rails against fortune, cheating, cards, and dice,  
Enuies'gainst actors, taxing such as fight,  
Or in Tobacco do repose delight,  
And thousand subjects more exactly scans,  
Railing on cloakebagge breeches, yellow bands;  
Wishing the fencing-schooles might be suppressed,  
And all save belly-timber doth detest.  
This large discourse his gluttony doth cloak,  
Are motives his Orexis to provoke.  
Which being fraught, till senses are a mort,  
At noon tide to concoct he takes a snort.  
His drowsy senses hoodwinked in a cap,  
Leaning upon his chair do take a nap.  
Confer his belly with his lower part,  
And you'll adjudge dame Natures rarest art  
Made not this bulk, infusing life, or blood,  
In such unsquared timber, unheawn wood.  
He's more misshaped than Crete's monstrous sin,  
Deformed both without, and eke within.  
His circled paunch, is barrel like rotound,  
Like earth's vast concaves hollow, and profound.  
His haunches which are locked as in some box,  
With the strait compass of a Par a-dox,  
He doth into so little compass bring,  
As if they should be drawn through Gyges' ring,  
So that he seems as if black Vulcan's art,  
Of diverse fossiles had compiled each part;  
As if some tailor had bound on with points,  
Nero's great belly, to starved Midas joints.  
I could decipher this huge map of shame,  
And lively portrait his abhorred name,  
Were't not that Critics would debase, revile,  
Censure the sharpness of a satires style.  
'Tis shame, such vipers, all devouring Hell,  
Should be endured in our Coasts to dwell.  
We can frame nothing of such naughty Earth,  
Except a storehouse in the time of dearth;  
Or beg this Minotaur, when he doth die,  
T' make dice of's bones or an Anatomy.  
I'll therefore leave him in his pan-warmed bed,  
Resting on's pilllow his distempered head.  
Were't not for censures, I should make him prance,  
Skip at the Satyr's lash, lead him a dance,  
Unrip his bowels, and Anatomize  
His filthy entrails, which he doth much prize.  
But taxing times such projects do confute,  
Silence stern satires, warns them to be mute.  
The golden days are changed, when Foxes sins  
Pass scot free, marching in the lions skins;  
When corrupt times may complot wrong, or right  
Without control, of contradicting might.   

MY treatise next must touch (though somewhat late)  
A woman creature most insatiate.  
See this incarnate monster of her sex,  
Play the virago, unashamde, perplexed.  
See Omphale her effeminated king,  
Basely captive; make him do any thing.  
Her whole discourse is of Guy Warwick's arms,  
Of errant Knights, or of blind Cupid's charms.  
Her civil gesture, is to feign a lie  
In decent phrase, in true Orthography.  
Her modest blush, immodest shame, O fie,  
'Tis grand disgrace to blush, indignity.  
She counts him but a Nazard, half a-mort,  
That will not jumble, use dame Venus' sport.  
To kiss, to call, t'admire her painted face  
And do no more; ignoble, vile disgrace.  
She likes his humour which plays for the mark,  
Affects the man that's expert in the dark.  
With costly unguents she depaints her brows,  
Calls them the palace of chaste Hymen's vows.  
And yet this statue for her honoured trade,  
With every vassal will be underlaide.  
Her sole delight is fixed in a fan,  
Or to walk usherd by a proper man.  
Nature hath polished each external part  
Of this vile dame with Oratories Art;  
Making each limb an Orator, defence,  
To mask her scandal with some good pretence.  
Do but confer and note her private speech,  
Her divine frame, will pass your human reach.  
she'll compliment, pathetically act  
A tragic story, or a fatal fact.  
Lively discover Cupid and his bow,  
Manage his savage quiver in her brow,  
Court so completely, rarely tune a song,  
That she will seem a Dido for a tongue,  
And by the virtue of all-conquering sight,  
Infuse even life in him, that has no spirit.  
Her golden phrase will ravish so your ears  
With amorous discourse, pale lovers tears,  
That you would judge her rarest parts divine,  
Deem her a virgin of chaste Vesta's shrine.  
Yet this proud jezabel, so nice, demure,  
Is but a painted Sepulchre impure.  
She seems a Saint (in conference being hard)  
Yet is more spotted then the Leopard.  
Though she bestow her vigilancy, care,  
In coining phrases, pouncing of her hair:  
Yet are her Legends, golden mass of wit,  
But like Apocrypha, no sacred writ.  
All's not authentical the which she pleads,  
Or wholesome doctrine, that she daily reads.  
Cease, austere Muse, this counterfeit to touch:  
Y'have spoke Satirical, I doubt, too much.  
I'll rather pity, than envy, inveigh,  
Their Calendar of wretch'nesse to display,  
Shutting my Muse in silence, lest she strip  
This Saintlike creature with a satires whip.  
I blush, my quill with so immodest face  
Abruptly pointed at her great disgrace,  
Loathing the subject of a satires style,  
Discerns desert, which should this sect defile.  
Pardon my Muse (kind sirs) she whips not all  
Whom we in specie do women call.  
'Tis Corinth's Lais, Rome's confronting whore,  
Which like the Hellespont we run on shore;  
Such as resemble Diana in their deeds,  
I mean in giving large Actaeon's heads.  
These are the Subjects which demerit blame,  
And such we tax with earth's eternal shame.  
Applauding such chaste Philomel's, whose love,  
Idem, per idem, doth most constant prove.   
FINIS.   

SHould I commend you satires? faith no, tushy.  
'Tis an old Proverb, Good wine needs no bush.  
If ye demerit earth's condigner laud,  
Let graver censures grace you with applaud.  
If ye deserve no Poets Laurel stem,  
Be ye base Orphans, I disclaim ye then.  
To praise good works 'twere shame, indign, and vile,  
For none but counterfeits do praise their style.  
Good, is but good; and no man can more say:  
To praise the bad, makes Satirists inveigh.  
Go seek your fortunes, be it good or bad  
If bad, I'll grieve; if good, I shall be glad.  
Henry Hutton.   

To the Reader.  
Hark, ye young Roisters, that with Inkehorn stuff  
Delude the state, and rail the world in snuff:  
Let me, in Curtsy, beg a friendly Q,  
When you have spent your mouths upon the view.  
Chop logic, chaw your cuds; some leisure give.  
My Muse, which doth at rack and manger live,  
Must halt about the mark; for she's not flight:  
And yet, though slow, she sometimes speaks aright.  
I fear no colours: Let mad satires write.  
The Curs which bark the most, do seldom bite.  
Let coxcombs curry favour with a fee,  
Extol their brains, with Claw me, I'll claw thee.  
I write the truth: If any fault you see,  
Impute it to ill readings, not to me.  
Dispense with my bold quill: if she be fell,  
I do it for the best: I wish all well.  
Connive young wits (which on your humours stand)  
I'll, with the Proverb, Turn the Cat it h'band.  
And ere ye jar, for Peace sake give the way;  
Sith few, or none, with edged tools safely play.   

SATIRICAL Epigrams.  

Ad Lectorem.  

Epi. 1.  
REader, I must present you a Shrimp-fish:  
I hope you'll make no bones to taste this dish.  
It is no carp, unless you giv 't that note:  
Which if you do, I wish 'twere in your Throat.    

Ad Momum.  

Epi. 2.  
MOmus, I wish your love, and humbly crav 't:  
My suit is for the same; pray let me have 't.  
If that you think, according be not best,  
A Cording be your end: and so I rest.    

Maltsters' ill Measure.  

Epi. 3.  
Such Maltsters, as ill measure sell for gain,  
Are not mere knaves, but also knaves in Grain.    

De Equisone.  

Epi. 4.  
CAn Equiso be wavering as the wind?  
Faith no; for he is of a Stable kind.    

In Caluum.  

Epi. 5.  
THe Commonty complain, calvus of late,  
By hook, & crook, by polling gaineth state:  
Yet he protests, he takes few bribed gifts,  
And polling scorns above all other shifts;  
Appealing to his barber, who doth swear,  
He is not worth one hair to reach one ear.  
Then, sith you tax him with this faultless ill,  
He'll leave off-powling, and begin to pill.    


Epi. 6.  
Kind Kit disdains that men him fool do call.  
What is he else? Faith, nothing but Wit-all.    

An action of the Case.  

Epi. 7.  
Shouldering a Minstrel, in a Lane, I broke  
His Viols case, by an unlucky stroke:  
Who swore he would complain, to vent his grudge.  
And what care I, what any law will judge:  
For why? I will maintain it, face to face,  
'T can be no more, but th' action of the Case.    


Epi. 9  
TOm-Cobbler sold his tools, a matter small:  
And yet unto this day he keepeth Awl.    


Epi. 10.  
RObin has for Tobacco sold his chair,  
Reserving nothing but a stool for's lare:  
Whence all men judge, this silly sottish fool,  
Though seldom sick, goes often to the Stool.    

God a-mercy Horse.  

Epi. 11.  
A Friend, who by his horse received a fall,  
Made bold (he swore) in private for to call.  
I made him welcome, as dame Nature binds  
All those to do that bear affecting minds.  
Yet sith his steed did him unwilling force,  
I thank not him, but God a-mercy Horse.    


Epi. 12.  
FRancisco vaunts he gave his wife the horn.  
She frouns, she frets, & takes the news in scorn.  
And though you did (quoth she) yet you, indeed,  
Must wear the horn, because you are the Head.    

De Caluo.  

Epi. 13.  
calvus protests, for foes he doth not care:  
For why? they cannot take from him one hair.    

In Purum.  

Epi. 14.  
PVrus doth sermons write, & scripture quote;  
And therefore may be termed a man of Note.    

In Causidicum.  

Epi. 15.  
CAusidicus wears patched clothes, some bruit;  
And must do so: for he has near a suit.    

De fabro lignario.  

Epi. 16.  
TOm joiner sold his tools, and clothes of's britch,  
To cure the scab; and yet he has an Itch.    


Epi. 17.  
A Cuckold is a dangerous beast. Why so?  
Nam Cornu ferit ille: Caveto.    

De Vinoso.  

Epi. 18.  
VInosus is a Verb, his persons good,  
And must be formed in the Potential mood:  
In which sole mood, we find each drunken man.  
For, commonly, they're known by the sign, Can.    


Epi. 19  
WOmen by nature do a Nazzard spite,  
Because he's a light-horseman & wants weight.    


Epi. 20.  
IAck-Cut-purse is, & hath been patient long.  
For, he's content to pocket up much Wrong.    


Epi. 21.  
TOm vowed to beat his boy against the wall:  
And as he struck, he forthwith caught a fall.  
The Boy, deriding, said I will aver,  
YE have done a thing, you cannot stand to, sir.    


Epi. 22.  
IN an outlandish Port, where there were store  
Of bloody Pirates taken on the shore,  
The Magistrate did build (of squared stone)  
A pair of Gallows, for to hang them on.  
And being asked, why they so strong were made,  
Replied; that wooden Gallows soon decayed,  
They would not last one age; but now his care,  
Had built strong Gallows for himself, and's heir    

De Ballivo.  

Epi. 23.  
HOw dare ye with a Balive squabble, broil.  
Disturb the streets with uproars, endless coil?  
Though he be poor, yet offer no disgrace:  
Balives are men of-Calling in their place.    


Epi. 24.  
BEll, though thou die decrepit, lame, forlorn,  
Thou wast a man of Metal, I'll be sworn.    

Crooktbacks payment.  

Epi. 25.  
CRookt-back, to pay old scores, will sell his state:  
And though he do, he'll never make all straight.    

In Gallam.  

Epi. 26.  
GAlla, 'tis said of late, is brought to bed:  
And yet in Hymen's rites she near was wed.  
Which makes the vulgar judge, & censure on her,  
That she betimes begun to take upon her.    

Tim's wound.  

Epi. 27.  
AT quarter blows, Tim did of late receive  
A bruise upon his head, that doth him grieve:  
Which, having issue, makes friends tax his deed,  
And jesting say; Tim has a running head.    


Epi. 28.  
PHantastes chafed t' express his raging wit,  
Because his stockings did not neatly sit;  
And strictly asked his man, what as he thought  
Concerning's stocking he had lately bought  
Who said, I think though 't seem too strait by half,  
Twod fit; but that you are too great i'th' Calf.    

De Conspicilio.  

Epi. 29.  
AN aged man, which spectacles did use,  
Having them filched, begun one time to muse,  
Fearing the thief would not his sights restore;  
But rather plot how to deceive him more.  
Fear not said one, the matter is but Light;  
And ten to one, but they will come to Sight.    

De Chirotheca.  

Epi. 31.  
A Friend protested he was strangely crossed,  
Because (forsooth) his wedding gloves were lost  
But on your gloves, I said, sir do not stand;  
I warrant you, ere long they ' l come to Hand.    

Trim's Care.  

Epi. 32.  
NEat Barber, Trim, I must commend thy care,  
Which dost all things exactly, to a Hair.    


Epi. 33.  
TOm chamberlain doth from his guests convey  
The fired logs which they account for pay:  
Now Tom may swear, and therein be no liar,  
That all he has, is gotten out o'th' fire.    

Idle words.  

Epi. 34.  
OF Idle-words, no capital delict,  
One was arraigned; by the laws convict;  
Adjudged to lose his ears: which he denied;  
Complotting to escape, But one replied,  
The Pillory t' escape spend not your wit:  
When all is done, you must give-eare to it.    

De Thaide.  

Epi. 36.  
THais, her Urine to a Doctor bore:  
Who asked her, if she were a maid. She swore  
'T so. My wench (quoth he) thou art beguiled;  
My Art descries that thou hast had a child:  
What kind of maid art then? She blushing said,  
And't  like your worship, sir, a Chambermaid.    

In Lesbiam.  

Epi. 38.  
THe sanguine die of Lesbia's painted face,  
Is often argued for a doubtful Case.  
The color's she, she swears: not so some thought it.  
And true she swears: for I know where she bought it.    

De Gallo.  

Epi. 39  
Kind Cock is not a cock o'th' kind, I fear.  
His hen would bring forth chickens, if he were:  
Yet she hath none. Then surely, gentle reader,  
He is no Cock; only a Capon-treader.    

De Cornuto.  

Epi. 40.  
Cornutus' did receive a hurt on's thigh:  
Of which, I am persuaded, he ' l not die.  
The wound's not mortal though it inward bled  
Because the Sign rules most in Cornute's head.    


Epi. 41.  
WOmen are Saints: yet was not she a sp●●  
That almost slew her husband with 〈◊〉    

The Case is altered.  

Epi. 42.  
TOm Case (some do report) was lately halted.  
If this be true, why then the Case is altered    

Ad Caecum.  

Epi. 43.  
CAecus, I pray respect your honest name,  
Avoid the scandal of succeeding shame.  
YE have an ill eye, so some do often chat:  
Amongst other faults, pray have an Ey to that    

In Superbum.  

Epi. 44.  
SVperbus swaggers with a Ring in's ear;  
And likewise, as the custom is, doth wear  
About his neck a Ribbin and a Ring:  
Which makes men think, that he's proud of a string.    

Tosspots reckonings.  

Epi. 45.  
Tosspot is chosen steward of the house,  
To sum their commons; as eld servants use.  
I think he ' l reckonings more completely cast,  
Then any steward that this place has past.  
For certain, after drink, or a feast,  
He casts-up reckonings once a week at least.    


Epi. 46.  
WIll squabled in a Tavern very sore,  
Because one brought a Gill of wine; no more.  
Fill me a quart (quoth he) I'm called Will:  
The proverb is, Each jack will have his- Gill.    

Tom's Valour.  

Epi. 47.  
ONe hundredth gross of points Tom took in pay,  
Of bankrupt Mercers which were in decay,  
Whence some report, that knew his fearful joints,  
That Tom's grown stout, & stands upon his Points.    


Epi. 48.  
GVido doth rage, because one jesting said,  
That he of late had got a goodly head.  
What man dare give me horns (quoth) he for 's life?  
No Man, said one: if any, 't is your wife.  
While men you tax, the half man you exclude  
And she, the whole man doth with horns delude.    

De Milone.  

Epi. 49.  
MIlo doth vaunt he's strong, and yet contend  
To take the wall of open foes, and friend.  
Than sure he's weak, which will in discord fall  
For it; sith none but weakest go to th' wall.    

EPIGRAMS.  

Epi. 50.  
A Proctor was t' examine in the Court  
A wench. And he, disposed to make sport,  
Did ask the maid, what he should call her name.  
Why, maid (quoth she) or else it were great shame.  
Pray, speak advised, quoth this gibing clerk;  
You must take Oath of it, and therefore mark.  
The wench, self-guilty, to him blushing said,  
Pray style me single woman, leave out maid.    

To his inconstant mistress.  

Epi. 51.  
Feign would I praise, yet dare not write my mind,  
Lest thou shouldst vary like th' uncertain wind.    


Ep. 52.  
A Felon, judged to die for filching ware,  
At his confessing did himself compare,  
In Metaphors, unto the world; wherein  
Contained is the Sentinel of sin.  
The hangman, hearing this, when they had prayed,  
Began to scoff, and thus deriding said;  
I may attempt what I desire, were 't Land:  
For why? I have the world now in a Band.    

De Crepidario.  

Epi. 53.  
Shoemakers are the men (without all doubt)  
Be't good or bad, that set all things on foot.    

De Vitriario.  

Epi. 54.  
A Glazier which endeavours to reap gains,  
Endureth toil, is troubled much with Panes.    


Epi. 55.  
MIller, such Artists as thy pulses feels,  
Affirm, thy gadding head doth run on wheels.    


Epi. 56.  
FAt-back, you are too blame which friends will cross.  
Go too: you show yourself a knave in gross.    


Epi. 57  
tailors work much, believe't, & take great pain:  
Yet, Masons work far harder i'll maintain.    


Epi. 58.  
DOth jane demerit well? I pray, why so?  
For her good carriage, which all men know.    


Epi. 59  
PRay, pardon Praeco's compotations:  
His head is full of Proclamations.    

In Gulam.  

Epi. 60.  
BAse Gula, with his teeth, & nails doth tear  
The commons which he eateth any where:  
Now, we may say, What Gula doth assail,  
He will accomplish it with Tooth-and-Naile.     

Epilogus.  
WHat satires write, or Cabalists do judge,  
I weigh but small; sith they bear all men grudge.  
What Momists censure, or the roaring sect;  
Be what it will, 'tis but their dialect:  
And such applause, like to their threadbare coat,  
Would but pollute me with some evil note.  
I do refer my Muse, unto such eyes,  
Which truly can their judgements equalize▪  
Such, will be means, to save her from the fire▪  
And if need stand, to draw Dun out i'th' mire.  
H. H. D.   

IXION'S Wheel.  

FOrtune empaling jove with honours crown,  
Making him victor in the Titans fight:  
Mars having trod perforce proud Saturn down,  
Depriving Titan of's usurped right:  
These cosupremes, which overrule the fate,  
Enthronize him in Saturn's regal state.   

Which grateful God, in honour of his name,  
To Mars did dedicate the crowns of Bay;  
And in Olympus did a feast ordain,  
To solemnize the glory of this day.  
Each sacred Deity, had free access  
To be partaker of such happiness.   

Hermes did trudge, a jolly footman's pace,  
T' invite the Rectors of the Spheres sublime.  
He nimbly trips the sun-Gods circled race,  
Commands each power, of the Olympic clime,  
To celebrate this festival, in am  
Of all the triumphs, which to Mars were due.   

Which thankful Guests, their joint consents all  
To gratulate their kind affecting Host;  
And, of the store which they in promptu have gave,  
(As a requital of his profuse cost)  
Do, plena manu, regal bounties send,  
Whiles to exceed in giving they contend.   

Pan did the first fruits of his fold present.  
Neptune sent Quails; and Bacchus' foaming vines.  
Ceres did immolate, with like intent,  
Autumn's rich Prime, and Terras golden mines.  
No God there was but sent, for love or fear,  
Condign presents to augment their cheer.   

At length, in vestures nitid, and faccte,  
To Ioues high court, heavens Synod did repair:  
Whose brains were busied how to be complete  
To place themselves in method, formal, square,  
Whiles mayor powers, affect new forged shapes,  
The minors emulate like. Aesop's Apes.   

wars austere God, with stout Achilles' Lance,  
And wrinkled brows, doth Thrasovize it, rage:  
Cornuted Phoebe, in her coach, doth prance:  
Bacchus, with Grapes, doth stretch it on the stage,  
Whiles this cup-saint, too lavish and profuse,  
Embrew's his Temples in their liquid juice.   

Apollo, Venus, Cupid God of love,  
And chaste Aurora Goddess of the Morn,  
With all the remnant of the powers above,  
In royal vestures did their corpse adorn.  
Thus they contend (if eminent in place)  
T' exceed in gesture, vesture, decent grace.   

Vulcan except, who from his anvil hies,  
Limping unto the Trough, to scour his face,  
And colly fists; then, with his apron dries  
The same, thinking them fit for such a place:  
He, hating pride, vainglory, did not strive,  
Or acmulate, to be superlative.   

The Smith of Lemnos, malcontent, did grudge  
That Dis should loiter for his shackling chains:  
Yet, being jealous, he's constrained to trudge,  
Lest, whiles he toil, some other reap the gains.  
Curling his locks, he therefore, half a mort,  
Doth halting usher Venus to the Court.   

Swift winged Hermes, did Ixion cite,  
The last, to dance attendance at this feast:  
Who, swollen with pride of his puissance, might,  
Sat with the Gods as a coequal guest:  
And though unworthy to assume such place,  
Yet did his thoughts aspire for greater grace.   

Earth's Mortal, with Immortals being placed,  
took Dedall, flight; with Icarus would climb;  
With Phaeton the deities disgraced,  
Deposing him, for his undecent crime.  
Princes, in pride, attempt those vain designs,  
Which often times their umpires undermines.   

While mighty jove, with Orpheus' sweetest hymns,  
Aptly concording to Arion's Lute,  
With boauls of Nectar, crowned to the brims,  
His noble guests doth gratulate, salute,  
This lusting king endeavours in despite  
To wrong his Host, to cashier Hymen's right.   

Bacchus' moist vapours, which do sursum fume,  
Ixion's brain so much intoxicate,  
That in his cup he did (too rash) presume  
T' attempt the act: which he reputes too late.  
So potent are Don Bacchus nocive charms,  
That they intrude into apparent harms.   

Rapt with Queen juno's love, whiles he did fix  
So princely object in an abject eye,  
His joys with sorrows he doth intermix:  
For, sanctum sins do often soar too high.  
Which grand default, few Amorists can find;  
Because the naked God of love is blind.   

He languished long, abhorring to reveal,  
T' express his dolours in external show:  
Yet they, more urgent whiles he would conceal,  
Like Hydra's heads, did pullulate, renew.  
For, shrouded embers, which cannot aspire,  
Assuming force, become the greatest fire.   

With chaste Adonis' blush, at length in art  
He did uncase those griefs which were repressed,  
And did the tenor of his cares impart:  
For words yield solace to distempered breasts,  
Assuage the deluge of eternal woe,  
Which (Sea-like) alternatim, ebb and flow.   

The prime allurement, which Ixion used  
To rob this Matron of her priceless fame,  
Were Mammon's gifts; which women seld refuse,  
Although in obloquy they drown their name.  
For Fates decreed, each woman's weaker power  
Should not resist fair Danae's golden shower.   

His crown of Thessaly, with Tagus' sand,  
And minerals of Ganges golden shore,  
He gratis did prefer into her hand,  
Wishing such Orators might love implore.  
T' enjoy base lust he would his life condemn,  
Hazard his state, and princely Diadem.   

The modest queen (which waxed red with same)  
Like one that's planet-struck, remained mute:  
Collecting strength (t' avoid succeeding fame)  
She did repel his base, immodest suit:  
Yet, more importunate, though she despise,  
He nonplussed once, again will rethorize.   

Lady (quoth he) behold my harmless heart,  
Which doth, captived, in Sibyls durance live.  
Like to Achilles' Lance, my endless smart  
You must recure, which did the anguish give:  
Or I, poor Timon, must my date expire,  
Whiles Furies torture me in Cupid's fire.   

Sometimes, in the Abyss of Love I frieze,  
Like frigid places of the artic clime:  
Again, excessive heat those storms appease,  
Scorching like Phoebus in her fiery prime  
Thus I, whom Titan framed of pretty mould,  
Both at one instant, burn, and am keycold.   

My passive humours, and distempered thoughts,  
Do stimulate proud Silla's lre: debates  
Vaine-hopes, which hot desires do bring to nought,  
Fiercely pursues with Theoninus hates;  
Waging such war within my soul divine,  
That Trojan frays, were plays, compared with mine.   

No Artists skill, nor deity above,  
Can me restore to my desired bliss.  
The Energia sole is fixed in love,  
Which may recure my cares remediless.  
At Love I aim; yet have no crosser foe:  
Whose perverse wrath, my state would overthrow   

Thus doth he Syllogise, half malcontent,  
With fallacies sophisticating tears;  
And thus discourse, unkindness to prevent,  
Whilst sighs unrip his melancholy fears:  
Yet vain the king pursues a bootless chase,  
His Deer doth tappasse in a private place.   

Whiles he acutely argued this hard text,  
With writs of error traversing his suit;  
Ioues constant Daphne, timorous, perplexed,  
His focal arguments doth still confute:  
Yet forward love, which in extremes will err,  
Uniting force, doth wage a second war.   

Now by authentic reasons he doth plead,  
Urging examples to confirm his case;  
Corroborating his undecent deed,  
With Corinth's strumpets, which their sex debase,  
A subtle shist to curry-fauour's truce:  
For, old examples women most seduce.   

The Nymphs, to Vesta consecrated pure,  
Which did (quoth he) their youthful days confine,  
Like anchors in a Cave, to live secure,  
Only devoted to the vestal Shrine:  
These trod their shoes awry, & did transgress,  
Reputing it a frailty of the flesh.   

The Sun-god Phoebus, subject, bowed to love;  
Though he were crowned with a willow-with.  
Fair Cytherea had (as records prove)  
A leash of loves, beside black Lemnos smith.  
And Vulcan spied false carding. What of it?  
He was adjudged but jealous, wanting wit.   

Sole Monarch of the sky, whom Cupid's charms,  
And fatal Quiver, did incite to lust,  
In lovely Arethusa's azure arms  
Did oft repose; although it were unjust.  
Latmus can witness, and Parnassus Plain,  
She played the wanton with a shepheards-swaine.   

Examine Hermes, if he loved, or no,  
While he with Hearse private did confer,  
he'll not disclaim his wenching acts, I trow,  
Or that with Venus he did wilful err.  
Thus loved the churlish stars. Then why should I  
Poor Saturnist, a distract lover die.   

Nor wert thou chaste, great jove: the wedlock band  
In Hebe's, and Alemena's arms thou broke:  
Tindar's proud bride thou used at command;  
Captived Calisto in a lustful yoke;  
And with these Paramours hast led thy life,  
Wronging the pleasures of a jealous wife.   

What if great jupiter, with Lynx his eyes,  
Should censure, that chaste Hera were too kind  
With Hermes spells, I would conjure his spies,  
Till I enjoyed the solace of my mind.  
Admit, you should disclose in outward show  
Apparent love, it were but quid pro quo.   

Suppose, that Earth impanneld a grand Quest,  
And that the Bar of Law should rack this act:  
It would be thought a Quaere at the best;  
Sith affi-davit of our concealed fact  
Could not be made; whiles of each Gods know shame  
A sempiternal probate shall remain.   

He urged the Queen too far: yet she excused  
Fearing malignant times the fame would broach  
And doth object, that beauty's oft abused,  
Oft scandalized with vulgar tongues reproach.  
For, slander set on foot, though false, will run,  
And currant pass, in every Momists tongue.   

beauty's a common mark, apt to offence  
(Quoth she) when roisters rove, or Court unwise  
Bad fame will blab, & forge some lewd pretence  
Be amours near so secret, or precise:  
No fond suspect her jealous ear can scape,  
For, she will colour't in a lively shape.   

Should I, upon such terms, ere condescend,  
I double, treble, should mine honour stain.  
What essence then my error durst defend,  
If true accusers should my vice arraign?  
In vain it were to fly from Argus' watch,  
If in the net, jove, Mars with Venus catch.   

The unchaste king, now silent, all a mort,  
Abruptly interrupts her subtle speech;  
And, vi & armis, must enjoy his sport,  
Move her perforce to cuckoldry, spouse-breach.  
He begged before; but now commands his lust:  
And she consents, lest jove their talk mistrust.   

Who whilst they, pro & contra, argued thus,  
Suspected misdemeanour in his Guest;  
Yet did conceal, because he sat non plus,  
Drowning despair in his disquiet breast.  
jove feared guile (Mendozas well can gloze)  
And therefore urged juno to disclose.   

Who, putting finger in the eye, declares  
This large discourse; which jove unkindly takes  
The lust seemed vile, such impudence was rare:  
Which to defraud, he of a cloud did make  
chaste juno's like; a formal shape invents,  
Which, graphice, her stature represent.   

Apollo's waggon, having left his sphere,  
Drawing the starry curtain of the night,  
This false Idea did in state appear,  
To pay lusts king his long desired delight:  
Whom he embraced (yet was deceived God wot)  
And of a cloud the massy Centaurs got.   

Obtained lust his breast could not contain:  
In Thrasoe's terms he vaunts this act obscene,  
Falsely accusing Hera in disdain,  
Making lusts Quean, corrival with the Queen.  
Such are men's faults; they cannot only horn,  
But must divulge, & laugh the wronged to scorn.   

The Ireful God, which was supposed, wrong,  
To wear a cuckold's badge, an armed head,  
All court affairs adiourneth, doth prolong,  
And coram nobis, scans this shameful deed.  
Lest by delay truth should be stained, forgot,  
He wisely strikes now whilst the Iron's hot;   

And of high treason doth the king indite  
(For faults are great which touch a mighty foe)  
Who by a quest of Quaere which judge right  
(Too strictly sentenced to eternal woe)  
Was, by that Synod in Olympus held,  
Condemned, contemned, and from his Throne expelled.   

To plead, or to recant, it was too late:  
Th' arraigned king condemned stands, convict;  
Whom the three lusticers of Limbos state,  
With new devised penalties inflict.  
Hell's fatal judgement, is a just reward,  
For such as Hymenaeus rites discard.   

Fixed to the rigour of a tumbling wheel,  
Which Furies move, and ever restless turns,  
This type of lust, hell's terror amply feels,  
Whiles Serpent's sting, and Hecate's furnace burns.  
Thus, by just doom, to Styx his soul did dive  
Being enrolled amongst the damned five.   

Great mirth did Dis, and Preserpina keep,  
To give a welcome to this leane-chapt Ghost.  
The triple-headed Cur awoke from sleep.  
Charon, in haste, his flaming Ferry crossed;  
Who with the Furies, which then leisure found,  
Salutes this guest, and hoped a merry round.   

Tantal had lap enough: each airy spirit,  
And starved Ghost, had plenty of good-cheere.  
Allecto skipped, with Bacchus being light,  
And played the devil, void of love or fear;  
Whiles grim Megaera tore th' invective scrolls,  
Chase the fiends with everburning coals.   

A greater racket was not kept in Hell,  
When Hecate got the devils leave to play.  
So far this Chaos doth the wont excel,  
That former tortures are a civil day.  
Stones, tubs, & wheels, do tumble up & down,  
So that no Ghost escaped a broken crown.   

And all this time, Ixion, in a maze,  
Spectator like, beheld the Furies sport;  
At length, ashamed to stand still mute at gaze,  
Doth spend his mouth, and revel in like sort;  
Till level coil, which issued from the Pot,  
Made hell, still hell, their quarrels were so hot.   

Minos was shrewdly checked because the Ghosts  
Disturbed the Gods with their unruly coil:  
Which Quorum justice 〈…〉  
To chain each Fury to his former toil:  
And eke the stranger which in clanks did lurk.  
By strict command; 〈◊〉 unto his work.   

Whose restless pains my poor 〈…〉,  
With Agamemnon's vail, must rudely mask.  
By Herc'les' 〈…〉  
And from this brief, the total of his task.  
〈◊〉 by lust in Limbo doth he dwell:  
Lust 〈…〉, his death, both Heaven, & Hell.   
Henry Hutton. Dunelmensis