TOM TEL-TROTHS MESSAGE, AND HIS PENS COMPLAINT.  
A work not unpleasant to be read, nor unprofitable to be followed.  
Written by IO. LA. Gent.  Nullum in correcto crimine crimen erit. 
LONDON Imprinted for R. Howell, and are to be sold at his shop, near the great North door of Paul's, at the sign of the white horse. 1600.   

TO THE WORSIPFULL MASTER GEORGE DOWSE GENTLEMAN, IO. LA. WISHETH FRVITIon of endless felicity.  
IF writings may quittance benefits, or goodwill more than common courtesy, then accept I beseech you, these first fruits of my barren brain, the token of my love, the seal of my affection, and the true cognizance of my unfeigned affection. And for somuch as the plot of my Pamphlet is rude, though true, the matter mean, the manner meaner, let me humbly desire, though slenderly I deserve, to have it patronized under the wings of your favour; in requital whereof I will be,  
Yours ever to command, IO. LA.   

TO THE GENTLEMEN READERS.  
IVdiciall Readers, wise Apollo's flock,  
Whose eyes like keys do open learning's lock;  
Deign with your eye-lampes to behold this book,  
And in all courtesy thereon to look:  
Thus being patronized by your view,  
I shall not be ashamed of his hue.  
Oh grant my suit, my suit you understand,  
That I may you commend, you me command.  
IO. LA.   

TOM TEL-TROTHS Message, and his pens complaint.  

THou that didst erst Rome's Capital defend,  
Defend this sacred relic of thy wing,  
And by this power Divine some succour send,  
To save the same from carping Momus sting:  
That like a telltruth it may boldly blaze,  
And pensill-like paint forth a just dispraise.   

Go naked pen the hearts true secretary,  
Imbathed in sable liquor mixed with gall,  
And from thy master these rude verses carry,  
Sent to the world, and in the world to all:  
In mournful verse lament the faults of men,  
Do this, and then return heart-easing pen.   

Time sits him down to weep in sorrows sell,  
And Truth bewails man's present wickedness,  
Both Time and Truth a doleful tale do tell,  
Deploring for man's future wretchedness:  
With teare-bedewed cheeks help, help therefore,  
Sad tragic muse to weep, bewail, deplore.   

Me thinks I see the ghost of Conscience,  
Raised from the dark grave of security,  
Viewing the world, who once was banished thence,  
Her cheeks with tears made wet, with sighs made dry:  
And this did aggravate her grief the more,  
To see the world much worse than 'twas before.   

She wept, I saw her weep, and wept to see  
The salt tears trickling from her aged eyes,  
Yea and my pen copartner needs would be,  
With black-inke tears, our tears to sympathize:  
So long we wept that all our eyes were dry,  
And then our tongues began aloud to cry.   

Come sad Melpomene thou tragic Muse,  
To bear a part in these our doleful cries,  
Spare not with taunting verses to accuse,  
The wicked world of his iniquities,  
Tell him his own, be bold and not ashamed,  
Nor cease to speak till thou his faults hast blamed.   

I seem to hear resounding Echoes tattling,  
Of misdemeanours reigning here and there,  
And particoloured Pies on green bows prattling▪  
Of foolish fashions raging every where:  
Then blame not my muse what so ere she say,  
Sith birds and Echoes men's fond faults bewray.   

O world, no world, but rather sink of sin,  
Where blind and fickle Fortune Empress reigneth;  
O men, no men, but swine that lie therein,  
Among whom virtue wronged by vice complaineth:  
Thus world bad, men worse, men in world, worldly men,  
Do give occasion to my plaintiff pen.   

Sin like the monster Hydra hath more heads,  
Then heavens high roof hath siluer-spangled stars,  
And in his jaws men's souls to hell he leads,  
Where fiery fiends meet them in flaming Charres:  
This Pirate like a Pilate keeps each coast,  
Bringing his guests unto their hellish host.   

If all the earth were writing paper made,  
All plowshares pens, all furrows lines in writing,  
The Ocean, ink, wherein the sea-nymphs wade,  
And all men's consciences scribes inditing:  
Too much could not be written of man's sin,  
Since sin did in the first man first begin.   

But as the Egyptian dog runs on the brink,  
Of Nilus' sevenfold overflowing flood,  
And staying not, now here, now there doth drink,  
For fear of Crocodiles which lurk in mud:  
So shall my pen run briefly over all,  
Reciting these misdeeds which work man's thrall.   

Nature that whilom bore the chiefest sway,  
Bridling man's body with the reigns of Reason,  
Is now enforced in uncouth walks to stray  
Exiled by custom which encrocht through treason:  
Instead of Art, Nature's companion,  
Fancy with custom holds dominion.   

Ovid could testify that in his time,  
Astraea fled from earth to heaven above,  
Loathing injustice as a damned crime,  
Which she with equal poised schoales did prove:  
And this pen in my time shall justify,  
That true religion is constrained to fly.   

The two leafe-dores of quondam honesty,  
Which on four virtues Cardinal were turned,  
By Cardinal's degree and popery,  
Are now as heretike-like relics burned:  
Now carnal vice, not virtue Cardinal,  
Plays Christmas gambols in the Pope's great hall.   

Well, sith the Pope's name pops so fitly in,  
From Pope i'll take the Latin P. away,  
And Pope shall with the Greek η then bgin,  
Whose type and tip that he may climb i'll pray:  
Pray all with me that he may climb this letter:  
For in this prayer each man is his debtor.   

I pass not although with bell, book, and candle,  
His baldpate Priests and shorens Friars curse,  
My plaintiff pen his railing text shall handle:  
Nor do I think myself one jot the worse:  
Yea though my pen were in their Purgatory,  
Yet should my pen hold on his plaintiff story.   

Oh what a world is it for one to see,  
How Monks and Friars would religious seem?  
Whose heads make humble congees to the knee,  
That of their humble minds all men might deem:  
These be the sycophants whose feigned zeal,  
Hath brought in woe to every commonweal.   

The Monks like monkeys having long black tails,  
Tell old wives tales to busy simple brains,  
The bawdy Friars do hunt to catch females,  
To shrive and free them from infernal pains.  
Thus Monks and Friars, firebrands of hell,  
Like to incarnate devils with us dwell.   

But I as loath, so will I leave to write,  
Against this popish ribble rabble rout,  
Hoping ere long some other will indite,  
Whole volumes 'gainst their standerbearers stout:  
Poets and Painters mean while shall descry,  
With pens and pencils their hypocrisy.   

As thus my pen doth glance at every vice,  
Needs must I hear poor Learning's lamentation,  
Which whilom was esteemed at highest price,  
But now rejected is of every nation:  
She loveth men yet is she wronged by men,  
Her wronged love gives matter to my pen.   

Pallas the nurse of Nature-helping Art,  
Whose babes are Scholars, and whose cradles, schools,  
From whose milk teats no pupils would depart,  
Till they by cunning shunned the names of fools:  
She, even she, wanders in open streets,  
Seeking for scholars, but no scholars meets.   

England's two eyes, England's two Nurseries,  
England's two nests, England's two holy mounts,  
I mean England's two Universities,  
England's two Lamps, England's two sacred founts,  
Are so pulled at, pulled out, and eke pulled down,  
That they can scarce maintain a wide sleeved gown.   

Lately as one CAME over a BRIDGE, he saw  
An OX stand over a FORD to quench his drought:  
But lo the Ox his dry lips did withdraw,  
And from the water lifted up his mouth.  
Like Tantalus this dry Ox there did stand,  
God grant this dark Aenigma may be scanned.   

The Liberal Sciences in number seven,  
Which in seven ages like seven Monarches reigned,  
And shined on earth as Planets seven in heaven,  
Are now like Almesfolkes beggarly maintained,  
Whilst in their room seven deadly sins bear sway,  
Which makes these seven Arts like seven slaves obey.   

Grammar the ground and strong foundation,  
Upon which Lady Learning builds her tower,  
Grammar the pathway and direction,  
That leadeth unto Pallas sacred bower,  
Stands bondslave-like of Stationers to be sold,  
Whom all in free Schools erst might free behold.   

And Rhetoric adorned with figures fine,  
Tricked up with tropes, and clad in comely speech,  
Is gone as Pilgrim to the Muses nine,  
For her late wrong assistance to beseech.  
Now rich Curmudgeons best orations make,  
Whilst in their pouches jingling coin they shake.   

Logic which like a whetstone sharps the brain,  
Logic which like a touchstone tries the mind,  
Logic which like a loadstone erst drew gain,  
Is now for want of maintenance half pined.  
And sith in Colleges no maids may dwell,  
Many from Colleges do her expel.   

Music I much bemourn thy misery,  
Whose well-tunde notes delight the Gods above,  
Who with thine eare-bewitching melody,  
Dost unto men and beasts such pleasure move:  
Though wailing cannot help, I wail thy wrong,  
Bearing a part with thee in thy sad song.   

Arithmetic she next in number stands,  
Numbering her cares in teaching how to number;  
Which cares in number passing salt-sea sands,  
Disturb her mind, and still her corpse encumber:  
Care addeth grief, grief multiplies her woe,  
Whose ebb substracting, brings reducing flow.   

Geometry as servile prentice bound,  
Unto the Mother earth for many years,  
Hath long since meated out the massy ground,  
Which ground the impression of her footsteps bears.  
Great was her labour, great should be her gain,  
But her great labour was repaid with pain.   

Astronomy not lest, though last, hath lost  
By cruel fate her starre-embroidred coat:  
Her spherie globe in danger's seas is tossed,  
And in mishap her instruments do float.  
All Almanacs hereof can witness bear,  
Else would myself hereof as witness swear.   

But how should I with style poetical,  
Proceed to rhyme in meeter or in verse?  
If Poetry the Queen of verses all,  
Should not be heard, whose plaint mine ear doth pierce?  
Oh help Apollo with apology,  
To blaze her undeserved injury.   

Horace did write the Art of Poetry,  
The Art of Poetry Virgil commended:  
Ovid thereto his studies did apply,  
Whose life and death still Poetry defended.  
Thrice happy they, but thrice unhappy I,  
They sang her praise, but I her injury.   

O princely Poetry, true Prophetess,  
Perfections pattern, Matron of the Muses,  
I weep to think how rude men do oppress,  
And wrong thine Art with their absurd abuses.  
They are but dross, thine Art it is divine,  
Cast not therefore thy pearls to such swine.   

The sugared songs that sweet Swans use to sing,  
Floating adown Meanders silver shore,  
To country swains no kind of solace bring;  
The winding of an horn they fancy more.  
No marvel then though Lady Poetry,  
Do suffer undeserved injury.   

Like to Batillus every ballad-maker,  
That never climbed unto Parnassus' Mount,  
Will so encroach that he will be partaker,  
To drink with Maro at the Castale fount.  
Yea more than this to wear a laurel Crown,  
By penning new gigges for a country clown.   

When Marsias with his bagpipes did contend,  
To make far better Music than Apollo:  
When Thameras in self conceit would mend  
The Muse's sweet songs note, what then did follow?  
Convicted both, to both this was assigned,  
The first was hanged, the last was strooken blind.   

And may it happen to those bastard brains,  
Whose base times strive to better Poetry,  
That they may suffer like deserved pains,  
For these be they that work her infamy.  
Thus having blazed false Poets in their hue,  
Dear Poetry (though loath) I bid adieu.   

As Poetry in poesy I leave,  
I see seven sins which crossed seven Liberal Arts,  
Which with their feigned show do men deceive,  
And on the wide world's stage do play their parts:  
As thus men follow them, they follow men,  
They move more matter to my plaintiff pen.   

These mincing maids and fine-trict trulls ride post  
To Pluto's palace, like purveyors proud;  
Thither they lead many a damned ghost,  
With howling consorts carroling aloud:  
And as one after one they post to hell,  
My plaintiff pen shall their abuses tell.   

First praunceth Pride with principality,  
Guarded with troops of newfound fashions:  
Her handmaides are Fancy and Vanity:  
These three a progress go throughout all nations:  
And as by any town they pass along,  
People to see them gather in a throng.   

Now fine-ruft Ruffians in their bravery,  
Make cringing cuts with new invention:  
Newcut at Cards brings some to beggary,  
But this newcut brings most unto destruction:  
So long they cut, that in their purse no groat  
They leave, but cut some others purse or throat.   

Bedawbd with gold like Apuleius Ass  
Some princk and prank it: others more precise,  
Full trick and trim tired in the looking-glass,  
With strange apparel do themselves disguise.  
But could they see what others in them see,  
Follie might fly, and they might wiser be.   

Some goggle with the eyes, some squint-eyed look,  
Some at their fellows squeamish sheepeseyes cast:  
Some turn the whites up, some look to the foot,  
Some wink, some twink, some blink, some stare as fast.  
The sum is infinite, eye were a debtor,  
If all should answer I, with I the letter.   

Many desire to foot it with a grace,  
Or Lion-like to walk majestical:  
But whilst they strive to keep an equipace,  
Their gate is foolish and fantastical.  
As Hobby-horses, or as Antics dance,  
So do these fools unseemly seem to prance.   

I will not write of sweaty long shag hair,  
Or curled locks with frizzled periwigs:  
The first the badge that Ruffians use to wear,  
The last the cognisance of wanton rigs.  
But sure I think as in Medusa's head,  
So in their hairs are craulling Adders bred.   

Men Proteus-like resemble every shape,  
And like Chameleons every colour fain,  
How dear so ere, no fashion may escape  
The hands of those whose gold may it attain:  
Like ebb and flow these fashions go and come,  
Whose price amounteth to a massy sum.   

The sharp-set jaws of greedy shears devour,  
And seize on every cloth as on a pray,  
Like Atropose cutting that in an hour,  
Which weavers Lachese-like wrought in a day.  
These snip-snap shears in all shires get great shares,  
And are partakers of the dearest wares.   

When figtree leaves did shroud man's nakedness,  
And homespun cloth was counted clothing gay,  
Then was man's body clad with comeliness,  
And honour shrouded was in rude array:  
But since those times by future times were changed,  
Thousands of fashions through the world have ranged.   

Ambitious thoughts, hearts haughty, minds aspiring,  
Proud looks, fond gates, and what not undiscreet,  
As servants wait men's body still atyring.  
With far-fetched gewgaws for young children meet:  
Where with whilst they themselves do daily deck,  
Bravado-wise they scorn to brook the check.   

Some covet winged sleeves like Mercury,  
Others round hose much like to Fortune's wheel:  
(Noting thereby their own unconstancy)  
Some wear short cloaks, some cloaks that reach their heel.  
These Apish tricks used in their daily weeds,  
Bewray fantastic thoughts, fond words, foul deeds.   

Bold Bettresse braves and brags it in her wires,  
And buskt she must be, or not bust at all:  
Their riggish heads must be adorned with tires,  
With Periwigs, or with a golden Call.  
Tut, tut, 'tis nothing in th'Exchange to change,  
Monthly as doth the Moon their fashions strange.   

It seems strange birds in England now are bred,  
And that rare fowls in England build their nest,  
When Englishmen with plumes adorn their head,  
As with a Coxcomb or a Peacock's crest.  
These painted plumes men in their caps do wear,  
And women in their hands do trickly bear.   

Perhaps some women being foul, do use  
Fowls feathers to shroud their deformity:  
Others perchance these plumes do rather choose,  
From weather and wind to shield their phisnomy.  
But whilst both men and women use these feathers,  
They are deemed light as feathers, wind and weathers.   

Some dames are pumped, because they live in pomp,  
That with Herodias they might nimbly dance:  
Some in their pantophels too stately stompe,  
And most in corked shoes do nicely prance.  
But here I doubtful stand whether to blame  
The shoemakers, or them that wear the same.   

In country towns men use fans for their corn,  
And such like fans I cannot discommend:  
But in great cities fans by trulls are borne,  
The sight of which doth greatly God offend.  
And were it not I should be deemed precise,  
I could approve these fond fanned fools unwise.   

A Painter lately with his pencil drew  
The picture of a Frenchman and Italian,  
With whom he placed the Spaniard, Turk and jew,  
But by himself he sat the Englishman.  
Before these laughing went Democritus,  
Behind these weeping went Heraclitus.   

All these in comely vestures were attired,  
According to the custom of their land,  
The Englishman excepted, who desired  
With others feathers like a lay to stand.  
Thus whilst he seeketh foreign bravery,  
He is accused of unconstancy.   

Some call him Ape, because he imitates,  
Some fool, because he fancies every babble:  
Some liken him to fishes caught with baits,  
Some to the wind, because he is unstable.  
Then blame him not, although 'gainst Englishmen,  
This Englishman writ with his plaintiff pen.   

But hush no more, enough's enough, fie, fie,  
Wilt thou thy country's faults in verse compile?  
Desist betimes, lest thou peccavi cry,  
For no bird sure his own nest will defile.  
Well, sith thou brok'st his head and mad'st a sore,  
With silence give a salve, and write no more.   

The world began, and so will end with Pride,  
With Pride this point began, with Pride it ends:  
And whilst in pleasure's Chariot she doth ride,  
My plaintiff pen page-like still by her wends.  
Thus having painted out Pride's roisting race,  
At this points end a periods point I place.   

Now pining Envy whining doth appear,  
With body lean, with visage pale and wan,  
With withered face, and with unkeamed hair,  
She doth both fret, and fume, swear, curse and ban:  
She fareth ill, when other men fare well,  
Others prosperity is made her hell.   

She peeps and pries into all actions,  
And she is never well but when she jars:  
She is the mother of all factions,  
She broacheth quarrels, and increaseth wars:  
Anger is hot, and Wrath doth roughly rage,  
But nothing Envies heating hate can suage.   

This Trull enticed Pompey to contend,  
And with great Caesar civil wars to move:  
This dame alured Kings their lives to spend,  
In bloody broils and brawls devoid of love:  
Incensing subjects 'gainst their governors,  
Sons against Sires, Captives against Conquerors.   

As Iron doth consume itself with rust,  
By eating which itself it still doth eat:  
So doth the envious man soon come to dust,  
And doth consume himself whilst he doth fret.  
Thus Envy still conspires to end his life,  
That living with another, lives at strife.   

We read that Envy twixt two men did grow,  
And that the one of them one eye would lose,  
So that he might pluck both eyes from his foe,  
And plucking both eyes out his eyes might close.  
O who would think a man should bear the mind,  
To lose one eye to make another blind!   

What trade so base but there is Envy in it,  
When Minstrels with blind Fiddlers daily strive?  
What strife is there but Envy doth begin it,  
When justling jacks to walls their betters drive?  
The truth hereof I shall not need to swear,  
Sith hesiod old hereof doth witness bear.   

What is the cause that many mop and more,  
That many scoff, and scorn, and gibe, and jest,  
With rhymes and riddles rating at their foe,  
Flouting the base, and pouting at the best?  
What is the cause? the cause one line shall show,  
Envy is cause, which in men's hearts doth grow.   

Knowledge within the heart of man doth dwell,  
And love within the liver builds his nest:  
But Envy in the gall of man doth swell,  
And plays the rebel in his boiling breast.  
O would to God men had no gall at all,  
That Envy might not harbour in the gall.   

Envy and Charity together strove,  
Which of them two a man should entertain:  
The one with spite, the other sought with love;  
The first in gall, the last in heart would reign:  
So long they strove that Envy lost the field,  
And Charity made Envy captive yield.   

Envy adieu, and welcome Charity,  
The bond of peace and all perfection,  
The way that leads to true felicity,  
Filling the soul with most divine refection.  
Envy shall go, I'll cleave unto thy lore,  
Thee will I serve, and thee will I adore.   

Next follows Wrath, envies fierce fellow-mate,  
Attired in a roaring Lions skin,  
jetting along with a giantlike gate,  
Which aye a tyrant terrible hath been.  
A butcherlike within his hands doth bear  
Their hearts, which he with wolvish teeth doth tear.   

Wrath moved Herod with blood-thirsty heart,  
To slaughter infants from their mother's breast;  
Like lambs scarce caned, or doves new-hatcht to part,  
And with lives loss to leave both dam and nest.  
O had King Herod known what would ensue,  
He had not done what he did after rue.   

He shed their blood, their blood did vengeance crave;  
They first too soon, he last too late did die;  
They led the way, he followed to the grave;  
Both they and he a pray for worms did lie.  
Yet thus they differ, worms them dead did eat,  
But him alive the worms did make their meat.   

Wrath in Caligula's mad head did grow,  
Making him wish that Rome had but one head,  
That he might smite off that head at a blow,  
Whose pomp he saw like many heads to spread:  
But whilst he thought Rome's heads in one to lop,  
Rome's heads in one his flower of life did crop.   

Wrath is the cause that men in Smithfield meet,  
(Which may be called smite-field properly)  
Wrath is the cause that maketh every street  
A shambles, and a bloody butchery,  
Where roisting ruffians quarrel for their drabs,  
And for sleight causes one the other stabs.   

Wrath puffs men up with minds Thrasonical,  
And makes them brave it braggadochio-like:  
Wrath maketh men triumph Tyrannical,  
With sword, with shield, with gun, with bill and pike:  
Yea now adays Wrath causeth him to die,  
That to his fellow dares to give the lie.   

Mars is the Chieftain of this wrathful host,  
Whose imbrued standard is with blood died red;  
Of many he spares few, and kills the most,  
And with their corpse his bloody paunch is fed.  
Tara tantara, sa, sa, kill, kill, he cries,  
Filling with blood the earth, with scrikes the skies.   

Wraths fierce forerunner is Timeritie,  
And after Wrath Repentance shortly follows:  
The first rides gallop into misery,  
The last procures sadness, despair and sorrow.  
Who therefore do desire to live at rest,  
Let them not harbour wrath within their breast.   

Wraths contrary is Lady Patience,  
Who conquers most when she is conquered,  
She teacheth beasts that they by common sense,  
Might teach to vanquish, being vanquished.  
Rams running back with greater force return,  
And Lime most hot, in most cold springs doth burn.   

Patience a cousin hath called Sufferance,  
Nearly a kind, because she is so kind;  
She is most like a Dove in countenance,  
And like an Angel in her humble mind;  
All Phaenix-like she is but rarely found,  
Would God she might be seen on English ground.   

Then naked swords themselves would never clothe,  
With wounded skins of men whom men did maim:  
Then quarrelers would after quaffing loath,  
With stabs and strokes to kill or make men lame.  
Then, than I say, swords might in scabberts sleep,  
And some might laugh which are constrained to weep.   

As thus my pen writing of Vice spares none,  
It brings into my sight a lazy Gill,  
A sleeping sluggard and a drowsy drone,  
Which snorts and snores, and ever sitteth still:  
Some call her Sloth, some call her Idleness,  
A friend to need, a foe to wealthiness.   

They term her Mother of all other vices,  
Bearing a spawn of many new-bred sins:  
Many she lures, and many she entices,  
Whereof most part is trapped in her gins:  
She is the But at which foul Lust doth shoot,  
And where she toucheth there she taketh root.   

I once did hear of one Lipotopo,  
(Whose pace was equal with the shell-housde snail)  
That to a figtree lazily did go,  
Whose broad-leaved branches made a shady vail:  
Thither this lusking lubber softly creeped,  
And there this lazy lizard sound sleeped.   

But as one Goffo by the figtree went,  
He wakened him from out his drowsy sleep,  
And earnestly did ask him what he meant,  
Under that figtree all alone to keep.  
As thus he did Lipotopo awake,  
Yawning and gaping thus he idly spoke.   

Good friend it is a pain for me to speak,  
Because I use nothing but only sleeping:  
Yet unto thee my mind I'll shortly break,  
And show the cause of my here daily keeping.  
The cause is this, that when these ripe figs fall,  
My gaping mouth might then receive them all.   

As thus he spoke, Goffo from off the tree  
Plucked a ripe fig, and in his mouth did put it:  
Which when he 'gan to feel, my friend (quoth he)  
I pray thee stir my jaws that I may glut it.  
Goffo admiring this his laziness,  
Left him as he him found in idleness.   

O would my pen were now a pencil made,  
And I a Poet might a Painter be,  
That picture-like this pattern might be laid  
Before men's eyes, that it their eyes might see;  
By which they seeing Sloths deformity,  
Might fly from sloth and follow industry.   

Now doth appear dame niggard Avarice,  
Who being laden with gold gapes for gold:  
She raiseth cheap things to the highest price,  
And in Cheapside makes nothing chaepe be sold,  
Which coin, her chests filled full, fulfil her eye,  
Whilst poor folks perish in great misery.   

She hath been troubled long with one disease,  
Which some a Dropsy call, or drought of gain;  
She drinks and drinks again, yet cannot ease  
Her thirsty sickness and her greedy pain:  
Still is she sick, yet is she never dead,  
Because her sickness still is nourished.   

Her body gross, engrosseth all the corn,  
And of the grossest wares makes greatest gain:  
Yea Grocers now adays as men forlorn,  
aver that they 'gainst her have cause to plain:  
Yet doth she live, yet doth she tyrannize,  
Because her coin her works doth wantantize.   

This Avarice a cosin-germane hath,  
Which many Londoners call Usury,  
Which like a brave controller boldly saith,  
She will bring England into misery:  
Who under colour of a friendly lending,  
Seems of her bad trade to make just defending.   

They hand in hand do walk in every street,  
Making the proudest Cavaliers to stoop:  
If with their debtors they do chance to meet,  
They pen them up within the Poultries' coop.  
And if for gold lent, men would counters pay,  
In Woodstreets Counter there them fast they lay.   

Now Charity which is the band of peace,  
Is turned to a scriveners scribbling band,  
To Indentura facta, or a lease,  
To racking houses, tenements and land:  
All this can gold, all this can silver do,  
And more than this if need require thereto.   

From whence comes gold but from the earth below?  
Whereof, if not of earth are all men made?  
Like will to like, and like with like will grow,  
Growing they flourish, flourishing they fade.  
But where are gold and men? in hell, where's hell?  
On earth, where gold and men with gold do dwell.   

The proverb old I do approve most true,  
Better to fill the belly than the eye:  
For whilst rich misers feeds on moneys view,  
Sparing they live in wilful penury:  
Yea more than this, they live upon a crust,  
Whilst in their heaped bags their gold doth rust.   

Come plaintiff pen and whip them with thy rod,  
And plainly tell them their Idolatry,  
Which make their gold their love, their life, their god,  
Which with their gold desire to live and die.  
Tell them if to no better use they turn  
Their gold, they with their gold in hell shall burn.   

Thus leaving Usury and Avarice,  
As Satan's limbs or firebrands of hell,  
As ravening wolves that live by prejudice,  
Or greedy hogs that on men's grounds do dwell:  
I post to that which I had almost past,  
But now have overtaken at the last.   

The name of her whom here I meet withal,  
Is Gluttony the mother of excess,  
Which making dainty feasts, doth many call  
To eat with her the meat that she did dress:  
Who being set to eat her toothsome meat:  
Eating doth eat and never cease to eat.   

This trull makes youngsters spend their patrimony,  
In sauced meats and sugared delicates,  
And makes men stray from state of Matrimony,  
To spend their substance upon whorish mates:  
That by their lavish prodigality,  
She may maintain her fleshly vanity.   

With gobs she fills and stuffs her greedy gorge,  
And never is her gaping stomach fed,  
Bits vnchaw'de in her bulk as in a forge,  
Kindle the coals whereof foul lust is bred:  
Thus do we see how lazy gluttony,  
Consorts herself with Lady Lechery.   

One other mate she hath called Drunkenness,  
A bibbing swilbowle and a bowzing gull,  
Which never drinks but with excessiveness,  
And drinks so long until her paunch is full:  
She drinks as much as she can well contain,  
Which being voided, than she drinks again.   

But when the drink doth work within her head,  
She rowles and reeks, and pimpers with the eyes,  
She stamps, she stars, she thinks white black, black red,  
She tears and swears, she gears, she laughs and cries:  
And as her giddy head thinks all turns round,  
She belching falls, and vomits on the ground.   

Some men are drunk, and being drunk will fight,  
Some men are drunk, and being drunk are merry,  
Some men are drunk, and secrets bring to light,  
Some men are drunk, and being drunk are sorry:  
Thus may we see that drunken men have passions,  
And drunkenness hath many foolish fashions.   

Fishes that in the seas do drink their fill,  
Teach men by nature to shun drunkenness,  
What bird is there that with his chirping bill,  
Of any liquor ever took excess?  
Thus beasts on earth, fish in seas, birds in sky,  
Teach men to shun all superfluity.   

Would any hear the discommodities,  
That do arise from our excess of drink:  
It dulls the brain, it hurts the memory,  
It blinds the sight, it makes men blear-eyed blink,  
It kills the body, and it wounds the soul,  
Leave therefore leave, O leave this vice so foul.   

Now last of all though perhaps chief of all,  
My pen hath hunted out lewd Lechery,  
Which many sins and many faults doth call,  
To be partakers to her treachery:  
Her love is lust, her lust is sugared sower,  
Her pain is long, her pleasure but a flower.   

When chaste Adonis came to man's estate,  
Venus strait courted him with many a wile;  
Lucrece once seen, strait Tarquin laid a bait,  
With foul incest her body to defile:  
Thus men by women, women wronged by men,  
Give matter still unto my plaintiff pen.   

Thousands of whores maintained by their wooers,  
Entice by land as Sirens do by seas,  
Which being like path-ways or open doors,  
Infect men's bodies with the French disease:  
Thus women woe of men though wooed by men,  
Still add new matter to my plaintiff pen.   

Whilom by nature men and women loved,  
And prone enough they were to love thereby,  
But when they Ovid's arse amandi proved,  
Both men and women fell to lechery:  
By nature sinning art of sin was found,  
To make man's sin still more and more abound.   

If that I could paint out foul lechery,  
In her deformed shape and loathsome plight,  
Or if I could paint spotless Chastity,  
In her true portraiture and colours bright:  
I think no maid would ever prove an whore,  
But every maid would chastity adore.   

Then married men might vild reproaches scorn,  
And shun the Hars crest to their hearts content,  
With cornucopia, Cornwall, and the horn,  
Which their bad wives bid from their bed be sent:  
Then should no old Cocks, nor no cocke-olds crow,  
But every man might in his own ground sow.   

Then light-taylde housewives which like Sirens sing,  
And like to Circe's with their drugs enchant,  
Would not unto the Bankesides round house fling,  
In open sight themselves to show and vaunt:  
Then than I say they would not masked go,  
Though unseen to see those they fain would know.   

But in this Labyrinth I list not tread,  
Nor combat with the minotaure-like lust,  
Hence therefore will I wend by methods thread,  
And wend I will because needs wend I must:  
Farewell, nay fare-ill filthy lechery,  
And welcome undefiled chastity.   

Vesta I do adore thy purity,  
And in thy Temples will I tapers bear,  
Thou O Diana for virginity,  
Shalt be the matron of my modest fear,  
That both in one, both being Goddesses,  
May of my maden-head be witnesses.   

O may my flesh like to the Ermiline,  
Unspotted live, and so unspotted die,  
That when I come before the sacred shrine,  
My untouched corpse themselves may guiltless try:  
Then shall I glory that I have been taught,  
To shun the snare wherein most folks are caught.   

Thus hath my pen described and descried,  
Sin with his seven heads of seven deadly vices,  
And now my plaintiff pen hath verified,  
That sin from virtue mortal men entices▪  
If any wicked Momus carp the same,  
In blaming this I pass not for his blame.   

Dictator-like I must confess I write,  
And like a Nomothetes critical,  
Perhaps my pen doth crabedly indite  
In plaintiff humours merely Cynical:  
But sooth to say, Tom-teltroth will not lie,  
We here have blazed England's iniquity.   

And for because my pen doth liquor want,  
here (being dry) he willing is to rest,  
Not for that he doth further matter want,  
For so to think were but a simple jest:  
And if (as he hath not) he have offended,  
He hopes (as you) so he willbe amended.   
FINIS.