Micro-cynicon. SIX SNARling satires. 

Insatiate Cron.  
Prodigal Zodon.  
Insolent Superbia.  
Cheating Droone.  
Ingling Pyander.  
Wise Innocent.    
Adsis pulcher homo canis hic tibi pulcher emendo.  
Imprinted at London by Thomas Creed, for Thomas bushel, and are to be sold at his shop at the North door of Paul's Church. 1599   

His defiance to Enuy.  

Envy, which mak'st thyself in common guise,  
To haunt deservers, and to hunt deserts,  
Hard-soft, cold-hot, well-evill, foolishwise,  
Miss contrarities agreeing parts.   

avant I say, i'll anger thee enough,  
And fold thy firy-eyes in thy smazkie snufe,   

Defiance, resolution and neglects,  
True trine of bars against thy false assault,  
Defies, resolves defiance and rejects  
Thy interest to claim the smallest fault.   

Thou lawless landlady, poor Prodigal,  
Sour solace, Credits Crack,  
Fears Festival.   

More angry Satyr-dayes i'll muster up,  
Then thou canst challenge letters in thy name:  
My Negrum true borne ink no more shall sup,  
Thy stained blemish, charracterd in blame.   

My pens two nibs shall turn unto a fork,  
Chase old Envy from so young a work:  
I but the Author's mouth bid thee avaunt,  
He more defies thy Hate, thy hunt, thy haunt.   
T. M. Gent.   

The Author's Prologue. 1. Book.  

DIsmounted from the high aspiring hills,  
Which the all empty airy Kingdom fills,  
Leaving the scorched mountains threatening heaven  
Fron whence fell fiery rage my soul hath driven:  
Passing the down steep valleys all in haste,  
Have tripped it through the woods: & now at last   

Am veiled with a stony sanctuary,  
To save my Ire stuffed soul lest it miscarry:  
From threating storms ore'turning verity,  
That shames to see truths refined purity:  
Those open plains, those high sky kissing mounts,  
Where huffing winds cast up their airy accounts  
Were too too open, shelter yielding none,  
So that the blasts did tyrannize upon   

The naked Carcase of my heavy soul,  
And with their fury all my all control,  
But now environed with a brazen Tower,  
I little dread their stormy raging power:  
Witness this black defying Embassy,  
That wanders them before in majesty:  
Undaunted of their bugbear threatening words,  
Whose proud aspiring vaunts, time past records.   

Now windy Parasites or the the slaves of wine,  
That wind from all things save the truth divine,  
Wind turn and toss into the depth of spite,  
Your devilish venom cannot me affright:  
It is a Cordial of a Candie taste,  
I'll drink it up, and then leted run at waste.   

Whose drugie Lees mixed with the liquid flood,  
Of muddy fell defiance as it stood,  
I'll belch into your throats all open wide,  
Whose gaping swallow nothing runs beside:  
And if it venom, take it as you list:  
He spites himself, that spites a Satirist.    
THE FIRST BOOK. Insatiate Cron.  

Satire 1. Cur eget indignus quisquam, te divite.  
TIme was, when down declining toothless age,  
Was of a holy and divine presage:  
Divining prudent and foretelling truth,  
In sacred points, instructing wandering youth.  
But oh detraction of our latter days,  
How much from verity this age estraies?  
Ranging the bryerie deserts of black sin,  
Seeking a dismal cave to revel in.  
This latter age or member of that time,  
Of whom my snarling muse now thundereth rhyme  
Wandered the bracks until a hidden Cell,  
He found at length, and still therein doth dwell:  
The house of gain insatiate it is,  
Which this door aged peasant deems his bliss:  
Oh that desire might hunt amongst that fur,  
It should go hard but he would lose a cur:  
To rouse the fox, hid in a bramble bush,  
Who frighteth conscience with a wrimouthed push:  
But what need I to wish or would it thus,  
When I may find him starting at the burrs:  
Where he infecteth other pregnant wits,  
Making them coheirs to his damned fits.  
There may you see this writhe faced mass,  
Of rotten mouldering clay, that prating ass:  
That riddles wonders mere compact of lies,  
Of heaven, of hell, of earth and of the skies:  
Of heaven thus he reasons: heaven there's none,  
Unless it be within his mansion.  
Oh there is heaven: why? because there's gold,  
That from the late to this last age controlled,  
The massy sceptre of earths heavenly round,  
Exiling forth her silver paved bound,  
The Leaders, brethren, brazen counterfeits,  
That in this golden age contempt begets:  
Vaunt than I mortal I, I only King,  
And golden God of this eternal being.  
Of Hell Cimmerian thus avarus reasons:  
Though hell be hot, yet it observeth seasons:  
Having within his Kingdom residence,  
o'er which his godhead hath pre-eminence:  
An obscure angel of his Heaven it is,  
Wherein's contained that Hell devouring bliss:  
Into this Hell sometimes an Angel falls,  
Whose white aspect black forlorn souls appalls  
And that is when a Saint believing gold,  
Old in that heaven, young in being old.  
Falls headlong down into that pit of woe,  
Fit for such damned creatures overthrow.  
To make this public that obscured lies,  
And more apparent vulgar secrecies:  
To make this plain, harsh unto common wits,  
Simplicity in common judgement sits.  
This downcast angel, or declining saint,  
Is greedy Croone, when Cron makes his count:  
For his poor creditors fallen to decay,  
Being bankrupts, take heels and run away.  
Then frantic Cron, galled to the very heart,  
In some by corner plays a devils part:  
Repining at the loss of so much pelf,  
And in a humour goes and hangs himself.  
So of a saint, a devil Cron is made,  
The devil loved Cron, and Cron the devils trade.  
Thus may you see such angels often fall,  
Making a working day a festival.  
Now to the third point of his deity,  
And that's th'earth, thus reasons credulity:  
Credulous Cron, Cron credulous in all,  
Swears that his kingdom is in general.  
As he is Regent of this Heaven and Hell,  
So of the Earth, all others he'll expel:  
The Skies at his dispose, the Earth his own,  
And if Cron please, all must be overthrown.  
Cron, Cron, advise thee Cron with the copper nose,  
And be not ruled so much by false suppose:  
Lest Crons professing holiness turn evil,  
And of a false god, prove a perfect devil.  
I prithee Cron find out some other talk,  
Make not the Burse a place for spirits to walk:  
For doubtless if thy damned lies take place,  
Destruction follows, farewell sacred grace.  
Th'exchange for goodly Merchants is appointed  
Why not for me says Cron, & mine anointed?  
Can Merchants thrive and not the Vse'r nigh?  
Can Merchants live without my company?  
No Cron helps all, and Cron hath help from none,  
What others have is Crons, & Crons his own.  
And Cron will hold his own, or't shall go hard,  
The devil will help him for a small reward:  
The devils help, oh 'tis a mighty thing,  
If he but say the word, Cron is a King.  
Oh then the devil is greater yet than he,  
I thought as much, the devil would master be.  
And reason too (saith Cron) for what care I,  
So I may live as God, and never die.  
Yea golden Cron, death will make thee away,  
And each dog Cron, must have a dying day.  
And with this resolution I bequeath thee,  
To God or to the devil, and so I leave thee.   

Satire 2. Prodigal Zodon  
WHo knows not Zodon; Zodon, what is he?  
The true borne child of insatietie.  
If true borne, when? if borne at all, say where?  
Where conscience begged in worst time of the year,  
His name young Prodigal, son to greedy gain:  
Let blood by folly, in a contrary vain.  
For scraping Cron, seeing he needs must die,  
Bequeathed all to prodigality.  
The will once proved, and he possessed of all,  
Who then so gallant as young Prodigal?  
Mounted aloft on flattering Fortunes wings,  
Where like an Nightingale secure he sings:  
Floating on Seas of scarce prosperity,  
In girt with pleasures sweet tranquillity.  
Suit upon suit, satin too too base,  
Velvet laid on with gold or silver lace:  
A mean man doth become, but ye must ride  
In cloth of fined gold, and by his side  
Two footmen at the least, with choice of steeds,  
Attired when she rides in gorgeous weeds.  
Zodon must have his Charrot gilded over,  
And when he triumphs, four bare before,  
In pure white Satin to usher out his way,  
To make him glorious on his progress day,  
vail bonnet he that doth not passing by,  
Admiring on that Sun enriching sky,  
Two days incaged at least in strongest hold,  
Storm he that list, he scorns to be controlled.  
What is it lawful that a mounted beggar,  
May uncontrolled thus bear sway and swagger?  
A base borne issue of a base sire:  
Bred in a cottage, wandering in the mire,  
With nailed shoes, and whipstaffe in his hand,  
Who with a hay and ree the beasts command:  
And being seven years practizde in that trade,  
At seven years end by Tom a journeys made,  
Unto the City of fair Troynovant,  
Where through extremity of need and want,  
he's forced to troth with farthel at his back.  
From house to house, demanding if they lack  
A poor young man that's willing to take pain,  
And much labour, though for little gain.  
Well, some kind Trojan thinking he hath grace,  
Keeps him himself, or gets some other place.  
The world now god be thanked's well amended  
Want that erewhile did want, is now befriended.  
And scraping Cron hath got a world of wealth,  
Now what of that, crone's dead, where's all his pelf?  
Bequeathed to young prodigal: That's well,  
His God hath left him, and he's fled to hell:  
See golden souls, the end of ill got gain,  
Read and mark well, to do the like refrain.  
This youthful gallant like the prince of pleasure,  
Floating on golden seas of earthly treasure:  
Treasure ill got by ministering of wrong.  
Made a fair show, but endured not long.  
Ill got, worse spent, gotten by deceit:  
Spent on lascivions wantonness which await,  
And hourly expect such prodigality,  
Lust breathing lechers given to venery.  
No day expired but Zodon hath his trull,  
He hath his tit, and she likewise her gull.  
Gull he, Trull she, oh 'tis a gallant age,  
Men may have hacknyes of good carriage:  
Provided that their rain a golden shower,  
Then come whose will, at th'appointed hour.  
Hour me no hours, hours break no square,  
Where gold doth rai●●, 〈◊〉 to find them there.  
Well: Zodon hath his pleasure, he hath gold,  
Young in his golden age, in sin too old:  
Now he wants gold, all his treasures done,  
he's banished the Stews, pity finds none.  
Rich yesterday in wealth, this day as poor,  
To morrow like to beg from door to door.  
See youthful spendthrifts all your bravery,  
Even in a moment turned to misery.   

Satire 3. Insolent Superbia.  
LIst ye profane fair painted images,  
Predestinated by the destinies,  
At your first being to fall eternally  
Into Cimmerian black obscurity.  
Ill-favoured Idols, Pride anatomy,  
Fowl coloured puppets, balls of infamy:  
Whom zealous souls do racket too and fro,  
Sometimes aloft ye fly, otherwhiles below:  
Banded into the airs lose continent:  
Where hard upbearing winds hold parliament.  
For such is the force of down declining sin,  
Where our short feathered peacocks wallow in.  
That when sweet motions urge them to aspire,  
They are so bathed over by sweet desire  
In the odiferous fountain of sweet pleasure,  
Wherein delight hath all embalmed her treasure.  
I mean where Sin the mistress of disgrace,  
Hath residence, and her abiding place.  
And sin though it be foul, yet fair in this,  
In being painted with a show of bliss.  
For what more happy creature to the eye,  
Then is Superbia in her bravery?  
Yet who more foul disrobed of attire?  
Perld with the botch as children burnt with fire,  
That for their outward cloak upon the skin,  
Worse enormities abound within.  
Look they to that, truth tells them there amiss,  
And in this glass, all telling truth it is.  
When welcome Spring had clad the hills in green,  
And pretty whistling birds were heard and seen,  
Superbia abroad 'gan take her walk:  
With other peacocks for to find her talk.  
Kyron that in a bush lay closely couched,  
Herd all their chat, and how it was avouched:  
Sister says one, and softly packed away,  
In what fair company did you dine to day?  
'mongst gallant dames, & then she wipes her lips,  
Placing both hands upon her whalebone hips,  
Puffed up with a round circling farthingale,  
That done: she 'gins go forward with her tale:  
Sitting at table carved of walnut tree,  
All covered with damaskt napery,  
Garnished with saults of pure beaten gold,  
Whose silver plated edge of rarest mould,  
Moved admiration in my searching eye,  
To see the goldsmith's rich artificie.  
The Butlers placing of his manchets white,  
The plated cupboard for our more delight.  
Whose golden beauty glancing from on high,  
Illuminated other chambers nigh.  
The slowly pacing of the serving men,  
Which were appointed to attend us then,  
Holding in either hand a silver dish,  
Of costly cates of farfetcht dainty fish,  
Until they do approach the table nigh,  
Where the appointed carver carefully  
Dischargeth them of their full freighted hands,  
Which instantly upon the table stands.  
The music sweet which all that while did sound,  
Ravish the hearers, and their sense confound.  
This done, the master of that sumptuous feast,  
In order 'gins to place his welcome gest.  
Beauty first seated in a throne of state,  
Unmatchable disdaining other mate  
Shone like the sun, whereon mine eyes still gazed,  
Feeding on her perfections that amazed:  
But oh, her silver framed Coronet  
With low down dangling spangles all beset,  
Her sumptuous periwig, her curious curls,  
Her high prized necklace of entrailed pearls:  
Her precious jewels wondrous to behold,  
Her basest I 'em framed of the purest gold.  
Oh I could kill myself for very spite,  
That my dim stars give not so clear a light.  
Hartburning ire new kindled, bids despair,  
Since Beauty lives in her, and I want fair.  
Oh had I died in youth, or not been borne,  
Rather than live in hate, and die forlorn.  
And die I will, therewith she drew a knife  
To kill herself, but Kyron saved her life.  
See here proud puppets hie aspiring evils,  
Scarce any good, most of you worse than devils.  
Excellent in ill, ill in advising well,  
Well in that s worst, worse than the worst in hell.  
Hell is stark blind, so blind most women be:  
Blind & yet not blind when they should not see.  
Fine Madam Tiptoes in her velvet gown,  
That quotes her paces in Characters down:  
Valuing each step that she had made that day,  
Worth twenty shillings in her best array.  
And why forsooth some little dirty spot  
Hath fell upon her gown or petticoat.  
Perhaps that nothing much, or something little,  
Nothing in manies view, in hers a much:  
Doth thereon surfeit, and some day or two  
she's passing sick, and knows not what to do.  
The poor handmaid seeing her mistress wed▪  
To frantic sickness, wishes she were dead:  
Or that her devilish tyrannizing fits  
May mend, and she enjoy her former wits.  
For whilst that Health thus counterfeits not well,  
Poor here at hand, lives in the depth of hell.  
Where is this baggage, where's this girl, what ho  
(Quoth she) was ever woman troubled so?  
What housewife Nan, and then she 'gins to brawl,  
Then in comes Nan, sooth mistress did you call?  
Out on thee quean, now by the living God,  
And then she strikes & on the wench lays load.  
Poor silly maid with finger in the eye,  
Sighing and sobbing takes all patiently.  
Nimble Affection stung to the very heart,  
To see her fellow mate sustain such smart,  
Flies to the Burse gate for a match or two,  
And salves th'amis, there is no more to do.  
Quickfooted kindness, quick as itself thought  
With that well pleasing news but lately bought  
By loves assiduat care and industry,  
Into the Chamber runs immediately.  
Where she unlades the freight of sweet content,  
The haggler pleased doth rise incontinent.  
Then thought of sickness is not thought upon,  
Care hath no being in her mansion.  
But former peacock pride, grand insolence,  
Even in the highest thought hath residence.  
But it on tiptoe stands, well: what of that?  
It is more prompt to fall and ruinated:  
And fall it will when deaths shrill clamorous bell  
Shall summon you unto the depth of hell:  
Repent proud Princocks, cease for to aspire,  
Or die to live, with Pride in burning fire.   

Satire 4. Cheating Droone.  
THere is a Cheater by profession,  
That takes more shapes then the Chameleon.  
Sometimes he jets it in a black furred gown,  
And that is, when he harbours in the town.  
Sometimes a cloak to mantle hoary age,  
Ill-favoured like an ape in spiteful rage:  
And then he walks in Paul's a turn or two,  
To see by Cheating what his wit can do.  
Perhaps he'll tell a Gentleman a tale,  
Will cost him twenty angels in the sale:  
But if he know his purse well lined within,  
And by that means he cannot finger him,  
He'll proffer him such far set courtesy,  
That shortly in a Tavern neighbouring by,  
He hath encaged the silly Gentleman,  
To whom he proffers service all he can.  
Sir, I perceive you are of gentle blood,  
Therefore I will, our Cates be new and good:  
For well I wots, the Country yieldeth plenty,  
And as they divers be, so are they dainty.  
May it please you then a while to rest you merry.  
Some Cates I will make choice of and not tarry.  
The silly Coney blithe and merrily,  
Doth for his kindness thank him heartily.  
Then hies the Cheater very hastily,  
And with some Peasant where he is in fee  
jugles, that dinner being almost ended,  
He in a matter of weight may then be friended.  
The Peasant for an angel then in hand,  
Will do what ere his worship shall command:  
And yields, that when a reckoning they call in,  
To make reply there's one to speak with him.  
The plot is laid, now comes the Cheater back,  
And calls in haste for such things as they lack.  
The table freighted with all dainty cates,  
Having well fed, they fall to pleasant chates:  
Discoursing of the much difference,  
Twixt perfect truth and painted eloquence.  
Plain troth that harbours in the country swain  
The Coney stands defendant, the Cheaters vain  
Is to uphold an eloquent smooth tongue  
To be truths Orator righting every wrong:  
Before the cause concluded took effect,  
In comes a crew of fiddling knaves abject,  
The very refuse of that rabble rout,  
Half shoes upon their feet torn round about,  
Save little Dick the dapper singing knave,  
He had a threadbare coat to make him brave:  
God knows scarce worth a tester, if it were  
Valued at most, of seven it was too dear.  
Well take it as they list, shakerag came in,  
Making no doubt but they would like of him:  
And 'twere but for his person a pretty lad  
Well qualified, having a singing trade.  
Well so it was the Cheater must be merry,  
And he a song must have, called hay down derry.  
So Dick gins to sing, the fiddler play,  
The melancholy Coney replies, nay, nay:  
No more of this: the t'other bids play on,  
'tis good our spirits should something work upon.  
Tut gentle sir, be pleasant man (quoth he)  
Yours be the pleasure, mine the charge shall be.  
This do I for the love of gentlemen,  
Hereafter happily if we meet again,  
I shall of you expect like courtesy,  
Finding fit time and opportunity:  
Or else I were ungrateful quoth the coney,  
It shall go hard, but we will find some money.  
For some we have, that some well used gets more,  
And so in time we shall increase our store.  
Mean time said he, employ it to good use,  
For time ill spent, doth purchase times abuse.  
With that more wine he calls for and intends  
That either of them carouse to all their friends.  
The coney nods the head, yet says not nay,  
Because the other would the charge defray:  
The end tries all, and here gins the jest,  
My gentleman betook him to his rest.  
Wine took possession of his drowsy head,  
And Cheating Droone hath brought the fool to bed.  
The fiddlers were discharged, and all things whist,  
Than pilfering Droone 'gan use him as he list.  
Ten pound he finds, the reckoning he doth pay:  
And with the residue passeth shear away.  
Anon the Coney wakes, his coin being gone,  
He exclaims against dissimulation.  
But 'twas too late, the Cheater had his prey,  
Be wise young heads, care for an afterday.   

Satire 5. Ingling Pyander.  
AGe hath his infant youth, old trees their sprigs,  
O'erspreading branches their inferior twigs:  
Old beldame hath a daughter or a son  
True borne, or illegitimate all's one:  
Issue she hath: the father? ask you me?  
The house wide open stands, her lodgings free.  
Admit myself for recreation  
Sometimes did enter her possession,  
It argues not that I have been the man,  
That first kept revels in that mantian,  
No no, the hagling common place is old,  
The Tenement hath oft been bought and sold:  
'tis rotten now, earth to earth, dust to dust,  
Sodoms' on fire, and consume it must:  
And wanting second reparations,  
Pluto hath seized the poor revertions.  
But that hereafter worlds may truly know,  
What hemlocks & what rue there erst did grow:  
As it is Satan's usual policy,  
He left an issue of like quality:  
The still memorial if I aim aright,  
Is a pale Checkered black Hermaphrodite.  
Sometimes he ●ets it like a Gentleman,  
Otherwhiles much like a wanton Courtesan:  
But truth to tell a man or woman whether,  
I cannot say she's excellent in either.  
But if Report may certify a truth,  
she's neither of either, but a Cheating youth.  
Yet Troynovant that all admired town,  
Where thousands still do travel up and down,  
Of Beauties counterfeits affords not one,  
So like a lovely smiling paragon,  
As is Pyander in a nymphs attire,  
Whose rolling eye sets gazer's hearts on fire:  
Whose cherry lip, black brow & smiles procure  
Lust burning buzzards to the tempting lure.  
What shall I cloak sin with a coward fear,  
And suffer not pyander's sin appear?  
I will I will: your reason? why, I'll tell,  
Because time was, I loved Pyander well:  
True love in deed, will hate loves black defame,  
So loathes my soul to seek pyander's shame.  
Oh but I feel the worm of conscience sting,  
And summons me upon my soul to bring  
Sinful Pyander into open view,  
There to receive the shame that will ensue.  
Oh this sad passion of my heavy soul,  
Torments my heart, and senses do control:  
Shame thou Pyander, for I can but shame,  
The means of my amiss, by thy means came:  
And shall I then procure eternal blame,  
By secret cloaking of pyander's shame,  
And he not blush?  
By heaven I will not, I'll not burn in hell,  
For false Pyander though I loved him well:  
No no, the world shall know thy villainy,  
Lest they be cheated with like roguery:  
Walking the City as my wont use,  
There was I subject to this foul abuse,  
Troubled with many thoughts pacing along,  
It was my chance to shoulder in a throng,  
Thrust to the Channel I was, but crowding her,  
I spied Piander in a nymphs attire:  
No Nymph more fair, then did Pyander seem,  
Had not Pyander, than Pyander been:  
No Lady with a fairer face more graced,  
But that Pyanders self, himself defaced  
Never was boy so pleasing to the heart,  
As was Pyander for a woman's part:  
Never did woman foster such an other,  
As was Pyander, but pyander's mother:  
Fool that I was in my affection,  
More happy I, had it been a vision.  
So far entangled was my soul by love,  
That force perforce, I must Pyander prove:  
The issue of which proof did testify,  
Ingling Pyander's damned villainy:  
I loved indeed, and to my much cost,  
I loved Pyander, so my labour lost.  
Fair words I had for store of coin I gave,  
But not enjoy the fruit I thought to have.  
Oh so I was besotted with her words,  
His words that no part of a she affords:  
For had he been a she injurious boy,  
I had not been so subject to annoy.  
A plague upon such filthy gullery,  
The world was near so drunk with mockery:  
Rash headed Cavaliers learn to be wise,  
And if you needs will do, do with advise,  
Tie not affection to each wanton smile,  
Lest doting Fancy truest love beguile:  
Trust not a painted puppet as I have done,  
Who far more doted than Pygmalion:  
The streets are full of juggling parasites,  
With the true shape of Virgin's counterfeits:  
But if of force you must a hackney hire,  
Be curious in your choice, the best will tyre:  
The best is bad, therefore hire none at all,  
Better to go on foot, then ride and fall.   

Satire 6. Wise Innocent.  
Why for an Innocent ho: what a pure fool?  
Not so (pure ass) ass, where went you to school?  
With Innocents', that makes the fool to prate:  
Fool will you any? yes the fool shall hate.  
Wisdom what shall he have? the fool at least:  
Provender for the Ass ho: stalk up the beast,  
What shall we have a railing Innocent?  
No gentle gull, a wise man's precedent.  
Then forward wisdom, not without I list,  
Twenty to one, this fool's some Satirist,  
Still doth the fool haunt me, fond fool be gone,  
No I will stay, the fool to gaze upon.  
Well fool stay still, still shall the fool stay? no:  
Then pack simplicity, good Innocent, why so?  
Nor go nor stay, what will the fool do then?  
Vex him that seems to vex all other men.  
It is impossible, streams that are bard their course,  
Swell with more rage, & far more greater force:  
Until there full stuffed gorge a passage makes  
Into the wide maws of more scopious lakes:  
Spite me: not spite itself can discontent,  
My steeled thoughts, or breed disparagement:  
Had palefaced coward fear been resident  
Within the bosom of me Innocent:  
I would have housde me from the eyes of ire,  
Whose bitter spleen vomits forth flames of fire  
A resolute Ass, oh for a spurring Rider,  
A brace of Angels: what is the fool a briber?  
Is not the Ass yet weary of his load?  
What with once bearing of the fool abroad?  
Mount again Fool: then the Ass will tyre  
And leave the Fool to wallow in the mire.  
Dost thou think otherwise? good Ass them be gone  
I stay but till the Innocent get on.  
What wilt thou needs of the fool bereave me▪  
Then pack good foolish Ass, & so I leave thee.   
FINIS.  

Epilouge to the last Satire of the first book.  
THus may we see by folly of the wise,  
Stumble and fall into fools paradise:  
For jocund wit of force must jangling be,  
Wit must have his will and so had he.  
Wit must have his will, yet parting of the fray,  
Wit was enjoind to carry the fool away.  Qui Color albus erat, nunc est contrarius albo. 
FINIS.