THE NIPPING OR SNIPPING OF ABUSES:  
OR The woolgathering of Witte.  
With The Muse's Tailor, brought from Parnassus by land, with a pair of Oars  
Wherein Are above a hundred several Garments of divers fashions, made by Nature, without the help of Art, and A Proclamation from Hell in the devils name, concerning the propogation, and excessive use of Tobacco.  
By JOHN TAYLOR.  
judge not, before thou all dost overlook, And then if Nothing please thee, burn the Book.  
LONDON. Printed by Ed: Griffin for Nathaniel Butter, and are to be sold at the sign of the Pide-Bull near Saint Austens-gate. 1614   

To the Sacred Majesty of King JAMES.  
To thee I dare not Dedicate my book,  
Yet humbly, high my low invention Ames,  
That with thy Gracious view (dread royal JAMES)  
Thou wilt be pleased my lines to overlook.  
A candle lights, when Phoebus hath forsook  
To guild the day with universal flames:  
And glimmering glances of the humed Thames  
Aspects, and objects to the sight have struck.  
So mighty Sovereign, and most Learned King,  
When sweet Arion's Harp, Amphion's Lute,  
Are silent sleeping in their Cases mute:  
Vouchsafe to hear thy Sculler's Muse to sing;  
And let Pan's Pipe, obtain a little grace,  
When Great Apollo's Harp is out of place.  
Your majesties Humble Servant, and only water Poet. JOHN TAYLOR.   

A Skeltonicall salutation to those that know how to read, and not mar the sense with hacking or misconstruction.  
THou true understander, my invention doth wander with the quill of a Gander, to shield me from slander, to thy good protection, I yield in subjection, my poor imperfection, with friendly correction, and as thou dost like me, or stroke me or strike me, Reprove me or prove me, or move me, or love me, or quite me, or spite me, friend me, or mend me, or else not offend me: If in aught that is written thy humours are bitten, seem not to espy it, and none will descry it. But if thou dost kick, the spur sure will prick, and if thou do fling, the wasp than will sting. My verses are made, to ride every jade, but they are forbidden, of jades to be ridden, they shall not be snaffeled, nor braved nor bafflled, wert thou George with thy Naggon, that foughtest with the dragon, or were you great Pompey, my verse should be thump ye, if you like a javel against me dare cavil. I do not intend, it as now to commend it, or yet to defend it. But to thee I do send it, to like it, or mend it, and when thou hast end it, applaud it or rend it. My wits I could bristle, for a better Epistle, but yet at this time, this Skeltonicall Rhyme, I send to thy view, because it is new, So Reader adieu.  
I thine, if thou mine, JOHN TAYLOR.   

To the Author and his book.  

To the superlative Water-Poet john Taylor.  
NO Waterman, or Sculler art thou none,  
Nor need thou ever taste of Helicon:  
They all mistake thee jack, full well I know,  
Thy Heaven bred brain could never stoop so low:  
For unto me, thou plainly dost appear  
The lofty Planet of the watery Sphere:  
So that Apollo he himself can tell,  
Thy influence gives water to his well.  
Thy true friend Ia:: Moraye.   

To the Castalian Water-writer, Splende & dignoscar.  
A Dial set upon an eminent place,  
If clouds do interval Apollo's face:  
Is but a figured shape: whereby we know  
No article of Time, which it doth owe:  
Unto our expectations, yet we see  
The tracts by which Times should distinguished be:  
In paralleled punctual, ciphered lines,  
Which by a shadow, when the fair sun shines,  
Explains the hours: So if the Son of men  
Thy Glorious Patron, deem to bless thy pen  
With his fair light, Thy Muse so young so fair,  
(So well proportioned in conceits so rare:  
And Natural strains, and style, and every part,  
That Nature therein doth exceed all Art,)  
Will then as with Enthusiasm inspired  
Print legends by the world to be admired.  
Thine james Ratray.   

Praecomium johannis Taylor.  
WHat elemental sperms, begot a spark  
Of such conceited influence: bearing the mark  
Of such digestion, in his well knit rhymes,  
As if that Maro rebaptized our times,  
With well proportioned judgement? this thy note,  
Distinction knows not from a graver cote.  
Oh where are you, styled by the happy names  
Of loves sole heirs: sleeps your immortal flames,  
In their original dullness see a good?  
Born in the vein of far inferior blood.  
Taylor, I have took measure of thy pains,  
Discharge my bill with love, and there's my gains.  
Thine in the best of friendship. Robert Anton.   

To his honest friend john Taylor, Poeta Nascitur.  

I Oft (with other men) have wondered why  
Horace should write an Art of Poetry:  
Since all men know, a Poets borne a Poet,  
And no man's borne an Artist: all men know it:  
And knowing this, I wonder who should scorn  
A Poet without Art, that so was borne.   

Who thinks thy name, or watery education,  
Is to thy verses any derogation,  
Is far deceived in both, for all men know,  
Tailors are makers, Poets all are so.  
Nor is't thy education thee abuses.  
't'as brought thee up a Tailor for the Muses.   

I could Apollogize, but thou hast done't  
If Poets borne have glory, thou hast won't:  
Thou hast described the several signs of Heaven,  
Wherein the suns whole Progress is made even.  
Thy Epigrams; and Anagrams of late  
Are Philomel's sweet notes, let Parrots prate.   

I dare compare thy Genius with some men  
That vaunt in Tempe's well t' have dipped their pen:  
For (truly) they do falsely steal translations,  
And speak in our tongue things of other Nations.  
Thy Oars and skulls hath far out rowed their fames  
For thou hast rowed from Helicon, to Thames.   

Let them upbraid thee with a Sculler's name,  
And with that title think t' obscure thy fame:  
They cannot jack for Mariners at seas  
Take pains, whilst passengers do sit at ease.  
Thy own true labour tugs thy verse a shore,  
Though fools in each man's boat will have an Oar.   
Thine, whether thou wilt or no. Sa: jones.   

To my friend by land and by water john Taylor.  
THese leaves kind john are not to wrap up drams,  
That do contain thy witty Epigrams,  
Let worse Poems serve for such abuse,  
Whilst thine shall be referude for better use.  
And let each Critic cavil what he can,  
'tis rarely written of a Waterman.  
Thy friend assured Rob: Branthwaite.   

To the Muse's Tailor, or the Pegafian Sculler.  
ONe Envy says th' art merely natural,  
Another when it doth on foam Art fall:  
In reading thee, believes it not thine own,  
Neither detracts thee, for the gift is known  
That's called a Poets, to come with his birth,  
But if this Envy could make less thy worth,  
The second adds to it, by confessing art  
In that we know thine: Thus where every part  
Of Envy is examined 'tis the end,  
Of all that do dispraise thee to commend.  
Thy hearty friend. Sa: Cal.   

To his friend john Taylor.  
YOu that read tailors verse, commend the same,  
If you have wit, or else subscribe your Name.  
Thy friend I. P. Musophily.   

To my good friend and fellow, john Taylor.  
ON land, thy water works, with more praise floats  
Then Standgate castle, or Thames flaming boats:  
Moore fitter for the press (pulled from thy oar)  
Then many which may brag of learning store.  
If Coriat, or his Crew thy worth do blemish  
The care is taken all, Incumbe Remis.  
Hold on thy way, though others first shall ply me,  
thouart my first man, though last I chance to spy thee.  
Thy true friend Cornwallis Blague.   

To the Pegasian Taylor.  
Lo here the Tailor of Parnassus spring  
Whose offal shreds, do prove acquaint well made verses,  
Whose pen dismissed; strait doth the bottles bring:  
From Bacchus' fuming pipes, to fill Tower Teirces.  
Who Sculd the Muses bravely o'er the flood,  
And since that time hath for a Poet stood.  
Thine Edmund Blague.   

To the humidious Poet, and my very friend john Taylor.  

THe Poets old, (with much head breaking pain)  
Did learn of others to compose a verse,  
But john, thy study, never broke thy brain:  
Yet canst in meeter many Acts rehearse.  
And when thy hand doth tug the heavy oar,  
Thou canst speak verses, never spoke before.   

Nought comes amiss, for now thou tak'st delight  
In bitter satires to explain thy mind:  
Then tragic like, describst a bloody fight,  
And strait all merry art to mirth inclined:  
Of all thou mak'st a harmony sometimes  
To please the inclination of the times.   

Then spite of each calumnions critics collar,  
No Sculler ever came so near a scholar.   
Thine as thou wouldst wish, Samuel King.   

In Laudem Authoris.  
WEll mightst thou wonder Tailor that I praise  
Thy home bred Muse, since in these critic days  
It is a Maxim, that who ere is known,  
To give to others worth, leaves himself none:  
Did not I see how much adulterous art  
Paints out the face of poesy for the mart:  
Of outside stages; who can from's loose pen,  
Shake ink at whores, and country gentlemen:  
Can make a soldier utter treason, curse,  
And Ladies whine, speak as new come from nurse.  
Who can with this, and an opinioned fame,  
A hungry pension purchase, wears the Name  
Of Poet; when his idle pate hath nought  
To speak his art, but that 'tis dearly bought.  
(And yet cheap too) should we but weigh the pain,  
And self felt guilt, of his translating vein.  
When I on both look, by Apollo's fire  
I laugh at him, and thee I do admire.  
Thou ow'st thine own beget, which by thee  
Are made, not fashioned, such should Poets be.  
Such were the ancient Bards, and Druids songs  
Who used their own language, their own tongues:  
Where Nature, unto me seems Art to pass  
As much as Diamonds do a painted glass:  
For if who best translates a Poet were  
We might have more than one borne in a year.  
And I have lived an age, and near saw two,  
So much unbought, vnborowed, yet could show  
As I have read from thee, what wouldst thou more  
there's many wears the Bays, deserves thy oar.  
Thy friend Robert Daborne.   

To his friend john Taylor.  
Go friend, let lose thy lines, and measure out  
The length and breadth of vice, it was a doubt:  
Thou only wert for a man's Tailor sit,  
When thou didst through thy measures, wast thy wit  
On witless Coriat, but from henceforth  
The Laurel Synod shall allow thy worth:  
With more additions, for all may see  
Thou likewise mayst a woman's Tailor be.  
Thou canst with satires their straight bodies wring,  
And lose their skirts again with sonnetting,  
Go on, and from me take a kind, good speed,  
With this proviso unto those shall read.  
Let there no Butcher that yet wants his trade  
Dive to find fault with that a Tailor made.  
Will: Rowley.   

To his dear friend Master john Taylor.  

ME thinks I see the Sculler in his boat,  
With goodly motion glide along fair Thames,  
And with a charming and bewrehing note,  
So sweet delightful tunes and ditties frames:  
As greatest Lordings and the nicest Dames,  
That with attentive care, did hear thy lays  
Of force should yield due merit to thy praise.   

Worth to all watermen, strain forth thy voice  
To prove so pleasing in the world's proud eye,  
As eyes, and ears, and hearts may all rejoice:  
To see, hear, muse, upon the melody.  
In contemplation of thy harmony,  
Let Thames fair banks thy worth and praises ring  
While I thy worth, and praise, beyond seizing   
Tho. Gent.   

To the Water-Poet, john Taylor.  
HOnest john Taylor though I know't no grace,  
To thee, or me, for writing in this place,  
Yet know I that the multitudes of friends  
Will thee protect, from vile malignant minds:  
The rather cause what ever thou hast shows  
Is no one man's invention but thine own.  
Malicious minded men will thee despraise;  
Envy debases all, herself to raise.  
Then rest content, whilst to thy greater fame,  
Both Art, and Nature shrine to raise thy name.  
Thine ever as thou knowest R: Cadner.   

To honest jack Taylor.  
FRiend Taylor, thou hast here this glory won,  
thou'st made a coat Urania may put on.  
I do applaued thy quick ingenious spirit,  
And may thy fortune countervail thy merit:  
Which if it do (thy worth I will not flatter,  
Thou never more shalt toil upon the water.  
Thine as the rest of thy friends William Bubb.   

To his loving friend john Taylor.  
Beloved friends; words mend not much the matter,  
Nor morre the market of thy natural wit:  
They are but Pies, and like to Pies do chatter  
That fault thy act, and so would bemish it.  
For what is Art but imitation  
Tied unto rules, as such and such have taught?  
And what those rules, but approbation  
Of that which Nature first, in others wrought?  
From Nature than it was they took their light,  
The Proto-Poets all, and sung their Rhymes:  
And why shall we deny our age like right  
When Nature is the same with former Tynees?  
No, no, but since she sendeth forth fair rays  
In thy borne-Muse, wear thou with all her Bays.  
Fr: Conniers.   

To my friend john Taylor.  
IF Homer's verse (in Greek) did merit praise,  
If Naso in the Latin won the Bays,  
If Maro 'mongst the Romans did exell,  
If Tasso in the Tuscan tongue wrote well,  
Then Tailor I conclude that thou hast done  
In English, what immortal bay hath won.  
Thy friend john Tap.   

Tho: Bretnor in commendation of the Author.  

THat none are Artists but Academiques,  
'twere vain to think and idle to maintain:  
Sith Nature's free and tide to no such tricks:  
As fostered are among the learned train:  
The homely Peasant and the country Kerne  
Have often better wits than those that learn.   

And for thyself there is no Poet writes  
With words, or figures more adorned with Art.  
Thy lines are stuffed with learned Epithets:  
Such sweet conceits thy pleasing Muse doth dart,  
That thou seemest wrapped into the highest airs,  
When thou but speakest of celestial Spheres.   

Then cease not Tailor, garments more to shape,  
Of this projection or diviner matter,  
Le's have another suit of finest drape:  
And bury not thy talon in the water.  
That element's cold, but thou art all on fire:  
Go on, go on, and we will still admire.   
Thine Tho: Bretnor.   

To my honest friend john Taylor.  
THy tailors shears foul vices wings hath clipped,  
The seams of impious dealings are unripped:  
So Artlike thou these captoius times hast quipt,  
As if in Helicon thy pen were dipped,  
All those who 'gainst thy worth are Envious lipped,  
Thy sharp satyric Muse hath nipped and snipped:  
And to conclude thy'nuention is not chipped,  
Or stolen or borowd, begged, or basely gripped.  
Then Taylor thy conceits are truly sowed,  
And Sculler (on my word) it was well rowed.  
Thine to my best power Enoch Lind.   

To him I love, yet never knew.  
TO praise thee without knowledge, were dispraise:  
I know thy Wit: in that, thyself I raise.  
Thy full fetcht-strokes so wafts me o'er the Strand,  
Of deep Conceit; as bids me understands,  
That never Tailor shaped (for such small price)  
A rob so covert, which uncovers Vice.  
Thy true friend john Handson..   

In Landem Authoris.  
MOst commonly one Tailor will dispraise,  
Another's workmanship, envying always  
At him that's better than himself reputed,  
Though he himself be but a butcher bruited:  
So might it well be said of me (my friend)  
Should I not to thy work some few lines lend,  
Which to make probable this sentence tendeth,  
Who not commends, he surely discommendeth:  
In my illiterate censure these thy rhymes,  
Deserve applause even in these worst of times:  
When wit is only worthy held in those,  
On whom smooth flattery vain praise bestows.  
But I not minding with thy worth to flatter,  
Do know thy wit to good too toil by water.  
Rob: Taylor.   

To my friend john Taylor.  
THis work of thine, thou hast compiled so well,  
It merits better wits thy worth to tell.  
Thine Maximilian Waad.   

To my kind friend JOHN TAILOR.  
Fie Momus cries, what frantic fit hath fired.  
The Pelting Sculler thus to play the Poet,  
As if he were with Homer's spirit inspir'de.  
Cease Critic, cease, and I will let thee know it.  
The honest Sculler seeking for a fare,  
Did meet the Muses in an evening late:  
And finding them disposed to take the air;  
Such solace gave them with his Rustic prate,  
As there in guerdon of his homebred sport,  
It was decreed by all the Sisters nine  
He should receive (since other means was short)  
A brimful bowl of Heliconian Wine.  
Since when from him, such sweet conceits doth flow,  
As merits all the praise thou canst bestow.   

Again,  
IOhn Taylor here I gladly would commend thee,  
And wish my note exceeded Ela's strain,  
Or that my Verse could equali Virgil's vain,  
Which might from Momus carping brood defend thee.  
Yet as I can I will this Reader tell,  
I know no Sculler ever writ so well.  
Thy friend, Richard Leigh.   

To my true friend john Tailor  
AMongst the best that Britain now doth bear,  
Graced by Apollo, and the Nymphs divine,  
Swollen with the Raptures of their great Engine,  
I think that few, or none, to thee comes near.  
They want the tru-true touch stone of the ear,  
Besides thy make all are merely thine,  
Thou stealest no Chore, not Scene, nor page, nor line,  
If they do so, their works can witness bear.  
Then justly jack, I do thee most esteem,  
Nor art thou always ignorant of Art,  
For Nature, so in thee doth play her part,  
As prodigal, not liberal she doth seem.  
Whilst thou her Champion, to thy greater grace  
Mak'st Art to Nature even in Art give place.  
Thine as I live, john Moraye.   

The Author's thanks to all those that have written in his Commendations.  
RIght worthy, and my well-beloved friends,  
My love and service shall be all your debtor:  
A beggars thanks is all the best Amends,  
And in that payment you shall all be getters.  
For words are cheap, and this my Book affords  
Your own, with double interest words for words.  
Yours, I. T.   

To all in general on whose names I have Anagrammatized.  
Majestic Sol whose eye Eclipsing Rays,  
Shine with admired splendour o'er this land:  
And all you Mercuries, of Mars his band,  
Whose words and swords your temples crowns with bay.  
Your pardons grant me if I have transgressed,  
If you forgive, I'll deal with all the rest.  
Ever at Command in all humble service, john Tailor    

The Author's description of a Poet and Poesy, with an apology in defence of Natural English Poetry.  
SHall Beggars dive into the Acts of Kings?  
Shall Nature speak of supernatural things,  
Shall eagles flights attempted be by Gnatts?  
Shall mighty Whales be portrayed out by Sprate:  
These things I know unpossible to be,  
And it is as unpossible for me.  
That am a beggar in these Kingly acts,  
Which from the heavens true Poetry extracts.  
A supernatural fool, by Nature I  
That never knew this high borne mystery,  
A worthless gnat, I know myself more weak,  
Yet of the Princely Egle dare to speak:  
A silly sprat the Ocean seeks to sound,  
To seek this Whale, though seeking he be drowned:  
Then to proceed: a Poets Art I know,  
Is not compact of earthly things below:  
Nor is of any base substantial mettle,  
That in the world's rotundity doth settle:  
But 'tis immortal, and it hath proceeding,  
From whence divinest souls have all their breeding.  
It is a blessing heaven hath sent to men,  
By men it is divulged with their pen:  
And by that propogation it is known,  
And over all the world dispersed and thrown:  
In verbal elocution so refined,  
That it to Virtue animates man's minds  
The blessed singer of blessed Israel,  
In this rare Art, he rarely did exell,  
He sweetly Poetyzed in Heavenly verses,  
Such lines which aye eternity rehearses:  
What Reverend rate, and glorious great esteem,  
Augustus Caesar did a Poet deem:  
Admired Virgil's life doth plainly show  
That all the world a Poet's worth may know:  
But leaving Israel's King, and Roman Caesar,  
Let's seek in England, English Poets treasure,  
Sir Philip Sidney, his times Mars and Muse,  
That word, and sword so worthily could use,  
That spite of death his Glory liu's, always  
For Conquests, and for Poesy crowned with bays:  
What famous men liu's in this age of ours  
As if the Sisters nine had left their bowers,  
With more post hast then expeditious wings  
They here have found the heliconian springs.  
We of our mighty Monarch JAMES may boast,  
Who in this heavenly Art exceeds the most:  
Where men may see the Muse's wisdom well,  
When such a Glorious house they chose to dwell:  
The Preacher whose instructions doth afford  
The souls dear food, the everliving word:  
If Poet's skill be banished from his brain,  
His preaching (sometimes) will be but too plain:  
Twixt Poetry and best Divinity  
There is such near, and dear affinity.  
As 'twere propinquity of brother's blood,  
That without tone, the other's not so good:  
The man that takes in hand brave verse to write,  
And in Divinity hath no insight,  
He may perhaps make smooth, and Artlike Rhymes,  
To please the humours of these idle times:  
But name of Poet he shall never merit,  
Though writing them he waste his very spirit:  
They therefore much mistake that seem to say,  
How every one that writes a paltry play:  
A sottish Sonnet in the praise of love,  
A song or iegge, that fools to laughter move,  
In praise or dispraise, in defame or fame,  
Deserves the honour of a Poet's name:  
I further say, and further will maintain  
That he that hath true Po'sie in his brain,  
Will not profane so high and heavenly skill,  
To glory, or be prowed of writing ill:  
But if his Muse do stoop to such dejection,  
'tis but to show the world her sins infection:  
A Poet's ire sometimes may be inflamed:  
To make foul Vices brazen face ashamed.  
And then his Epigrams and Satyrs whip  
Will make basegald unruly jades to skip:  
In frost they say 'tis good, bad blood be nipped,  
And I have seen Abuses whipped and stripped,  
In such rare fashion, that the wincing age,  
Hath kicked and flung, with uncontrolled rage.  
Oh worthy Withers I shall love thee ever,  
And often mayst thou do thy best endeavour,  
That still thy works and thee may live together  
Contending with thy name, and never wither.  
But further to proceed in my pretence  
Of Natr'all English Poetries defence:  
For Laureate Sidney, and our gracious james,  
Have plunged been in Arts admired streams:  
And all the learned Poets of our days,  
Have Arts great aid to win still living bays.  
All whom I do confess such worthy men,  
That I unworthy am with ink and pen  
To carry after them. But since my haps  
Have been so happy as to get some scaps:  
By Nature given me from the Muse's table,  
I'll put them to the best use I am able:  
I have read Tasso, Virgil, Homer, Ovid,  
josephus, Plutark, whence I have approved,  
And found such observations as are fit,  
With plenitude to fraught a barren wit.  
And let a man of any nation be,  
These Authors reading, makes his judgement see  
Some rules that may his ignorance refine,  
And such predominance it hath with mine.  
No bladder blown ambition puffs my Muse,  
An English Poets writings to excuse:  
Nor that I any rule of art condemn,  
Which is Dame Nature's ornamental gem:  
But these poor lines I wrote (my wits best pelf)  
Defending that which can defend itself.  
Know then vnnat'ral English Mongrel Monster,  
Thy wandering judgement doth too much misconstrue:  
When thou affirmest thy Native Contryman,  
To make true verse no art or knowledge can:  
Cease, cease to do this glorious kingdom wrong,  
To make her speech inferior to each tongue:  
Show not thyself more brutish than a beast,  
Base is that bird that files her home-born nest:  
In what strange tongue did Virgil's Muse commerce?  
What language wast that Ovid wrote his verse?  
Thou sayst 'twas Latin, why I say so too,  
In no tongue else they any thing could do:  
They naturally did learn it from their mother,  
And must speak Latin, that could speak no other:  
The Grecian blinded Bard did much compile,  
And never used no foreign far-fetched style:  
But as he was a Greek, his verse was Greek,  
In other tongues (alas) he was to seek,  
Du Bartas heavenly all admired Muse,  
No unknown Language ever used to use:  
But as he was a Frenchman, so his lines  
In natitue French with fame most glorious shines.  
And in the English tongue 'tis fitly stated,  
By siluer-tongued Silvester translated.  
So well, so wisely, and so rarely done,  
That he by it immortal fame hath won.  
Then as Great Maro, and renowned Naso,  
Brave Homer, Petrarke, sweet Italian Tasso:  
And numbers more, past numbering to be numbered,  
Whose rare inventions never were incumberd,  
With our outlandish chip chop gibberish gambling,  
To fill men's ears with unacquainted babbling:  
Why may not then an Englishman. I pray,  
In his own language write as erst did they,  
Yet must we suit our phrases to their shapes,  
And in their imitations be their Apes.  
Whilst Muses haunt the fruitful forked hill,  
The world shall reverence their unmatched skill.  
And for invention, fiction, method, measure,  
From them must Poets seek to seek that treasure.  
But yet I think a man may use that tongue  
His Country uses, and do them no wrong.  
Then I whose Artless studies are but weak,  
Who never could, nor will but English speak,  
Do here maintain, if words be rightly placed,  
A Poet's skill, with no tongue more is graced.  
It runs so smooth, so sweetly it doth flow,  
From it such heavenly harmony doth grow,  
That it the understanders senses moves  
With admiration, to express their loves.  
No Music under heaven is more divine,  
Then is a well-writte, and a well-read line.  
But when a witless self conceited Rook,  
A good invention dares to overlook:  
How piteous then man's best of wit is martyred,  
In barbarous manner tottered torn and quartered.  
So mingle mangled, and so hacked and hewed,  
So seuraily be scuruide and bemewde.  
Then this detracting dutty dunghill drudge,  
Although he understand not, yet will judge.  
Thus famous Poesy must abide the doom  
Of every muddy minded rascal Groom.  
Thus rarest Artists are continual stung  
By every prating, stinking lump of dung.  
For what cause then should I so much repine,  
When best of writers that ere wrote a line  
Are subject to the censure of the worst,  
Who will their follies vent, or else they burst.  
I have at idle times some Pamphlets writ,  
(The fruitless issue of a natural wit)  
And cause I am no Scholar, some envy me,  
With foul and false calumnious words bely me:  
With brazen fronts, and flinty hard belief  
Affirming or suspecting me a thief:  
And that my sterrile Muse so dry is milched,  
That what I write, is borrowed, begged, or filch, d.  
Because my name is Tailor, they suppose  
My best inventions all from stealing grows:  
As though there were no difference to be made  
Betwixt the name of Tailor, and the Trade.  
Of all strange weapons, I have least of skill  
To manage or to wield a Tailor's bill.  
I cannot Item it for silk and facing,  
For cutting, edging, stiffning, and for lacing:  
For bombast, stitching, binding, and for buckram,  
For cotton, bay, for canvas and for lockram.  
All these I know, but know not how to use them,  
Let trading Tailors therefore still abuse them.  
My skil's as good to write, to sweat, or row,  
As any Tailors is to steal or sow.  
In end, my pulsive brain no Art affords,  
To mint, or stamp, or forge new coined words.  
But all my tongue can speak, or pen can write  
Was spoke and writ before I could indite.  
Yet let me be of my best hopes bereft,  
If what I ever writ I got by thest:  
Or by base simony, or bribes, or gifts  
Or begged, or borrowed it by sharking shifts.  
I know I never any thing have done,  
But what may from a weak invention run.  
Give me the man whose wit will undertake  
A substance of a shadow for to make:  
Of nothing something, (with Arts great aid)  
With Nature only all his Muse arraide.  
That solid matter from his brain can squees,  
Whilst some Iame Artists wits are drawn toth' leeze.  
By teaching Parrots prate and prattle can,  
And taught an Ape will imitate a man:  
And Banks his horse show'd tricks, taught with much labour  
So did the hare that played upon the tabor.  
Shall man, I pray, so witless be besotted?  
Shall men (like beasts) no wisdom be allotted,  
(Without great study) with instinct of Nature,  
Why then were man the worst and basest creature?  
But men are made the other creatures Kings,  
Because superior wisdom from them springs.  
And therefore Momus unto thee again  
That dost suspect the issue of my brain  
Are but my bastards, now my Muse doth fly,  
And in thy throat gives thy suspect the lie.  
And to the trial dares thee when thou dar'st  
Accounting thee a coward if thou sparest.  
I have a little wit, and brain, and spleen,  
And gall, and memory, and mirth and teen,  
And passions, and affections of the mind,  
As other Mortals use to be inclined.  
And having all this, wherefore should men doubt  
My wit should be so Crippled with the Gout,  
That it must have assistance to compile,  
Like a lame dog, that's limping o'er a style.  
No, no, thou Zoilus, thou detracting else,  
Though thou art insufficient in thyself:  
And hast thy wit and studies in reversion,  
Cast not on me that scandalous aspersion.  
I hate such belladmongring rhyming slaves,  
Such jigging rascals, such audacious knaves.  
The bane of learning, the abuse of Arts,  
The scum of natures worst defective parts:  
The scorn of scholars, poison of rewards,  
Regardless vassals of true worths regard,  
The shame of time the canker of deserts,  
The dearth of liberal and heroic hearts.  
That like so many bandogs snatle and snatch,  
And all's their own they can from others ca●th.  
That lick the scraps of Scholars wits (like dogs)  
(A Proverb old) draffs good enough for hogs.  
Purloining, line by line, and piece by piece,  
And from each place they read, will filch a fleece.  
Me thinks my Muse should piecemeal tear these rogues  
More base and vile then tattered Irish broages.  
Clawkissing rascals, flattering Parasites,  
Sworn vices vassals, virtues opposites.  
'tis you damned curs have murdered liberal minds,  
And made best Poets worse esteemed then hinds.  
But wherefore do I take a scholars part,  
That have no grounds or Axioms of Art:  
That am in Poesy an artless creature,  
That have no learning but the book of Nature:  
No Academical Poetike strains,  
But homespunne medley of my mottley brains.  
The reason I a Scholars wants bewail,  
And why against base littered whelps I rail,  
Is this, that they long time should time bestow  
In painful study, secret Arts to know,  
And after live in want, contempt and scorn,  
By every dunghill peasant overborne.  
Abused, rejected, doggedly disgraced,  
Despised ragged, lousy, and out faced:  
Whilst Bagpipe-poets stuff with others wind,  
Are graced for wit, they have from them purloinde.  
Now in mine own defence once more I'll say,  
Their too rash judgements to much runs astray,  
That, cause my name is Tailor I do theeve it,  
I hope their wisdoms will no more believe it.  
Nor let my want of learning be the cause,  
I should be bitten with black envies jaws:  
For whosoe'er by nature is not a Poet  
By rules of Art he never well can show it.  
there's many a wealthy heir long time at School,  
Doth spend much study, and comes home a fool.  
A Poet needs must be a Poet borne,  
Or else his Art procures his greater scorn.  
For why? if Art alone made men excel,  
Me thinks Tom Coriat should write exc'llent well:  
But he was borne be like in some cross year,  
When learning was good cheap, but wit was dear.  
Then to conclude, as I before began,  
Though nought by Scholarship or Art I can  
Yet (if my stock by nature were more bare)  
I scorn to utter stolen or borrowed ware:  
And therefore Reader now I tell thee plain,  
If thou incredilous dost still remain.  
If yea or nay these reasons do persuade thee,  
I leave thee and thy faith to him that made thee.   

To the Kings most excellent Majesty.  
Anagramma. james Stuart MUSES TARRY AY.  
GReat Sovereign as thy sacred Royal breast  
Is by the Muse's whole and sole possessed:  
So do I know, Rich, precious, peerless gem,  
In witting unto thee, I write to them.  
The Muses tarry at thy name, why so?  
Because they have no further for to go.   

To the high and mighty Prince, Charles Stuart.  
Anagramma Calls true hearts.  
Brave Prince, thy Name, thy fame, thyself and all,  
With love and service, all true hearts doth call:  
So Royally endued with Princely parts,  
Thy Real virtues always, calls true heart,   

To Anna Queen of Great Britain.  
THese backward, and these forward lines I send  
To your right Royal, high Majestic hand:  
And like the guilty prisoner I attend  
Your censure, wherein bliss or bale doth stand.  
If I condemned be, I cannot grudge,  
For never Poet had a juster judge.   

These lines are to be read, the same backward as they are forward.  
Dear Madam Reed  
Deem if I meed.   

loves labyrinth, with the description of the seven Planets.  

I Travelled through a wilderness of late,  
A shady, dark unhaunted desert grove:  
Whereas a wretch explained his piteous state,  
Whose moans the Tigers unto Ruthe would move:  
Yet though he was a man cast down by Fate:  
Full manly with his miseries he strove,  
And dared false Fortune, to her utmost worst,  
And ere he meant to bend, would bravely burst.   

Yet swelling grief, so much o'er charged his heart,  
In scalding sighs, he needs must vent his woe,  
Where groans, and tears, and sighs all bear a part:  
As partners in their master's overthroe:  
Yet spite of grief, he laughed to scorn his smart,  
And midst his depth of care, demeaned him so,  
As if sweet concord, bore the greatest sway,  
And snarling discord was enforced t'obey.   

Thou Saint (quoth he) I whilom did adore,  
Think not thy youthful feature still can last,  
In winter's age, thou shalt in vain deplore  
That thou on me such coy disdain didst cast:  
Then, then remember old said saws of yore:  
Time was, Time is, but then thy Time is past.  
And in the end, thy bitter torments be,  
Because that causeless, thou torment●●●●● me.   

Oh you immortal, high Imperious powers,  
Have you in your resistless ●●●●●es decreed  
To blast with spite and scorn my pleasant hou'res:  
To starve my hopes, and my despair to feed,  
Once more let me attain those sunshine showers:  
Whereby my withered joys, again may breed.  
If Gods no comfort to my cares apply,  
My comfort is, I know the way to die.   

With wits distracted here I make my will,  
I do bequeath to Saturn, all my sadness,  
When Melancholy first my heart did fill  
My senses turn from soberness to madness:  
Since Saturn, thou wast Author of my ill,  
To give me grief, and take away my gladness.  
Malignant Planet, what thou gav'st to me  
I give again, as good a gift to thee.   

I do surrender back to thundering jove,  
All state, which erst my glory did adorn:  
My frothy pomp, and my ambitious love:  
To thee false jupiter I back return,  
All jovial thoughts that first my heart did move,  
In thy Majestic brain was bred and borne:  
Which by thy inspiration, caused my wrack,  
And therefore unto thee, I give it back.   

To Mars I give my rough robustious rage,  
My anger, fury, and my scarlet wrath:  
Man-slaughtring murder is thy only page,  
Which to thy bloody guidance I bequeath.  
Thy servants all, from death should have their wage,  
For they are executioners for death,  
Great Mars, all fury, wrath, and rage of mine  
I freely offer to thy Goarye shrine.   

All seeing Sol, thy bright reflecting eye  
Did first with Poet's Art inspire my brains:  
'tis thou that me so much didst dignify,  
To rap my soul with sweet Poetike strains,  
And unto thee again before I die  
I give again, a Poets gainelesse gains.  
Though wit and art are blessings most divine  
Yet here, their gems, amongst a heard of swine.   

To thee false goddess, loves adulterous Queen  
My most inconstant thoughts I do surrender:  
For thou alone, alone haste ever been  
True lovers bane, yet seemest loves defender,  
And were thy bastard blind, as fools do ween:  
So right he had not split my heart so tender.  
Fond Vulcan's bride, thou turnest my joy to pain  
Which unto thee I render back again.   

To Mercury, I give my sharking shifts,  
My two fold false equivocating tricks:  
All cunning sleights, and close deceiving drifts:  
Which to decitfull wrong my humour pricks:  
All my Buzeaka's, my Decoys, and lifts:  
No bird-lime henceforth to my fingers sticks.  
My thoughts, my words, my actions, that are bad  
To thee I give, for them from thee I had.   

And last, and low'st of all these Planets seven  
My wavering thoughts, I give to Luna ' es guiding:  
My senseless brains, of wit and sense bereaven  
My steadfast change, and my most certain sliding.  
All various alterations under heaven  
All that is mine, o'er moving, or abiding,  
My woes, my joys, my mourning, and my mirth  
I give to thee, from whence they had their birth.   

Thus he against the higher powers contends  
And threats, and bans, and beats his care crazd breast,  
The birds harmonious music to him lends  
Which adds no rest, unto his restless rest:  
Yea every thing in loving sort attends:  
All senceable, and senseless do their best.  
With helpless helps do help to moon his moan  
And her he loves, Remains unkind alone.   

At last he rose from out the place he lay,  
And frantikely ran woodlie through the wood:  
The scratching brambles, in his wails way  
Entreats him stay, but in a harebrained mood  
He fled, till weary he at last did stay,  
To rest him, where a ragged rock there stood,  
With resolution to despair and die  
Whilst Echo to his moans, did thus reply.   

Echo.  
May human mischiefs be compared with mine? mine.  
Thine babbling Echo, would thy tongue told true: rue.  
I rue that I alone must weep and pine pine.  
I pine for her, from whom my cares ensue. sue.  
I sue, I serve a marble hearted fair air.  
And air is all the fruit of fruitless love: love.  
Loves hope is past, then welcome black despair despair.  
Shall there despair my causeless curse remove move.  
Oh whither shall I move, to joy or pain pain.  
Must pain be my reward for pain for aye aye.  
Ay must my torment feed her scornful vein vain.  
To ease my grief, will she say yea or nay, nay.  
Nay, then from love and all his laws I fly fly.  
I fly, I search, I seek the way to die. die.   

Thus brabbling 'gainst all things he hears or sees  
Impatient as his froward fortunes wrongs.  
No sensu'all object with his sense agrees.  
All pleasures his displeasure more prolongs:  
At length he carves upon the thick barked trees  
These under written sad lamenting songs.  
And as my weak invention understood  
His farewell thus, was graved upon the wood.    

Sonnet.  

LIke a decrepit wretch, deformed and lame  
My verse approaches to my dearest Dame  
Whose dire disdain, makes my laments her game,  
Whose scornful eyes adds fuel to my flame.  
But whether she, or I, are most too blame  
I for attempting to exalt her fame  
With fruitless Sonnets; which my wit did frame:  
Or she whose piercing looks my heart over o'er came.  
Her feature can both men and monsters tame  
The gods, and fiends, adore and dread her name,  
Whose matchless form doth Cytherea shame,  
Whose cruel heart remaineth still the same.  
And in a word, I strive against the stream  
My state ' is to low, and hers is too supreme.   

Then since so scornful is her high disdain.  
Since all my love is but bestowed in vain,  
Curb fancy then, with true discretions rain,  
Let reason cure my tor-tormenting pain.  
Suppose I should at last, my suit attain,  
And then sit down and count my losing gain:  
My harvest would be tars in shed of grain.  
Then i'll no longer vex my vexed brain  
To seek her love, who joys when I complain:  
No longer I, loves vassal will remain,  
I'll be no more of Cupid's witless train,  
Whose partial blindness hath so many slain.  
Proud Dame, whose breast my love didst erst refrain  
Despite loves laws I'll be no more thy swain.  
Thus like a man, whose answer 〈◊〉 ●erest him,  
I found him mad with love, and so I left him.    

Pluto's Proclamation concerning his Infernal pleasure for the Propagation of Tobacco  

TRue News and strange my Muse intends to write,  
From horrid concaves of eternal night:  
Whereas a damned Parliament of Devils,  
Enacted laws to fill the world with evils.  
Black Pluto sundry proclamations sends  
Through Barathrum, and summons all the fiends,  
To know how they on earth had spent their times,  
And how they had becloged the world with crimes.   

First spoke an ancient Devil ycleaped Pride,  
Who said he wandered had, both far and wide,  
Dispersing his Ambitious poisonous bane,  
As far as Luna doth both wax or wane.   

Next summoned was, a rakehell furgound cur,  
Called Avarice, (whose rotten haulking murr)  
Was like to choke him ere he could declare  
How he had souls possessed with moneys care.  
That so they fill their Coffers to the brim,  
All's one, let sweet salvation sink or swim.   

The third that to the Parliament came in  
Was murder, all inroab'de in scarlet sin,  
Who told great Limboes' monarch he had done  
Such deeds, as thousand souls to hell hath won.   

The fourth that entered to this damned jury,  
Was sweet sin Lechery, a smugfaced fury:  
Said that the world should his great pains approve,  
Where universal lust is counted love.   

The fifth was an ilshaped decrepit Crone  
Called Envy, all consumed to skin and bone:  
And she declared what labour he had spent  
To Honours, and to virtues detriment.   

Then sixth, did Burst-gut Gluttony appear,  
Whose sole delight is all in belly cheer:  
Who told how he men's greedy minds did serve  
To cram their bodies, whilst their souls did starve.   

The seventh was Sloth, an ugly loathsome wretch,  
Who being called, did gape, and yawn, and stretch:  
I have (quoth he) done as your highness wiled,  
I all the world with Idleness have filled,  
In lazy Creatures members I do lurk,  
That thousands will be hanged, before they'll work.   

Then Pluto said, these ills, you have done well,  
In propagation of our kingdom, Hell:  
But yet there's one thing which I will effect,  
Which too long hath been buried with neglect;  
And this it is, in Rich America,  
In India, and black Barbaria.  
Whereas the people's superstition show  
they're mine, because no other God they know,  
In those misguided lands I caused to breed  
A foul contagious, stinking Manbane weed:  
Which they (poor fools) with diligence do gather  
To sacrifice to me that am their Father:  
Where every one a Furies shape assumes,  
Befog'd and clouded with my hel-hatched fumes.  
But these black Nations that adore my name,  
I'll leave in pleasure: and my mischiefs frame  
'Gainst those who by the name of Christians go,  
Whose Author was my final overthrow.  
And therefore strait divulge our great commands,  
That presently throughout all Christian lands,  
Tobacco be dispersed, that they may be  
As Moors and Pagans are, all like to me.  
That from the Palace to the paltry nook,  
Like hell in Imitation all may look.  
In vice let Christians, pass both jews and Turks,  
And let them outpass Christians in good works.  
Let every Cobbler with his dirty fist,  
Take pride to be a black Tobacconist:  
Let Idiot Coxcombs, sweat 'tis excellent gear,  
And with a whiff their reputations rear.  
Let every Idle adle-pated gull  
With stinking sweet Tobacco stuff his skull.  
Let Don fantastic smoke his vasty gorge.  
Let rich and poor, let honest men and knaves,  
Be smoked and stunk unto their timeless graves.  
Thus is our last irrevocable will,  
Which though it damn not man, I know 'twill kill.  
And therefore strait, to every Christian Nation  
divulge, and publish, this our Proclamation.   

A Proclamation or approbation, from the King of execration, to every Nation, for Tobacoes' propagation.  
WHereas we have been credibly Informed (by our true and never failing Intelligencers, as the souls of Usurers, Brokers, Knights of the Post, Panders, Bawds, & such like, our well-beloved sons and daughters, by graceless adoption) that the Herb, (alias weed) ycleaped tobacco, (alias) Trinidado, alias, Petun, alias, Necocianun, (a long time hath been in continual use and motion, amongst the Sunburnt, tanskind Indians, Barbarians and the rest of our black guard inhabiting in America; which hath been greatly to our contentment to see our execrable servants on the earth, to come so near our infernal Tartarian sulphorous contagious stink, with their terrestrial imitations: we therefore with the full consent of our three Estates, namely our Lords spiritual of our own synagogue, as twelve Turkish Muftyes 66. Popes & sundry other Cardinals etc. Prelates our four trusty friends. Besides our Temporal Lords, as Heliogabalus, Nero, Sardanapalus, with many more, and our Commonalty or vassals, whereof the chief, we hold to be Guido Faux, Francis Ravillae, and all such as were Naturalised into the line of judas or Achitophel. We with these estates afore said do (by the Authority of this present Parliament) straightly charge and command that all devils, demydevills, fiends, furies, hags, witches, ghosts, goblins, spirits, elves, fairies, or any other subject or subjects, to our infernal monarchy, by what name or title soever they be called, that they and every of them do forthwith upon the sight hereof, disperse themselves amongst the Christians (the utter enemies of our mighty Monarchy) and there by inspirations of witchcrafts, spells, exorcisms, conjurations, incantations, or any other of our Magical devices, do their best endeavours to possess them with the love of tobacco, make old men dote over it, and young men admire it, make the rich smoke away their wealth in it, make the labourer in one hour in the Eavening puff away his whole days work, let the decayed bankrupt be always my trusty factor to divulge it, be they never so base let them be accounted Noble that use it, and be they never so noble, let them be thought base that refuse it: let Playhouses, Drinking-schooles, Taverns, Alehouses, Bawdy-houses, be continually haunted with the contaminous vapours of it, nay (if it be possible) bring it into their Churches, and there choke up their Preachers, (my only and my hateful enemies.)  
And whereas the Indians, and other far remored barbarous Nations were the first that used it, we do straightly further charge and command, that you and every of you, do dissuade them from the excessive use of it, and let those Nations that are our continual opposites in manners and Religion be fully possessed with an immoderate desire of it like Horsleeches, the more they drink the more let them thirst, let it be a trade to practise the whiff, the snuff, the gulp, the evaporating or retention. Do this withal expedition as you expect the fruition, of our fatherly execrable Mallevolent mallediction.  
Given at our Palace at Gehenna etc.   
THis Proclamation was no sooner done,  
But thousand furies to and fro did run,  
T' acomplish what their Master Pluto spoke  
And fully fill the world with stink and smoke:  
And now the man that's o'ne of feeling rest,  
By reason of his age whose teeth hath left  
The vasty Caverne of his mumping cud,  
Must have tobacco to revive his blood:  
The glistering Gallant, or the gallant Gull.  
The jeering pander, and the hackney Trull.  
The Roisting Rascal, and the swearing Slave,  
The Ostler, Tapster, all in general crave  
To be a foggy, misty, smoky jury  
Upon this upstart new-found Indian fury.  
Great Captain Graceless, storms, protests, and swears,  
he'll have the rascal Poet by the ears,  
And beat him, as a man would beat a dog,  
That dares once speak against this precious fog.  
It is the jewel that he most respects  
It is the gem of joy his heart affects:  
It is the thing his soul doth most adore,  
To live and love tobacco, and a whore:  
he'll cram his brains with fumes of Indian grass,  
And grow as fat with't as an English Ass.  
Some say tobacco will men's days prolong,  
To whom I answer, they are in the wrong.  
And sure my conscience gives me not the lie  
I think 'twill make men rotten ere they die.  
Old Adam lived nine hundred thirty year,  
Yet near drank none, as I could read or hear:  
And some men now lives ninety years and past,  
Who never drank tobacco, first nor last.  
Then since at first it came, from faithless Moors  
(And since 'tis now more common far than whores)  
I see no reason any Christian Nation  
Should follow them, in devilish imitation:  
So farewell pipe, and pudding, snuff and smoke  
My Muse thinks fit to leave, before she choke:  

Certain verses written in the Barbarian tongue, dropped out of a Negro's pocket, which I thought good to insert, because they tend to the honour of tobacco.  
VAprosh faugh stinkquash flavorumques fie fominoshte  
Spitterspawlimon, loatherson him halkish spewriboshte  
Mistrum fog smoakrash, choakerumques olifa trish trash  
Dametas durticum belchum, contagioshte vomitroshe:  
Whifferum, puff gulpum, allisnuff huff fleaminon odish,  
Rewmito contaminosh diabollish dungish odorish:    

To the Right Hon: Lord. WILLIAM Earl of Pembroke. WILLIAM HERBET Annagrama. my Heart will bear.  
RIght Noble Lord, whose breast doth bear a heart  
Which is a Patron unto Arms and Art:  
In spite of Envy, still thy fame shines clear  
For none but honoured thoughts thy heart will bear.   

Satire.  
WHen I but think, the days we wander in,  
How most part of the world do live by sin:  
How finely Satan showed his cunning skill,  
That one man gets his goods, from others ill.  
Doth not the Lawyers live like mighty Lords,  
On brawls, on jars, contentions and discords,  
When if men (as they should) would but agree,  
A Term would scarcely yield a Lawyer's fee?  
Let usurers brag of conscience what they can,  
They live like devils, upon the bane of man:  
The racking landlord gets his ill got store,  
By railing rents, which make his tenants poor:  
Clap shoulder sergeant get the devil and all  
By begg'ring and by bringing men in thrall.  
Like gentlemen, the jailers spend their lives  
By keeping men in fetters, bonds and gives:  
The vintner and the vict'lar get most gains  
From daily drunkards, and distempered brains:  
From whence do justice Clerks get most they have,  
But from the whore, the thief, the bawd, the knave?  
In what consists the hangman's greatest hope  
But hope of great employment for the rope?  
The very blewcoate beadles get their trash,  
By whips and rods, and the fine firking lash.  
But leaving these, note but how Corporations  
From others vices, get their reputations:  
The upstart velvet silken fatten gull,  
His own purse empts to fill the Mercer's full:  
When for his birth, or wit more fit agrees,  
A breech of leather, and a coat of freeze.  
The Tailor is a gentleman transformed  
For his inventing fashions new deformed,  
And those that make the Verdingales and bodies,  
Get most the have from idle witless nodies.  
The Tires, the Periwigs, and the Rebates,  
Are made t'adorn Ilshaped Inamoratoes.  
Yea all the world is fallen to such a madness,  
That each man gets his goods from others badness.  
The Chirurgeon and Physician get their stocks,  
From Gouts, from Fevers, Botches, Piles, and Pocks:  
With others pain, they most of all are pleased,  
And best are eased: when others are diseased.  
As Sextons live by dead, and not by quick,  
So they live with the sound, but by the sick.  
Thus each man lives by other men's amiss,  
And one man's meat, another's poison is.   

To the Right honourable john, Lord Viscount Haddington, john Ramsey  
Anagramma I aim HONERS.  
THrice worthy Lord, whose virtues do proclaim,  
How Honours noble mark is still thy Aim,  
To attain the which thou hold'st thy hand so steady.  
That thy deesrts have won the prize already.   

To the Honourable Knight, Sir David Moraye.  
Anagramma You are admired.  
WIth wisdom and with virtue so inspired,  
That spite of envies teeth, you are Admired.   

To King JAMES.  
Anagramma james Stuart Arm at jesus.  
Upon the Powder Treason the fifth of November.  
THis day old Demon, and the damned Crew,  
Our King and Kingdom in the air had tossed:  
But that our God their devilish practice crossed,  
And on their treacherous heads the mischief threw.  
No Pagan, Tartar, Turk or faithless jew,  
Or hell's black Monarch with his hateful host:  
Since first amongst them Treason was engrossed,  
No plot like that from their invention flew.  
But when they thought powderblast, a breath  
Should all this Island into totters tear:  
Th'Almighties mercy freed us from that fear,  
And paid the Traitors with infamous death.  
For which, let King, and all true Subjects sing  
Continual praise unto Heavens gracious King.   

To the Noble Gentleman Mr. john Moraye Gentleman of his majesties Honourable Bedchamber.  
Anagramma I aim Honour.  
INdustrious loyalty doth daily tell  
Thou Aymest at honour, and thou leuel'st well,  
And with thy trusty service shootest so right,  
That in the end thou sure wilt hit the white.   

Twelve Sonnets upon the suns entering into the 12. Celestial Signs.  

The 10. of March, the Sun enters into Aries, or the sign of the Ram March 10. Aries.  
Diurnal Titans all reviving Car,  
Through all the heaucus his progress now he takes:  
And now his glistering Rays he doth unbarre,  
And what his absence marred, his presence makes:  
Now he begins dame Tellus face to parch,  
With blustering Boreas and with Eurus breath,  
Thick clouds of dust in March, through air doth march  
And Plants dead seeming Re-reviues from death.  
Now at the heavy-headed horned Ram,  
AEous, AEthon, Phlegon, and Pyrois,  
On sweet Ambrosya sweetly feed and cram,  
And drinking Nectar's gods carousing juice,  
Thus yearly, one and thirty days at least,  
In Aries, Titan deigns to be a guest.   

To the Noble Gentleman and my approved good friend Sr. james Moray Knight. james Muraye  
Anagramma I am Ay Sure.  
THe worst of fortune thou canst well endure,  
Thy Anagram includes, thou Ay art sure.   

The 11. of April he comes into Taurus, or the Sign of the Bull. Taurus.  
HIperion Now's removed unto the Bull,  
And seems all hid in Mists and watery bowers:  
Till woolsacke seeming clouds are bursting full,  
And then he glides the Air with golden showers.  
He shines, he hides, he smiles and then he lours,  
Now glorious glowing, and strait darkened dim:  
He's now obscured and now his beams out-powres,  
As skies are clear, or thicketwixt us and him.  
Thus all the April, at bopecpe he plays,  
Encircling daily the Rotundious sphere.  
And at the Bull he hides his glistering rays,  
Till air is purged of clouds, and skies are clear.  
Then he the headstrong Taurus soon forsakes,  
And to his Summer progress hast he makes.   

To the Right worshipful the Recorder of London, and Sergeant to the King's Majesties: Sir HENRY MONTAGVE  
Anagramma Governeth Many.  
AMongst a Million there is hardly Any,  
That like yourself so well doth govern Many.   

The 12. of May the Sun enters into Gemini, or the Twins. Gemini, May.  
NOw bright faced Sminthus, with fair Flora meets,  
Adorning her with Nature's best attire:  
Trees, plants, herbs, flowers, and odoriferous sweets,  
With Birds all chanting in their feathered choir.  
Now country Tom and Tyb have their desire,  
And roll and tumble freely on the grass,  
The Milkmaid gets a green gown for her hire,  
And all in sport the time away do pass.  
The bird, the beast, the lusty jad, the lass  
Do sing, do frisk, do clip, do coll, do kiss:  
Not thinking how the time must be, or was,  
But making pleasant ufe of time as 'tis.  
Till Sminthus leaves his lodging at the twins,  
And to a hotter race his course begins.   

To my approved good friend Mr. Robert Branthwayte.  
Anagramma. You Bear a heart true bend.  
LEt fortune smile or frown you are content,  
At all Assays you bear a heart true bend.   

The 12. of june the Sun enters into Cancer or the Crab. Cancer. june.  
OF Fall the Inns where Sol doth use to lie,  
With crabbed Cancer none may make compare:  
It is the highest in the lofty sky,  
All other signs to it Inferior are.  
When Sol is once ascended and come there,  
He scalds and scorches with his heavenly heat:  
Makes fields of grass, and flowery meadows bare,  
And though the Idleworke not yet they sweat.  
Thus like an all-commanding Lord he sways,  
High mounted in his chief solstician pride:  
For when in Cancer he immures his rays,  
Unto the height his glories amplifide.  
And when he goes from thence, he doth begin  
By shorter journeys to attain his Inn.   

To my especial friend Master SAMUEL CALVERTA.  
Anagramma. Virtue calms All.  
THe flesh, the world, the devil, and all entice,  
Yet still thy honest virtue calms all vice.   

The thirteenth of july the sun enters into Leo, or the Lion. Leo, july.  
THe world's eye daz'ler in his fiery race,  
Doth at the Lion lodge his untamed steeds:  
And now the ripening year begins apace  
To show Dame Tellus, procreative seeds.  
For as from man, man's generation breeds,  
So by manuring of our Grandam Earth,  
Are brought forth fruits, and flowers, and herbs, & weeds  
To shield ingrateful man from pining dearth.  
The dogged dog days now with heat doth swealt,  
And now's the season, of th'unseasoned air:  
When burning fevers make the patient melt,  
Whose heat the Doctors hardly can repair:  
For why these currish days are fatal still,  
And where they chance to bite, they use to kill.   

To the Right worshipful Sir john Swinarton, late Lord Mayor of London. JOHN SWIN'ARTONE.  
Anagramma. waits in honour.  
THe man that Nobly serves, with wisdoms skill  
And good direction, waits in honour still.   

The fourteenth of August the sun enters into Virgo. Or the Virgin. Virgo. August.  
Unhappy Phaeton's, splendidious Sire  
Left amorous bussing beauteous Glim●ns lips,  
And all inspired with loves celestial fires  
His Globe surrounding steeds a main he whips:  
And to the Virgin Virgo down doth glide,  
Where for she entertained him to his pleasure.  
He his Exchequer coffers opens wide,  
And fills the world with harvests wished for treasure:  
Now country hinds unto their tools betake  
The fork, the rake, the scythe, the hook, the cart,  
And all a general expedition make,  
Till Nature be left naked by their art.  
At last the Virgin when these things are done,  
Till that time twelve mouth leaves her love the sun.   

To the worthy Gentleman Master SAMVEL DANIEL.  
Anagramma. jesus Amend all.  
HOw ever my poor lines are understood  
Yet I am sure thy Anagram is good.   

The thirteenth of September the sun enters into Libra, Or the Balance. Libra. September.  
THe Great allseeing burning eye of day,  
In Libraes Balance restless comes to rest,  
Where equally his way he seems to way:  
And day, and night with equal hours are dressed:  
By these just soles, true justice is expressed,  
Which doth to times and places render right  
Where wealth insults not, nor the poor oppressed,  
But all's e'en poyzed, like the day and night.  
And now this lamp of light doth here alight  
Making this Sign, his Equinoctial Inn,  
Whilst fruitful trees are overloaded quite:  
(Too great a gracious guerdon for man's sin)  
And as in March he 'gan to do us grace,  
So to th' Antipodes he now 'gins show her face.   

To the divine Poet and my worthy friend Mr. JOSHVAH SYLLVESTER.  
Anagramma. Thuss he serus loyaly.  
THUs he serves loialy, in place of trust,  
And therefore well deserves a master just.   

The fourteenth of October the sun enters into Scorpio. Scorpio. October.  
ILlustrious Phoebus now declines amain,  
His golden head within the Scorpion dwells,  
Now boisterous blasts of wind, and showers of rain  
Of raging winters nigh approach foretells  
From trees sharp Autumn, all the leaes expels  
For Phoebus now hath left his pleasant Inns,  
Now Merchants Bacchus blood, both buy and sells  
And Michalls Term, laws harvest now begins  
Where many losers are, and few that wins:  
For law may well be called contentions whip,  
When for a scratch, a cuff, for points or pins:  
Will witless gets his neighbour on the hip.  
Then tone the tother unto law will urge,  
And up they come to give their purse a purge.   

To the Noble Gentleman, and my much honoured friend, Robert Caluert Esquire, of Mount Caluert in Ireland.  
HAd I as many several mouths as fame,  
I could not ever honour thy good Name:  
Did Maroes Muse my weak invention move,  
I should want Art t' express engaged love.  
Yet hope persuades me, as these lines you read  
You'll take my good endeavour for a deed:  
Although I know to write I am unfit  
In Words, in Muse, in Method, and in Wit.   

The eleventh of November, the sun enters into Sagittarius, Or the Archer. Sagittarius; November.  
THus Luna's brother lower doth descend,  
And at the Archer rests his radiant wain,  
Now winter's bitter blasting storms contend  
T' assault our hemisphere, with might and main.  
The fields and trees disrobed all again,  
Stark naked stripped of herbs, of flowers, of fruits,  
And now the Lord, the Loon, the Sir, the Swain  
Against the freeze, of freeze make winter suits.  
Now chirping birds are all turned tongueless mutes,  
And Shepherd swains to sheephouse drives their sheep.  
Hot controversies now are in disputes  
At Westminster, where such a coil they keep;  
Where man, doth man within the law be toss,  
Till some go crosselesse home by woodcocks cross.   

To the honourable Gentleman Master William Ramsaye, one his of majesties Bedchamber. WILLIAM RAMSAYE.  
Anagramma. I am always merry.  
YOur Name doth with your Anagram agree,  
And Heavens confirm my wish acomplisht be,  
That you in Noble Actions never be weary,  
But as your Name Includes be Always merry.   

The eleventh of December, the sun enters into Capricorn, Or the Goat. Capricornus. December.  
APollo hath atained his lowest seat,  
And now the shortness of his race is such,  
That though his Glory for a time be great:  
He gives his sister Cynthia twice as much.  
Now is the welcom'st time of all the year,  
Now die the oxen and the fatted hogs,  
Now merry Christmas fills the world with cheer,  
And chimneys smoke with burning log, on logs.  
He that's a miser all the year beside  
Will revel now, and for no cost will spare,  
A pox hang sorrow, let the world go slide:  
Le's eat and drink, and cast away all care.  
Thus when Apollo's at the horned Goat,  
He makes all Christendom with mirth to float.   

To the Noble Gentleman my especial good friends Sir William Moray, Lord of Aberca●ny. WILLIAM MORAY.  
Anagramma. I Amm Royal Wil  
LEt all the world to changing be inclined,  
Yet you will always bear A Royal mind.   

The tenth of january the sun enters into Aquarius, Or the sign of the Waterbearer. Aquarius. january.  
THe Glorious Great Extinguisher of Night  
Immures his bright translucent golden head,  
And from his Radiant seem he doth alight.  
To rest his steeds in cold Aquarius bed.  
Now hoary frost, hath Tellus sat or'espread,  
And chilling numbness whets the shaving air,  
All vegetable creatures now seem dead  
Like cureless cures past and repast repair:  
Frigidius janus twofold frozen face  
Turns moist Aquarius into congealed ice:  
Though by the fires warm side the pot have place:  
Of winter's wrath it needs must know the price.  
At last days burning torch, again takes horse,  
And into wetter weather makes his course.   

To the Noble Gentleman Master Robert hay, one of the Gentlemen of his majesties honourable bedchamber.  
RIght worthy Sir, if aught that I have writ  
Were worth your reading, 'twere some sign of wit.  
I have a few friends, and amongst the rest  
You being one, the best will judge the best.   

The ninth of February, the sun enters into Pisces, Or the sign of the two fishes. Pisces. February.  
NOw snow, and rain, and hail, and slavering fleet,  
(The Delphean God hath sucked from sea and land.  
With exhalations) on the earth they greet:  
Poured down by Iris liberal hand,  
If foul faced February keep 〈◊〉 touch.  
He makes the toiling Ploughman's proverb right;  
By night, by day, by little and by much,  
It fills the ditch, with either black or white  
And as the hard co●●●●●ed butting Ram  
At setting forth was Titan's daintiest dish:  
So to conclude his feasting with a mess of fish.  
And long in Pisces he doth not remain,  
But leaves the fish, and falls to flesh again.   

To the Honourable Sir Thomas Ridgewaye Knight Baronet, Treasurer at Wars in Ireland, etc. Thomas Ridgewaye. Anagramma. God Arms thy way. Again, Age is made worthy.  
THough sin and Hell work mortals to betray,  
Yet 'gainst their malice still, God Arms thy way.  
when life and lands, and all away must fade,  
By Noble actions, Age is worthy made.    

Certain Sonnets made in the form of Aequivoques: on the destruction of Troy.  

WHen Helen was for Priam's son a mate.  
From Greece bereft, by Paris and his Band:  
Which caused the greeks, the Trojan minds amate,  
Some cursed the boy; and other some they band  
The strumpet Queen, which brought the burning brand,  
That Illium fired, and wracked old Priam's Race:  
And on their Names long living shame did brand,  
(For headstrong lust runs an unbounded Race.)  
This beauteous piece, whose features radiant blaze,  
Made Menelaus horn-mad war to wage:  
And set all Troy in a combustious blaze,  
Whose ten years triumphs scarce was worth their wage.  
For all their Conquests, and their battering Rams,  
Their leaders, most returned, with heads like Rams.   

To the noble Gentleman Sir Oliver Saint-Iohn.  
Anagramma hearts join in love.  
THy loyal service to thy King, doth prove,  
That to thy Country thy heart join in love.   

WIth raging madness and with fury fell,  
Great Diomedes, and Ajax left their Tents,  
And in the throat of death, to blows they fell,  
To make more work for plasters, and for tents.  
With blood imbruing all the Phrygian Clime,  
Whilst men like Autumn leaves drop dying down:  
Where some through blood, and wounds to honour clime  
And some their mangled limbs bestrowes the down:  
Whilst Paris, with his Helen in his Arms  
Embraces her about the wasteful waste:  
Saw many a Gallant Knight in burnished Arms,  
Who from their Tents made haste to make more waste:  
Who to their Tents did near return again,  
Thus wars makes gain a loss, and loss a gain.   

To the noble Gentleman, Sir EDWARD BLAINEYE Knight, Governor of Monnaahan in the North of Ireland. EDWARD BLAYNEY  
Anagramma Live and Abide ever.  
THy trusty service hath so oft been tried,  
For which thy fame, live ever and Abide.   

HAd Priam's Queen in Cradle slain her Son  
The lust full Paris (hapless boy) I mean:  
Then Illion's Towers might still have braved the Sun:  
His death to save their lives had been the mean.  
Unlucky luck, when, juno, Venus, Pallas  
Did crave his censure upon Ida Mount:  
Whence sprung the cause that Troy and Priam's Palace  
Were burnt, which erst the skies did seem to mount.  
Had he been drowned, or strangled with a cord,  
He had not robbed Oenone of her heart:  
Or had he died, ere Helen did accord  
With him, to h●●d her husband like a Heart.  
But Troy it is thy fate, this knave and Baggage,  
Confounds thy state, and fires thy bag, and baggage.   

To the worthy Gentleman, Sir HENRY FOLIOT Governor of Balishannon in the North of Ireland. HENRYE FOLIOTT.  
Anagramma. Honour Fit lie.  
THy Honour Fitly to thy worth is fit,  
It Honours thee, and thou dost honour it.   

Troyes' fruitful Queen did many Children bare,  
So brave, heroic, and so slout a Crew:  
Who all in noble actions did accrue,  
When age had made their Parents bald and bare,  
They made their daintlesse courage to appear,  
Amidst the throngs of danger and debate:  
Where wars remorseless stroke killed many a Peer,  
Whilst swords, not words, their counsels did debate:  
But blood on blood, their fury could not sat,  
For fierce Achilles did brave Hector gore:  
To guerdon which, the Grecian in his gore  
Did wallow, whilst the Troyans' laughing sat.  
Thus did Achilles bid the world adiewe  
For Hector's death, Revenge did claim a due.   

To the Right worshipful and worthy Gentleman, Sir Simon Weaston of Litchfield in the County of Stafford Knight. SIMON WESTON.  
Anagramma Mowntes Zion.  
MOwnts Zion figures that surmounting place,  
Where virtue's Mownt unto the throne of grace.   

TEn weary years these bloody broils did last,  
Until the Greeks had formed a wooden steed:  
Which they on Priam would bestow at last,  
(When force prevails not, falsehood stands in steed.)  
False Simon (who so well could forge a lie,  
Whose traitorous eyes shed many a treacherous tear)  
Knew well that in the horse's womb did lie  
The wolves that Troy did all in pieces tear.  
Polyxena, Achilles' dear bought dear  
Was hew'de in gobbets on her lovers grave:  
King, Queen, and Troy, for Helen paid too dear,  
All felt the Grecian Rage, both young and grave.  
To Kings, and Commons, death's alike, all one,  
Except AEneas who escaped alone.   

To the truly virtuous Lady, MARRY WESTON wife to Sir Simon Weston Knight. MARRY WESTON.  
Anagramma. I Won Me a Rest.  
WHere true borne worths Innated in the breast,  
There always goodness wins Eternal rest.    

Certain Sonnets: variously composed upon divers subjects.  

Sonnet. 1. True Nobility.  
GReat is the glory of the Noble mind  
Where life and death, are equal in respect:  
If fates be good or bad, unkind or kind,  
Not proud in freedom, nor in thrall deject;  
With courage scorning fortune's worst effect,  
And spitting in foul envies cankered face.  
True honour thus doth base thoughts subject  
Esteeming life a slave, that serves disgrace.  
Fowl abject thoughts, become the mind that's base,  
That deems there is no better life than this,  
Or after death doth fear a worse place,  
Where guilt is paid the guerdon of Amiss.  
But let swollen envy swell until she burst,  
The Noble mind defies her to her worst.   

To the Noble Gentleman, Sir ROBERT RIDGEWAY Knight, son and Heir to Sir Thomas Ridgeway Knight Baronet. ROBERT RIDGEWAYE.  
Anagramma. I Regard, obey virtue.  
THough Thousands vainly pass their time away,  
Time I Regard, and Virtue I obey.   

LO thus the burden of Adulterous guilt,  
I showering vengeance, Troy and Troyans' saw:  
No Age, no sex, no beauty, Gold or guilt  
Withstood, foretold Cassandra's saced saw.  
She often said, false Helen's beauties blast  
Should be the cause the mighty Grecian power,  
Their names, and fames, with infamy should blast,  
And how the Gods on them would vengeance power.  
But poor Cassandra, prophesied in vain,  
She clamorous cries, (as 'twere) to senseless Rocks.  
The youths of Troy, in merry scornful vein.  
Securely slept, whilst lust the cradle rocks.  
Till bloody burning Indignation came,  
And all their mirth with mourning overcame.   

To the worthy and virtuous Lady, the Lady Elizabeth Ridgeway, wife to Sir Rob. Ridgewaye. ELIZABETH RIDGEWAYE.  
Anagramma. I bide, Agree with Zeal.  
THe Subjects of th' Almighty's Commonweal,  
They all in one Abide, Agree with zeal.   

Sonnet. 2. Envy and Honour.  
COuld Envy die, if Honour were deceased,  
She could not live, for Honour's envies food:  
She lives by sucking of the Noble blood,  
And scales the lofty top of Fame's high Crest.  
Base thoughts compacted in the Abject breast,  
The Meager Monster doth nor harm, nor good:  
But like the wane, or wax, of ebb or flood,  
She shuns as what her gorge doth most detest;  
Where heaven bred honour in the Noble mind,  
From out the Caverns of the breast proceeds:  
There helborne Envy shows her hellish kind,  
And Vulturlike upon their actions feeds,  
But here's the ode, that Honour's tree shall grow,  
When Envies rotten stump shall burn in woe.   

To the noble Knight, Sir Francis Willoughby, son and heir to Sir Percivall Willoughby, Knight of Wollerton in the County of Nottinghame. FRANCIS WILLOUGHBYE.  
Anagramma. Lou Will Banish Grief.  
SAd sorrow may assault men, like a thief,  
But spite of Envy (love will Banish Grief.)   

Sonnet. 3. Beauty's lustre.  
Due drinking Phoebus hid his golden head,  
Balm-breathing Zephyrus lay close immured:  
The silly Lambs and kids, lay all as dead  
Skies, earth and seas, all solace had abjured.  
Poor men, and beasts, to toilsome tasks enured  
In drooping manner spent the drowsy day:  
All but the Owl, whose safety night assured,  
She gladly cuts the air with whooting lay.  
When lo the blossom of my blooming May  
From out her Couch maiestickly doth rise:  
Then Titan doth his radiant beams display.  
And clouds are vanished from the vaulty skies.  
Sweet Zephirs gales reviveth beasts and men,  
Madge Owlet scuds unto her nest again.   

To the Virtuous Lady, and wife to Sir Francis Willoughby Knight. CASSANDRAE WILLOUGHBYE.  
Anagramma. Wish Grace Above All ends.  
THe power of Heaven to me such favour sends  
That I wish Grace Above all other ends.   

Sonnet. 4. Hope and Despair.  
Domestic broils my tortured heart invades  
Twixt wavering Hope, and desperate black Despair:  
To prosecute my suit the one persuades,  
The other frustrates all my hopes with cares  
Hope sets me on, infers she's fairest fair,  
How deire disdain doth dwell in foulest Cells,  
And fell despair, calls beauty envies heir:  
Which torments me more than ten thousand hells.  
Lo thus my former hope, despair expels  
Midst which extremes what's best for me to do:  
In open arms, despair 'gainst me rebels,  
Hope traytorlike gives free consent thereto.  
And till these traitors twain consume my city  
I restless rest, to rest upon her pity.   

To the Right worshipful Master George Caluert Esquire, one of the Clerks of his majesties privy Counsel. GEORG CALVERT.  
Anagramma. Grace got rule.  
WIt, Wisdom, Learning, Virtue, all agree  
That in thy breast their Mansiion house shall be.   

Sonnet. 5. Three blind Commanders.  
Blind fortune, sightless love, and eyeless death  
Like Great Triumue'rs sways this earthly room,  
Man's actions, affections, and very breath:  
Are in subjection to their fatal doom.  
there's nothing past, or present, or to come  
That in their purblind power is not comprizd,  
From crown, to cart, from cradle to the tomb  
All are by them defamed, or eternized:  
Why should we then esteem this doting life  
(That's in the guideance of such blindfold rule)  
Whose chiefest peace, is a continual strife  
Whose gaudy pomps the pack, and man the Mule,  
Which lives long day, he bears, as he is able,  
Till deaths black night, doth make the grave his stable?   

To the worthy Gentleman Captain Arthur Basset in Ireland. ARTHUR BASSET.  
Anagramma. Be as true hearts.  
True virtue mixed with valour, Arms with Arts  
And all Innate in thee, be as true hearts.   

Sonnet. 6. Another of the praise of music.  
'tWas Music fetched Eurydice from hell,  
And raped grim Pluto with harmonious strains:  
Renowned Orpheus did with Music quell  
The fiends, and ease the tortured of their pains.  
The Dolphin did account it wondrous gains  
To hear Arion play as he did ride:  
Gods, fiends, fish, fowls, and sheapherds on the plains  
Melodious Music still hath magnifide:  
And ancient records plainly do decide,  
How brave Orlando Palatine of France,  
When he was raging mad for Meadors bride  
Sweet Music cured his crazed wits mischance.  
For musics only fit for Heavens high choir,  
Which though men cannot praise enough, admire.   

To the worshipful Master Francis Ansleye of Dublinne in Ireland Esquire. FRANCIS ANSLEYE.  
Anagramma. Life's Cares Vaynn.  
HE that to Life Eternal will Attain  
Must ever here esteem, this, Life's Cares Vainn.   

Sonnet. 7. The Map of Misery.  
LIke to the stone that's cast in deepest wave,  
That rests not till the bottom it hath sound,  
So I (a wretch) enthralled in sorrows cave,  
With woe and desperations fetters bound:  
The captive slave imprisoned under ground  
Doom'b, there by fates t' expire his woeful days:  
With care o'erwhelmed, with grief and sorrow drowned,  
Makes mournful moning, and lamenting lays,  
Accusing, and accursing fortunes plays,  
Whose withered Autumn leavelesse leaves his tree,  
And banning death for his to long delays,  
Remains the only poor despised he.  
If such a one as this, the world confine,  
His mischiefs are a sport, compared with mine.   

To the Right worshipful and worthy Gentleman Master Henry Cooley of Carbye in the County of Kiluare, in Ireland.  
RIght worthy Sir, I pray the powers above,  
To make thy fortunes equal to my love.   

To the Noble and virtuous Lady, the Lady Cecillia Ridgeway, wife to the honourable Knight Sir Thomas Ridgeway Knight Baronet.  
MOre happy, and more worthy scarce is any  
Wife to a worthy mother unto many:  
Whose actions shows, they from a stock did spring,  
Which taught them serve their heaven and earthly King.   

Sonnet. 8. In praise of music.  
NO Poet crowned with everliving bays  
(Though Art like floods should from his knowledge flow)  
He could not write enough in musics praise:  
To which both man and Angels love do owe  
If my bare knowledge ten times more did know,  
And had engrossed all art from Pernas hill:  
If all the Muses should their skills bestow  
On me to amplify my barren skill:  
I might attempt in show of my good will,  
In musics praise some idle lines to write:  
But wanting judgement and my accent ill,  
I still should be unworthy to indite.  
And run my wit on ground, like ship on shealfe  
For musics praise consisteth in itself.   

To the worthy Gentleman, and my very good friend, Master john Blencowe, of Greies' Inn. Anagramma. Noble in each wo.  
LEt fortune when she dares but prove thy foe,  
In spite of fate, th' art Noble in each woe.    

A cataplasmical Satire, composed and compacted of sundry simples, as salt, vinegar, wormwood, and a little gall, very profitable to cure the imposlumes of vice.  
A Savage rough haired Satire, needs no guide,  
where's no way, from the way he cannot slide:  
Then have amongst you, through the brakes and bries,  
From those who to the Ceders top aspires  
Unto the lowest shrub, or branch of broom,  
That hath his breeding from earth's teeming womb.  
And now I talk of broom, of shrubs and ceadars  
Me thinks a world of trees are now my leaders:  
To prosecute this travel of my pen,  
And make comparison twixt trees and men,  
The Ceadars, and the high cloud kissing Pines,  
Fecundious olives, and the crooked wines:  
The Elm, the Ash, the Oak, the Masty Beech,  
The Pear, the Apple, and the rug gownd peach:  
And many more, for it would tedious be  
To name each fruitful and unfruitful tree.  
But to proceed, to show how men, and trees  
In birth, in breed, in life, and death agrees:  
In their beginnings they have all one birth,  
Both have their natural being from the earth,  
And heavens high hand, (where he doth please to bless  
Makes trees, or men, or fruitful, or fruitless.  
In sundry uses trees do serve man's turn  
To build, t' adorn, to feed, or else to burn.  
Thus is man's state in all degrees like theirs,  
Some are got up to th' top of honour's stairs,  
Securely sleeping on opinions pillow,  
Yet as unfruitful, as the fruitless willow.  
And fill up rooms, (like worthless trees in woods)  
Whose goodness all consists in ill got goods:  
He like the Cedar makes a goodly show,  
But no good fruit will from his greatness grow  
Until he die, and from his goods depart,  
And then gives all away, despite his heart.  
Then must his friends, with mourning cloth be clad  
With insides merry, and with outsides sad:  
What though by daily grinding of the poor  
By bribry and extortion got his store:  
Yet at his death he gowns some four score men,  
And 'tis no doubt he was a good man then?  
Though in his life he thousands hath undone  
To make wealth to his cursed coffers run:  
If at his burial groats a piece be given,  
I'll warrant you his souls in hell, or heaven:  
And for this dole perhaps the beggars strives  
That in the throng seventeen do lose their lives:  
Let no man tax me here with writing lies  
For what is writ I saw with mine own eyes.  
Thus men like barren trees are field and lopped,  
And in the fire to burn are quickly popped:  
Some man perhaps whilst he on earth doth live,  
Part of his vain superfluous wealth will give:  
To build of Almshouses some twelve or ten,  
Or more or less, to harbour aged men:  
Yet this may nothing be to that proportion,  
Of wealth which he hath gotten by extortion.  
What ist for man (his greedy mind to serve)  
To be the cause that thousands die and starve:  
And in the end, like a vain glorious thief,  
Will give some ten or twelve a poor relief?  
Like robbers on the way, that take a purse,  
And give the poor a mite to scape God's curse.  
But know this thou, whose goods are badly gotten,  
When thou art in thy grave consumed and rotten,  
Thine heir (perhaps) will feast with his sweet punk,  
And Dice, and Drabe, and every day be drunk,  
Carousing Indian Trinidado smoke,  
Whilst thou with Sulphurous flames art like to choke.  
See, se yond gallant in the Cloak-bag breech,  
He's nothing but a trunk crammed full of speech:  
He'll swear as if 'gainst heaven he wars would wage,  
And meant to pluck down Phoebus in his rage:  
When let a man but try him, he's all oaths,  
And odious lies, wrapped in unpaid for clothes.  
And this Lad is a Roaring boy forsooth.  
An exc'llent morsel for the hangman's tooth.  
He carelessly consumes his golden pelf,  
In getting which his Father damned himself.  
Whose soul, (perhaps) in quenchless fire doth broil,  
Whilst on the earth his son keeps level coil.  
'tis strange to Church what numbers daily flock  
To drink the spring of the eternal Rock:  
The great soul saving, Satan slaying word,  
'Gainst sin, death, hell, th' alconquering sacred sword,  
Where high jehovahs' Trumpeters sound forth  
From East to West, from South unto the North:  
(For through all lands their Embasseyes are borne,  
And never doth again in vain return:)  
Which either is of life to life the savour,  
Or death to death, exiled from God's sweet favour:  
Which bliss or bane their's many daily hears,  
Who leave their hearts at home, and bring their ears,  
And lest their reckless heads, the word should smother,  
As soon as't enters t'one, it's out at tother.  
For let a Preacher preach until he sweats,  
Denouncing heavens great wrath in thundering threats  
'Gainst sin and sinners: 'Gainst high hearted pride,  
'Gainst murder which hath oft for vengeance cried,  
Or envy, lechery, Avarice, or swearing,  
Or any other vice they'll give the hearing,  
And say the Preacher wondrous pains did take,  
And did a very learned Sermon make:  
But what good Reformation hence proceeds,  
Are Mountain words, and little Mole hill deeds.  
Tell Vsrers they are banished from God's hill,  
Yet they'll continue in extortion still.  
Tell the proud Courtier, that he is but earth,  
He'll o'er the poor insult and brag of birth.  
Expostulate the great Almighty's Ire,  
And tell the murderer, hell shall be his hire,  
Yet e'er he'll pocket up the least disgrace,  
His enemies' guts shall be his Rapier's case.  
Tell daily drunkard's hell shall be their lot,  
they'll knock and call to have the other pot.  
Tell Panders, Bawds, knaves, and adulteous whores  
How they in hell must pay their cursed scores.  
Tell Miser chuffs who charity do banish,  
How they from heaven, eternally must vanish.  
Tell all in general of their lives amiss,  
And tell them that hell's bottomless Abyss  
Must be their portions if they not repent,  
Till true repentance heavens just wrath prevent.  
Yet when the Preacher all he can hath told,  
Souls unto sin are daily bought and sold.  
The Miser with his lechery of Chink,  
On earth will give his dropsy soul to drink,  
And though the word beat on his anvil heart,  
From Usury and Extortion he'll not part,  
The piebald Gallant to the Church will come  
To hear his soul's salvations total sum.  
Yet his high pride is in such haughty dotage,  
Forgets he's sprung from a poor country Cottage.  
The murderer hears how reprobated Cain  
Was cursed of God, that had his brother slain,  
Yet when he's from the Church, forgets it all,  
And stabs a man for taking of the wall.  
Should I through all men's several actions run,  
I know my business never would be done.  
The rich man hates the poor man, and the poor  
Doth ewie 'gainst the rich man for his store.  
Thus is the blessed souls everliving bread,  
In bounteous measure all the earth or'espread:  
Some on the high way fall and takes no root,  
But is of no esteem trodden under foot:  
Some falls on stones, and some alights on thorns,  
Devoured with fowls, or choked with scoffs or scorns.  
Some little portion falls in fruitful ground,  
Th'increase of which is to be seldom found.  
For let men weigh their good deeds with their bad,  
For thousand ills, one good will scarce be had.  
And yet no doubt but God in store doth keep  
His near dear children, his best flock of sheep.  
For though unto the world they are not known,  
Yet 'tis sufficient God doth know his own.  
For though Elias thought himself was all  
That had not offered sacrifice to Ball:  
jehovah answered him, seven thousand more,  
In Israel, did this Idol not Adore.  
But who so much in this vile life are hated,  
As those which to salvation are created.  
For let a man resraine to drab or dice,  
Out fie upon him then, he's too precise.  
Let him forbear to lie, to swear, or ban,  
O hang him rascal, he's a Puritan.  
And sure I think the Devil by that false name  
Hath added thousands souls unto his flame.  
Some man ere he'll be called a Puritan  
Will turn a damned Machiavilian,  
A Libertine, Papist, or else what not,  
To keep his name from so impure a blot.  
I speak not this regarding their estate,  
Who from our Church themselves do separate,  
For good indifferent Ceremonious rites,  
And 'gainst our Church's government backbites.  
Nor do I praise the loving Sister's love,  
Who often makes the Brethren's spirits move,  
And if 'twere lawful (they would gladly know)  
To dress their meat the Sabbath day or no.  
And wherefore now the Churchmen of these days,  
Ride too and fro, to preach so many ways,  
When Christ to his Apostles gave in charge  
That they should seek and teach all nations large,  
The way, that in his Laws they might abide,  
Christ bade them go, he bade them not to ride.  
These Idle questionists, these schismatics,  
I hold no better than rank heretics:  
But this I think not well, when honest hearts  
Shall have this impure name without deserts.  
How then can my comparing be gainstood,  
For men are like to trees, some bad, some good.  
But tarry Satire, thou too fast dost troth,  
There is one thing more I had almost forgot,  
And this is it, of Alehouses, and Inns,  
Wine Merchants, Vintners, Brewers, who much wins  
By others losing, I say more or less  
Who sail of hufcap lick or do profess,  
Should never be to any office called.  
Or in no place of justice be installed:  
The reason is they gain by men's excess  
Of devilish quafting and damned drunkenness.  
For why, should men be moderate in their drink.  
Much Beer, and bottle Ale should stand and stink:  
And Mounseir Claret, and sweet Signior Sack  
Would sour and turn unto the Merchant's wrack?  
The Vintners then within their sellers deep  
Such conjuring at midnight would not keep.  
This swinish sin hath man of sense bereaven,  
To bandy balls of blasphemy 'gainst heaven.  
It is the way, the door, the porch, the gate,  
All other vices enter in thereat.  
A drunken man in rage will stab his brother,  
He'll Cuckold his own father, whore his mother,  
Revile and curse, swear, and speak dangerous treason,  
And when he's sober, hangs for't by the weasand.  
How then should men a reformation give,  
To mend those crimes, that by those Crimes do live.  
The Patriarch Noah first did plant the Vine,  
And first did feel the powerful force of wine.  
And righteous Lot, by wine deprived of wit,  
Fowl Incest with his daughter did commit.  
And Holophernes drunken lay in bed  
Whilst strong faithed, weak armed judith cut of's head.  
Great Alexander out his Falchion drew  
And being drunk, his best friend Clitus slew.  
If every hair upon the heads of men  
Were quills, and every quill were made a pen:  
Were Earth to paper turned; and Seas to Ink  
And all the world were writers, yet I think,  
They could not write the mischiefs done by drink.  
And such a custom men hath ta'en therein,  
That to be drunk, is scarce accounted sin,  
But houest recrearive merriment  
The time is termed that is in tippling spent.  
A merchants ship is richly fraught, arrives  
And for thanksgiving that so well he thrives,  
He makes a feast, and store of money spends,  
Invites his kinsfolk, creditors, and friends:  
Where storms, and Rocks, and Pirates, are forgot,  
And triumphs made to Bacchus, and the Pot.  
A Rich man's wife's delivered of a boy,  
And all the household must be drunk for joy.  
The prisoner that's condemned to die and hang,  
And by reprieve hath scaped that bitter pang,  
Will presently his old acquaintance call,  
And ere he gives God thanks to drinking fall.  
Why drunkards common are, as lies, or stealing,  
And sober men are scarce, like honest dealing.  
When men do meet, the second word that's spoke,  
Is where's good liquor, and a pipe of smoke.  
The labouring man that for his hire doth serve,  
Let Landlord tarry, wife and children starve  
With not a bit of bread within the house,  
Yet he'll sit on the Alebench and carows.  
Thus like an Inundation drink doth drown  
The Rich, the Poor, the Courtier, and the Clown.  
Since then to be a drunkard, is to be  
The sink of Incest, and Sodomitry,  
Of Treason, swearing, fight, beg'ry, murder,  
And divers more, I then will go no further:  
But here my Satyrs stinging whip i'll waste  
In lashing dropsy drunkards out of taste.  
How then can it be possible that such  
Who sell Wine, Beer, or Ale, do gain so much,  
Should punish drunkards, as the Law commands,  
In whose vain spending, their most gaining stands.  
It were all one as if a Mercer did  
To wear Silk, Velvet, Cloth of Gold forbid.  
And Victuallers may as wisely punish those  
From whom their daily drinks, great gettings grows.  
I would have all old drunkards to consent  
To put a Bill up to the Parliament:  
That those by quaffing that have spent their wealth,  
Consumed their times, their memory, their health,  
And by excessive spending now are bare,  
That Merchants, Brewers, Vintners, should prepare  
Some Hospitals to keep them in their age,  
And cloth, and feed them, from fierce famine's rage,  
For every one whose hard unlucky lots,  
Hath been to be undone by empting pots,  
I hold it fit that those the pots that filled,  
Should contribute those Almshouses to build.  
Yet one objection would this bill debar,  
Too many drunkards there already are;  
And rather than this law would bate their store,  
I feare'twould make them twice as many more.  
For why, to drink most men would be too bold,  
Because they would have pensions being old.  
And men (of purpose to this vice would fall,  
To be true beadsmen to this hospital.  
Then let it be as it already is,  
But yet I hold it not to be amiss)  
Those Drinkesellers, from office to exclude  
And so for that my satire doth conclude.  
I could rip up a Catalogue of things,  
Which thousand thousands to damnation flings,  
But all my pains at last would be but idle.  
It is not man, can men's Affections bridle.  
Sin cannot be put down with ink and paper,  
No more than Sol is lightened with a Taper.   

To the right Worshipful and my ever good friend, Sr. ROWLAND COSTON Knight.  
TO Read, to like, to laugh, I send you this,  
Desiring pardon where their's aught amiss.  
When Graner matters trouble not your head,  
With former favour let my lines be read.   

To my very good Friends Master Alexander Glover, Mr. john Rowdon, and Mr. john Burges.  
THough Rich Pecunia (that all states commands)  
In Numbers numberless runs through your hands:  
Yet this I know, it never moves the mind  
From goodness, that to goodness is inclined.  
And though it makes most men dishonest prove,  
It cannot make your honest minds remove.  
Then as your kindness unto me assures  
Your love, so I remain for ever yours.   

To Mistress Rose. Anagramma SORE.  
SOund Rose, though Sore thy Anagram doth mean,  
Mistake it not, it means no sore unclean:  
But it Alludes unto the lofty sky  
In which thy virtue shall both Sore and sly.   

To my approved good friend Mr. ROBARTE CUDDNER.  
Anagramma: Record and be true.  
MY thoughts Record, and their account is true,  
I scarce have better friends alive than you.   

A nest of Epigrams.  

Fortune. 1.  
'tIs Fortune's glory to keep Poets poor,  
And cram weak witted Idiots with her store:  
And 'tis concluded in the wisest schools  
The blinded drab, shall ever favour fools.   

Epigram 2. love.  
Love is a dying life, a living death.  
A vapour, shadow, bubble, and a breath:  
An idle babble, and a paltry toy,  
Whose greatest Patron is a blinded boy:  
But pardon love, my judgement is unjust,  
For what I spoke of love, I meant of lust.   

Epigram 3. Death.  
THose that scape fortune, and th' extremes of love,  
Unto their longest homes, by death are drove:  
Where Caesar's, Kaesars', Subjects, Abjects must  
Be all alike, consumed to dirt and dust:  
Death endeth all our cares, or cares increase  
It sends us unto lasting pain, or peace.   

Epigram 4. Fame.  
When Fortune, Love & Death their tasks have done  
Fame makes our lives through many ages run:  
For be our living actions, good or ill  
Fame keeps a record of our doings still,  
By Fame Great julius Caesar ever lives;  
And Fame, infamous life to Nero gives.   

Epigram 5. Time.  
ALL making, marring, never turning Time  
To all that is, is period, and is prime:  
Time wears out Fortune, Love, and Death and Fame  
And makes the world forget there proper name.  
there's nothing that so long on earth can last,  
But in conclusion Time will lay it waste.   

Epigram. 6. Kame, kathee.  
MY Muse hath vowed, revenge shall have her swinge  
To catch a Parrot in the Woodcock's springe.   

Epigram 7. Solus.  
THe land yields many Poets, were I gone  
The water sure (I durst be sworn) had none.   

Epigram 8. Self conceit.  
SOme Poets are, whose high pitch lofty strains  
Are passed the reach of every vulgar wight:  
To understand which 'twill amaze weak brains,  
So mystical, sophistical they write:  
No marvel others understand them not,  
For they scarce understand themselves, I wot,   

Epigram 9 A couple.  
ONe read my book, and said it wanted wit,  
I wonder if he meant himself, or it:  
Or both: if both, two fools were met I trow  
That wanted wit, and every fool doth so.   

Epigram 10. Bacchus and Apollo.  
THe thigh-borne bastard of the thrundring jove  
(When men's inventions, are of wit most hollow)  
He with his spiteful juice their spirits doth move,  
Unto the harmonious music of Apollo:  
And in a word, I would have all men know it,  
He must drink wine, that means to be a Poet.   

Epigram 11. Of translation.  
I Understand or know no foreign tongue,  
But their translations I do much admire:  
Much art, much pains, much study doth belong,  
And (at the least) regard should be their hire.  
But yet I would the French had held together  
And kept their pox, and not translate them hither.   

Epigram 12. Nature's counterfeit.  
WHen Adam was in Paradise first placed,  
And with the rule of mortal things was graced,  
Then roses, pinks and fragrant gilly-flowers,  
Adorned and decked forth Eden's blessed bowers:  
But now each Gill wears flowers, each Punk hath pinks,  
And roses garnish Gallants shoes me thinks:  
When rugged Winter, robs fairy Flora's treasure,  
Punks can have pinks and roses at their pleasure.   

Epigram 13. The devil take bribery.  
A Man atached for murdering of a man  
Unto the foreman of his jury sent,  
Two score angels, begging what he can,  
He would his conscience strain, law to prevent:  
That his offences judge, might judge no further  
But make man slaughter of his wilful murder:  
The verduict was manslaughter to the judge,  
The judge demanded how it could be so?  
The foreman said his conscience much did grudge:  
But forty angels did persuade him no,  
Well quoth the judge this case shall murder be,  
If half those angels, not appear to me.  
Thus when the law men to confusion drives,  
The godless angels will preserve their lives.   

Epigram 14. The devil is a knave.  
I Shell dislikes the surplus and the cope,  
And calls them idle vestments of the Pope:  
And mistress Maude would go to Church full feign  
But that the corner cap makes her refrain:  
And Madam Idle is offended deep,  
The Preacher speaks so loud, she cannot sleep:  
Lo thus the devil sows contentious seed,  
Whence sects, and schisms, and heresies do breed.   

Epigram 15. Kissing goes by favour.  
BEmbus the Burgomaster lives in pain  
With the Sciatica, and the Catarrh.  
Rich Grundo of the dropsy doth complain,  
And with the Gout these miser's troubled are.  
If Tinkers, Cobblers, Butchers be infected  
With Bembus Lameness, or with Grundoes' Gout:  
Like pocky fellows they must be rejected,  
And as infectious rascals be kept out,  
And not come near where wholesome people flocks,  
Thus rich men's sicknesses, are poor men's pocks.   

Epigram 16. Dear, no Venison.  
PRecilla always calls her husband Dear,  
Belike she bought him at too dear a rate,  
Or else to make the case more plain appear,  
Like to a Deer she hath adorned his pate;  
If it be so god Vulcan send her luck  
That she may live to make her Deer a Buck.   

Epigram 17. everything is pretty when it is little.  
THere is a saying old, (but not so witty)  
That when a thing is little, it is pretty:  
This doting age of ours it finely fits  
Where many men thought wise, have pretty wies.   

Epigram 18. ●●●e●ne somewhat.  
ONe asked me, what my Melancholy means,  
I answered 'twas because I wanted means:  
He asked what I did by my answer mean,  
I told him still my means were too too mean.  
He offered me to lend me pounds a score,  
I answered him I was to much in score.  
He finding me in this cross answ'ring vain,  
Left me in want to wish for wealth in vain.   

Epigram 19 Faith without works.  
AMmongst the pure reformed Amsterdamers,  
(Those faithful friday feasting capon cranmers)  
Only in them (they say) true faith doth lurk:  
But 'tis a lazy faith, 'twill do no work.  
O should it work, there's many thousand fears,  
'Twould set the world together by the ears.   

Epigram 20. Partiality.  
STrato the Gallant reels alongst the street,  
His addle head's too heavy for his feet:  
What though he swear and swagger spurn and kick,  
Yet men will say the Gentleman is sick?  
And that 'twere good to learn where he doth dwell,  
And help him home because he is not well.  
Straight staggers by a Porter, or a Carman  
As bumsie as a foxed flap-dragon German:  
And though the Gentleman's disease and theirs,  
Are parted only with a pair of shears:  
Yet they are drunken knaves and must toth' stocks,  
And there endure a world of flouts and mocks.  
Thus when brave Strato's wits with wine are shrunk,  
The same disease will make a beggar drunk.   

Epigram 21. A keeper of honesty.  

DEliro should of honesty be full,  
And store of wisdom surely is within him.  
What though he dally with a painted trull:  
And she to folly daily seems to win him,  
Yet in him sure is honesty good store,  
He utters but his knavery with a whore?   

For he that spends too free, shall surely want,  
Whilst he that spares will live in wealthy state:  
So wit and honesty, with such are scant,  
Who part with it at every idle rate:  
But men must needs have honesty and wit,  
That like Deliro never utter it.    

Epigram 22. All's one, but on's not all.  
TO wonder and admire is all one thing,  
If as Sinonymies the words be took,  
But if a double meaning from them spring:  
For double sense your judgement then must look.  
As once a man all soiled with dirt and mire  
Fell down, and wondered not, but did admire.   

Epigram 23. Mistress fine bones.  
FIne Rarnell wonderfully likes her choice  
In having got a husband so complete,  
Whose shape and mind doth wholly her rejoice:  
At bed, board, and abroad, he's always neat:  
Neat can he talk, and feed, and neatly tread,  
Neat are his feet, but most neat is his head.   

Epigram 24. A supposed Construction.  
Marry and Mare, Anagramatized  
The one is Army, and the other Arm  
In both their names is danger Moralised  
And both alike, doth sometimes good, or harm  
mere's the sea and mere's arm's a river  
And mary's army's all for whatl'ye give her.   

Epigram 25. Death is a juggler.  
A Rich man sick would needs go make his will  
And in the same he doth command and will  
One hundred pound unto his man called Will,  
Because he always served him with good will:  
But all these wills, did prove to Will but vain,  
His master lives and hath his health again.   

Epigram 26. Mistress Grace only by name.  
GRace graceless, why art thou ungracious Grace,  
Why dost thou run so lewdly in the race?  
The cause wherefore thy goodness is so scant  
Is cause, what most thou hast, thou most dost want.   

Epigram 27. Prudence.  
'tIs strange that Prudence should be wild and rude,  
Whose very name doth Modesty include:  
The reason is, for aught that I can see,  
Her name and nature doth not well agree.   

Epigram 28. Mercy.  
MY Mercy hates me, what's the cause I pray,  
'tis cause I have no money, she doth say.  
O cruel Mercy now I plainly see  
Without a see no mercy comes from thee.  
Yet in conclusion, every idle gull  
Perceives Mercy is unmerciful.   

Epigram 29. Faith.  
O Faith thou always unbelieving art,  
Faith in thy name, and faithless in thy heart.  
Thou credidst all, but what is true and good,  
In virtue rude, in vice well understood.   

Epigram 30. Upon myself.  
Myself I liken to an vntun'de Viol,  
For Like a Viol I am in a Case;  
And who so of my fortunes makes a trial  
Shall (like to me) be strung and tuned base.  
And Treables Troubles he shall never want,  
But here's the Period of my mischiefs All,  
Though Base and Trebles, fortune did me grant  
And Means, but yet alas they are too small.  
Yet to make up the Monk & I must look  
The Tenor in the cursed Counter book.   

Epigram 31. A Rope for Parrot.  
WHy doth the Parrot cry a Rope, a rope,  
Because he's cagde in prison out of hope.  
Why doth the Parrot call a Boat, a Boat?  
It is the humour of his idle note.  
O pretty Pall, take heed, beware the Cat,  
(Let Watermen alone, no more of that.)  
Since I so idly heard the Parrot talk,  
In his own language, I say, walk knave walk.   

Epigram 32 Constants.  
INconstant Constants albewitching feature,  
Hath made fair Constance an inconstant Creature,  
Her Godmother was very much to blame,  
To give Inconstancy a constant name.  
But was a woman named her so contrary,  
And women's tongues and hearts do ever vary.   

Epigram 33 Upon the burning of the Globe.  
ASpiring Phaeton with pride inspired,  
Misguiding Phoebus' Car, the world the fired:  
But Ovid did with fiction serve his turn,  
And I in action saw the Globe to burn.   

Epigram 34. Late Repentance.  
A Greedy wretch did on the Scriptures look,  
And found recorded in that Sacred book,  
How such a man with God should sure prevail  
Who clad the naked, and visit those in jail.  
And then he found how he had long mistaked,  
And oftentimes had made the clothed naked:  
In steed of visiting th'oppressed in moans,  
He had consumed them to the very bones.  
Yet one day he at leisure would Repent,  
But sudden death Repentance did prevent.   

Epigram 35. Not so strange as true.  
THe stately Stag when he his horns hath shed,  
In sullen sadness he deplores his loss:  
But when a wife cornutes her husband's head,  
His gains in horns he holds an extreme Crosse.  
The Stag by loase doth his loss complain,  
The man by gaining doth lament his gain.  
Thus whether horns be either lost or found,  
They both the loser and the winner wound.   

Epigram 36. A Wordmonger.  
Man's understanding's so obnubilate,  
That when thereon I do excogitate,  
intrinsical and querimonious pains,  
Doth puluerise the concave of my brains,  
That I could wish man were unfabricate,  
His faults he doth so much exaggerate.   

Epigram 37. Plain dunstable.  
YOur words pass my capatchity, good zur,  
But ich to prove need never to go vur:  
Cha known men live in honest exclamation,  
Who now God wot, lives in a worse fashion.  
The poor man grumbles at the rich man's store,  
And rich men daily do express the poor.   

Epigram 38. Reason.  
KNowest thou a Traitor, plotting damned Treason,  
Reveal him, 'tis both loyalty and Reason.  
Knowest thou a thief will steal at any season,  
To shun his company thou hast good reason,  
Seest thou a villain hang up by the weasand,  
He hangs by reason, that he wanted reason.  
Good men are scarce, and honest men are geason,  
To love them therefore 'tis both right and reason,  
Mere I could say, but all's not worth two peason,  
And therefore to conclude I hold it reason.   

Epigram 39 Out of the pan into the fire.  
TOm senseless, to the death doth hate a play:  
But yet he'll play the drunkard every day,  
He rails at plays, and yet doth ten times worse,  
He'll dice, he'll bowl, he'll whore, he'll swear, he'll curse,  
When for one two pence (if this humour please)  
He might go see a play, and scape all these:  
But 'tis man's use in these pestiferous times  
To hate the least, and love the greatest crimes.   

Epigram 40. A Poet's similitude.  
A Poet Rightly may be termed fit  
An abstract, or Epitome of wit:  
Or like a Lute that others pleasures breed,  
Is fret and strung, their curious ears to feed,  
That scornfully distaste it, yet 'tis known  
It makes the hearers sport, but in self none.  
A Poet's like a taper, burnt by night  
That wastes itself, in giving others light.  
A Poet's the most fool beneath the skies,  
He spends his wits in making Idiots wise,  
Who when they should their thankfulness return  
They pay him with disdain, contempt and scorn.  
A Puritan is like, a Poet's purse,  
For both do hate the cross (what cross is worse?)   

Epigram 41. Macanas Epitaph.  
Here lies the Steward of the Poet's God,  
Who whilst on earth his loved life abode,  
Apollo's Daughters, and the heirs of jove  
His memorable bounty did approve:  
His life, was life to Poets, and his Death  
Bereaved the Muses of celestial breath.  
Had Phoebus fired him from the lofty skies,  
That Phoenix like another might arise  
From our his odoriff'rus sacred embers,  
Whose loved lives loss, poor Poetry remembers.    

This line is the same backward, as it is forward, and I will give any man five shillings a piece for as many as they can make in English.  
Lewd did I live and evil I did dwell.   

An Apology for Watermen.  
Dedicated to Master Richard WARNER the Master of his majesties Barge, and to the rest of the Masters and Assistants of the Company.  
Such imputations, and such daily wrongs  
Are laid on Watermen, by Envious tongues.  
To clear the which, if I should silent be  
'Twere baseness, and stupidity in me.  
Nor do I purpose now with ink and pen,  
To write of them, as they are watermen,  
But this I speak, defending their vocation  
From slanders false, and idle imputation.  
Yet should I only of the men but speak  
I could the top of envies Coxcomb break.  
For I would have all men to understand  
A Waterman's a man by Sea or Land.  
And on the land and sea, can service do  
To serve his King, as well as other two:  
He'll guard his Country both on seas and shore  
And what (a God's name) can a man do more.  
Like double men they well can play indeed  
The Soldiers, and the Sailors for a need.  
If they did yearly use to scour the Main,  
As erst they did, in wars twixt us and Spain,  
I then to speak, would boldly seem to dare  
One sailor with two Soldiers should compare.  
But now sweet peace their skill at Sea so dulls,  
That many are more sit to use their skulls  
Then for the sea, for why! the want of use  
Is Art's confusion, and best skills abuse.  
And not to be too partial in my words,  
I think no Company more knaves affords:  
And this must be the reason, because far  
Above all Companies their numbers are:  
And where the multitude of men most is,  
By consequence there must be most amiss.  
And sure of honest men it hath as many,  
As any other Company hath any.  
Though not of wealth they have super fluous store,  
Contents is a Kingdom, and they seek no more.  
Of Mercers, Grocers, Drapers, men shall find  
Men that to loose babaviour are inclined.  
Of Goldsmiths, Silkemen, Clothworkers, and Skinners,  
When they are at the best they all are sinners.  
And drunken rascals are of every Trade,  
Should I name all, I o'er the boots should wade?  
If Watermen be only knaves alone,  
Let all that's faultless cast at them a stone.  
Some may reply to my Apology:  
How they in plying are unmannerly,  
And one from tother, hale, and pull, and tear,  
And raise, and brawl, and curse, and ban, and swear.  
In this i'll not defend them with excuses,  
I always did, and do hate those abuses.  
The honest use, of this true trade I sing,  
And not the abuses that from thence do spring.  
And sure no Company hath Laws more strict,  
Then Watermen, which weekly they inflict  
Upon offenders, who are made pay duly  
Their fines, or prisoned, cause they plied unruly.  
They keep no shops, nor sell deceitful wares,  
But like to Pilgrim's travel for their fares,  
And they must ask the question where they go.  
If men will go by water yea or no  
Which being spoke aright, the fault's not such,  
But any Tradesman (sure) will do as much.  
The Mercer as ye pass along the way  
Will ask what d'ye lack, come near I pray.  
The Draper whose warm ware doth clad the back,  
Will be so bold as ask ye what d'ye lack.  
The Goldsmith midst his silver and his gold  
To ask you, what d'ye lack he will be bold.  
Through Birchin lane, who ever often goes,  
Says, Watermen are honest men to those,  
And if your Coat be torn, before you go,  
Of every rent, with rending they'll make two.  
This being granted, as none can deny,  
Most Trades aswell as Watermen do ply,  
If in their plying they do chance to jar,  
They do but like the Lawyers at the Bar.  
Who plead as if they meant by the'ares to fall,  
And when the Court doth rise, to friendship fall.  
So Watermen, that for a fare contends  
The fare once gone, the Watermen are friends.  
And this I know, and therefore dare maintain,  
That he that truly labours and takes pain,  
May with a better Conscience sleep in bed,  
Then he that is with ill got thousands sped.  
So well I like it, and such love I owe  
Unto it, that I'll fall again to Row:  
'twill keep my health from falling to decay,  
Get money, and chase Idleness away.  
I'm sure it for Antiqnity hath stood,  
Since the world's drowning universal flood,  
And howsoever now it rise or fall.  
The Boat in Noah's Del 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
And though our wits, be like our purses bare,  
With any Company we'll make compare  
To write a Verse, provided that they be  
No better skilled in Scholarship than we.  
And then come one, come thousands, nay, come all,  
And for a wager weal to Versing fall.   

My unwilling farewell to POETRY.  
Adieu thou two topped Cloud surmounting Mount,  
Adieu thou sacred sweet Pegasean fount,  
Adieu you rarest Sisters, three times three,  
Take all in general this farewell of me.  
Full low (alas) lies good Maecenas head,  
And Bounty from the miser world is fled.  
I find the Thames can yield me more (by proof)  
Then can the Well made with the Horse's hose:  
Then since 'tis so that Poets must be poor  
(For any thing I know) I'll verse no more,  
And therefore to Conclude, let all men know  
I'll cease to write, and fall again to Rome.   

Epilogue to those that knows what they have read, and how to censure.  
TO you whose ears and eyes have heard and seen  
This little pamphlet, an●●● an judge between  
That which is good, or tol'rable, or ill,  
If I with Artless Nature wanting skill  
Have writ but aught, that may your thoughts content.  
My Muse hath then accomplished her intent.  
Your favours can preserve me, but your frowns  
My poor inventions in oblivion drowns.  
With tolerable friendship let me crave  
You will not seek to spill, what you may save.  
But for the wrimouthed Critic that hath read  
That mews, and puhs and shakes h●●●●●●inelesse head:  
And says my education or my sta●●●  
Doth make my verse esteemed at lower rate,  
To such a one this answer I do send  
And bid him mend before he discommend,  
His Envy unto me, will favours prove,  
The hatred of a fool breeds wise men's love.  
My Muse is jocund that her labours merits  
To be maligned and scorned by Envious spirits:  
Thus humbly I cra●e ●●rd●●●●●●the best,  
Which being gained, Sir reverence for the rest.  
FINIS.