YOUTH KNOW THYSELF.  
Disce puer virtutem exme, verumque laborem,  
Fortunam ex alijs.  
LONDON, Printed by AUGUSTINE MATHEWES and JOHN NORTON, and are to be sold at the great South door of Paul's. 1624.   

To the Reader.  
REader (if that there will be any such,  
These uncouth-ragged lines will grace so much)  
I do implore of thee this courtesy,  
As that thou wilt not look with eagle's eye.  
For though like Delphian Oracles I seem,  
My not- Apollo's verses to esteem;  
Yet know, I think so great will be their fame,  
As that I dare not set to them my name.  
Then seeing that I am unknown of thee,  
And that thou likewise art unknown of me,  
I can report of thee no thing that's bad,  
Do but the same of me, I shall be glad.   

YOUTH KNOW THYSELF  
TO School the weatherbeaten wise, & fage,  
To check the little pretty innocent age,  
Were but presumption, and too curious folly;  
Since neither of these ages can be jolly.  
Your hoary hairs, like icicles which be,  
Strike admiration, and respect in me.  
You post unto the jail, your grave, and so  
Along to Heavens-sessions house, to know  
From the Celestial judge, the fatal doom  
Of all your sins, done from your mother's womb.  
Expect your censure there; I'll not so much,  
As how you come bald-pated, give a touch:  
Your frowning looks, & wrinkles do infuse  
A smoothed brow upon mine angry Muse.  
Your frozen members, and infrigidated,  
Cannot by Venus' star be calculated.  
But if amongst you some be children grown,  
How for to know themselves it shall be shown.  
You with your golden looks, and silver bands,  
Like to the Dayses culled by your hands,  
Your loving sports, and quarrell-breeding games,  
The strictest-rigid'st Cato never blames.  
Your ever-blushing cheeks protend, ye fear  
That all things which ye do, offensive are.  
Ah! 'tis not you, that for my rage are fuel,  
Your smiles, and babble, make me not so cruel.  
'Tis he, or she that Venus' shrine adores,  
That's in the teens, and not come to the scores.  
'Tis those that new, forth from the eggshell came,  
And are become stout cocks, & hens o'the game:  
This is the blood-warme age, there springs from  
The Salamander of concupiscence.  
This is the Age that makes my spleen to swell hence  
With laughter, and my gall to leave her cell:  
Which being vomited up, about doth fly,  
Bespurtling every body that stands nigh.  
This makes mine eyes, like Basilisks for to pry  
Upon the object, till I make it dye.  
Oh who hath such a foggie-clowdy brain,  
That of all ages thinks not this most vain?  
Or who is such an Abcdarian ass,  
That finds not this all former times to pass?  
Since Satan belched out poison first on earth,  
Sin ne'er was practised with such joy and mirth.  
And some's so horrid, that I cannot tell,  
Whether he'll own it, that inhabits Hell.  
Be deaf ye tender ears, whilst I rehearse,  
Things that would slain the purest meaning verse:  
When Dildo's, Merkins, and sophistications,  
With thousands of such lustful variations,  
Must de divulged by a mind that's bend,  
To bid the good beware, the bad repent.  
Go on my Muse, thou needest not dread disgrace,  
Black is the only colour in thy face  
Assume thy former spirit, I know thou durst  
Say of all earthly creatures, man's the worst.  
All have obeyed their Maker but this man,  
Who never fully did, nor never can.  
Witness this last declining age, wherein  
That is thought virtue, which before was sin.  
When as Venereous youngsters set on fire,  
Dare to their neighbours silent bed aspire,  
To drench their itching, and sulphurous flame,  
Yet must the wronged bear away the shame.  
Since Cuckolding, and head-horning plantation  
Is deemed and act of supererrogation.  
But those that, like old cuckoos, rob men's nests;  
An eating Scab their purest parts invests.  
Oh! that Adultery, foundlings should so hollow,  
Which is the deepest sink, the soul doth swallow.  
And those that make horns on men's heads to dwell,  
Should engines make, to toss themselves too Hell.  
The winged-chirping songsters of the air,  
Upon Saint Valentine's day, that use to pair,  
May teach these Roisters, if they cannot tarry,  
The remedy is very speedy, Marry.  
Give to the Parson, and to toll the bell,  
he'll soon dispatch ye, be ye imps of Hell.  
And if one come the match to disannul,  
he'll pull his dagger out, and break his skull.  
And if ye fear in Church to show your face,  
A barnelike thatched one, may be the place.  
Such crimes as these do make me not myself,  
But like the spitefull-snaky-headed Elf:  
I pine through envy, when I see, with ease  
A ten in the hundred sweltering in grease:  
A Fox-fur'd-clouted-pated fornicator,  
That's to his Tenant's wife Administrator:  
Whom for to keep a wife, the charge debarred,  
And that would slice his Father for his lard:  
That every day doth fear a plague, and dearth,  
As some which do Sol's falling down on earth.  
Me thinks there's wildfire in my sparkling eyes,  
That makes the balls, like bullets, rend the skies:  
When that an open-fisted-biggened Baby,  
That worshippeth the name of Lord and Lady:  
That Forma Pauperis thinks is his damnation,  
And doth esteem demurs, his best salvation:  
Should have such take at Westminster Hall,  
And yet his Wives at home, surmount them all.  
Why? sure my brains with madness is so full,  
That it flies up and down, and cracks my skull:  
To see a weeping Crocodile, when she yells  
Louder than Free Schools, or ring of bells;  
That sounds: whose neck seems not to bear her head  
That wrings her hands, howls out my husband's dead.  
Yet scarce shall the Sea-god, which entertains  
Phoebus, that all his fiery horses trains,  
To visit Neptune, in his Sea-sick weeds;  
Have watered all the foamy sweeting Steeds,  
And given some fish unto his frying Brother;  
But more than monsterlike, she'll have another.  
For if you think the Serpent muttereth hisse,  
You are deceiu; d, she treacherously cries kiss)  
Let but her lover curse her, she's content,  
And thinks his curses are like blessings sent:  
So they'd be Martyrs which ne'er came toth' stake,  
And God chastiseth, doth not Martyrs make.  
She love's the wall, the highest seat at meetings,  
She would be idolised by poor men's greetings.  
Her alms and charity is a threepenny dole,  
By cheats, and cogs from careless purses stole:  
She grudges this large portion, just like those,  
The hundreth grudge, when God the tenth bestows.  
She never weeps, but when her Mother's well,  
She never laughs, but at her Father's knell.  
Drunkenness is her portion, her purgation,  
Is for her burning Ague Fornication:  
She needs not the Phisitian's helping hand,  
Who freely gives unto his patient's land.  
Her conversation is amongst wild beasts;  
She ever blesseth founders of great feasts:  
she'll purge her stupid pate with Helebore,  
That where she hath been once, she may come more:  
Struck her Rhinoceros nose, she'll never rest,  
Till she snivels out an Elephantine jest:  
And she'll engrose up all the Table chat,  
And laugh, till every body laugh thereat.  
She scorns inferiors, if an heir she be,  
By phauning sycophants deified is she.  
She e'er maligns, because she flattery hates:  
Like those, who to renounce all Popish baits,  
Ne'er pure enough do think themselves to be,  
Till they in every thing do disagree.  
She hath sugar'd-hony-dropping compliments,  
Of venomous thoughts, the poisoned implements,  
she'll kiss your hand, your picture, shoestrings, cheeks,  
She for bombasting stuff in Playbooks seeks:  
As that the red-rose, and the Lily grow,  
In your Angelical face, that's white as snow:  
And that your teeth are like two rows of pearl,  
You may be Concubine to any Earl:  
she'll crouch with cap in hand, and pardon crave,  
she'll be your servant, varlet, vassal, slave:  
You may command her like your 3. pound jacke,  
And yet she'll cut your throat behind your back.  
(These are the golden hooks, with which she angel's,  
And the not-hyperbolicall wretch entangles)  
Her Spanish spit doth make her raise much strife,  
With which she'll hood winked tilt away her life:  
Then may the little fieldmouse sup the blood,  
Of her who hacster-like-insulting stood.  
She that doth wear a ribbon for a feather,  
And quarrels with the fair, and serene weather,  
More bawdry hath her knavish-leatherne hide,  
Then an old Midwife, or an vntusked bride.  
In Colleges, Inns of Court, she fornication  
Abhors, not with the coupled copulation:  
To couple with the coupled's Fellowlike,  
The law did never 'gainst this maxim strike.  
Ambition mounts her, as the skipping back,  
The water-coffins which do suffer wrack:  
And makes her cogitations tower as high,  
As the early-Sun-saluting Fiddlers fly:  
Then doth she think herself some potentate,  
When she is begging at another's gate.  
If she hath traveled, that she hath been, where  
Cambridge, and Oxford never came, she'll swear:  
And that her Tongues are best (me thinks 'tis pity,  
She hangs not Parat-like out in the City)  
She doth allure by her dishevelled tresses,  
For to entice she hath a thousand dresses.  
she's so insatiate, that in every room,  
She doth provide a Lackey, Page, and Groom.  
She hath her Monkeys, Marmosets, & such toys,  
And much about the age of thirteen, boys.  
All her attendants naked come to wait,  
Love-powder and flat witchcraft is her bait.  
She Ladylike frequents the Masks at Court,  
Where all the gallant hot-spurres do resort:  
And there she sits, like women in Cheapside,  
Who for to sell their wares do there abide.  
She without Nature's useful preparations,  
Can satisfy her tickling instigations.  
Cantharideses, with Eringoes, and such cates,  
The fiery coals of burning heat inflates,  
Until the flesh be over-roasted grown,  
And all the liquor from the pot be flown:  
That so much moisture found can scarce be there,  
As for to shed the least repentant tear.  
She makes her money fly in needless charge,  
And for Tobacco her expense is large:  
When as she taken hath the same so long,  
That like an opened vault her breath is strong,  
So that Tobacco now she might forsake,  
And at one another's mouth's she might it take.  
She neither heat, nor coldness can endure,  
But in the house she doth herself immure:  
She strives not yet to keep herself from Hell,  
Where fire must frost, and frost must fire expel.  
She vilifies Universities, and Schools,  
And wisdom gets by terming others fools.  
To be above Gods Aaron's is her right,  
If though her Grandsire clown, her Sire was Knight.  
Not in the Hall, she in the Kitchen gluts,  
For finesse sake she wainescoteth her guts:  
Till from the mincing mouth you may assume  
In all your carved meat, her sweet perfume.  
To carry her glass to Church, if once she miss,  
(And if it please her, she may carry this)  
So many Tales she will relate in jest,  
Till at the length she'll swear she did the best.  
For to forswear herself she'll use this art,  
That she, though not in tongue, hath God in heart:  
So when the famished Prophets do foretell,  
The wages of Church-broking shall be Hell,  
Reply the cursed sacrilegious crew,  
God bids all live by him, as well as you.  
(But know you damned catyfes, while they want  
Their body's food, your souls is very scant)  
When as the fable Night doth over spread  
Her dusky Canopy, on the drowsy head  
Of drooping Titan, than she takes her rest,  
Upon her dainty downy feathered nest.  
And though she cannot but look up on high,  
Yet she ne'er begs for heavens most watchful eye.  
Then dismal dreams her wand'ring sense affright,  
Till she awakes, and seeks the morning's light:  
But the sin-conscious darkness she beholds,  
And then her close-pent conscience she unfolds:  
But while she searcheth her sin's Catalogue out,  
She fears the Devil musters round about.  
And dreading his vice-scourging-yron rod,  
Perhaps she'll carelessly cry out, O God.  
At last of other help she doth despair,  
And therefore spends a Spirit-expelling prayer:  
The trickling tears bedew her guilty bed,  
She vows she'll new conditions firmly wed.  
Now she will keep her body chaste as ice,  
And not enthrall herself to torturing vice.  
But when she see's the Morn's vermilion coat,  
She quickly changeth this constrained note.  
For when her sneaking stalking-horse appears,  
she'll say she dreamt his death, & shed these tears.  
Then to her former trade she goes afresh,  
To warm with fear, her long benumbed flesh.  
(But if betimes she doth not it forsake,  
She may be scorthed in the everburning lake,)  
The using of her own she thinks so fit,  
That all her kindred may have use of it.  
she'll make her Father pander, Mother bawd,  
Husband doorkeeper, Children to applaud.  
(Thus all her sworn alliance is her guard;  
And Lust's most-basely-captivated ward:  
So Lust the root of all contagious evils,  
Supplies the place of men-possessing Devils)  
She love's the means, but yet not procreation,  
For to prevent it is her occupation.  
If an abortive birth she chance to have,  
She will expose it to a murdering slave.  
This sin my Muse to her last gasp hath brought,  
For 'tis so foul, that it hath stopped her throat.  
FINIS.