NO Whipping, nor tripping: but a kind friendly Snippinge.  
Imprinted at London for john Browne, & john Deane. 1601.   

¶ TO ALL GRACIOUS, Virtuous, Courteous, Honest, Learned, and gentle spirits, that are truly poetical, & not too fantastical: that will patiently read, indifferently censure, and honestly speak of the labours of those wits that mean nothing but well, the writer hereof wisheth all contentment, that a good condition may desire.  
MY good friends, if such ye be; if not, God bless me from ye; for the world is so full of wickedness, that a man can meet with little goodness: May it please you to understand, that it was my hap of late, passing through Paul's Church yard, to look upon certain pieces of poetry, where I found (that it grieves me to speak of) one writer so strangely inveigh against another, that many shallow wits stood and laughed at their follies. Now, finding their labours so touched with ill terms, as befitted not the learned to lay open, I thought good, having little to do, to write unto all such writers, as take pleasure to see their wits play with the world, that they will henceforth, before they fall to work, have in mind this good proverb: Play with me; but hurt me not: and jest with me; but disgrace me not; Lest that the world this jest do kindly smother, Why should one fool be angry with an other? Now for myself, I protest that humour of Charity, that I wish to find at all their hands that see and will reprove my folly: for I am none of the seven wise men, and for the eight, I know not where to seek him. Bear with me then, if out of the principles of a painted cloth I have picked out matter to move impatience. And if there be any thing out of that poor library, that may take place in any of your good like, I will honour your good spirits for your kind acceptations. But, in any wise, what ere you think, give me no word of commendation: lest, too glad of such a mischance, I trust the better to my evil fortune. Well, in earnest, I will entreat all good scholars to bear with my lack of learning, and wise men with my lack of wit, and my creditors with my lack of money. Which, though it have nothing to do in this Treatise, yet entreaty sometime doth well with honest minds: which I wish, and hope of in them, yea, and all the world that I shall have to do withal. Leaving therefore the patient to their Paradise, and the displeased to their better patience, in my love to all scholars (but chiefly to those, that in the joy of their studies, make virtue their heaven) I Rest  
Your friend, as I find cause.   

No whip.  

'tIS strange to see the humours of these days:  
How first the Satire bites at imperfections  
The Epigrammist in his quips displays  
A wicked course in shadows of corrections:  
The Humorist he strictly makes collections  
Of loathed behaviours both in youth and age:  
And makes them play their parts upon a stage.   

another Madcappe in a merry fit,  
For lack of wit did cast his cap at sin:  
And for his labour was well told of it,  
For too much playing on that merry pin:  
For that all fishes are not of one fin:  
And they that are of choleric complexions,  
Love not too plain to read their imperfection   

Now comes another with a new found vain▪  
And only falls to reprehensions;  
Who in a kind of scoffing chiding strain,  
Brings out I know not what in his inventions:  
But I will guess the best of his intentions:  
He would that all were well, and so would I  
Fools should not too much show their foolery,   

And would to God it had been so in deed,  
The satires teeth had never bitten so:  
The Epigrammist had not had a seed  
Of wicked weeds, among his herbs to sow,  
Nor one man's humour did not others show,  
Nor Madcap had not shown his madness such,  
And that the whipper had not jerked so much.   

For they whose eyes into the world do look,  
And canvas every crotchet of conceit,  
Whose wary wits can hardly be mistook,  
Who never feed their fancies with deceit,  
Find this the fruit of every idle sleight:  
To show how envy doth her venom spit,  
Or lack of wealth doth sell a little wit.   

And while they tumble in their tub of coin,  
Laugh at their wits that tun so far awry:  
In learning how to give the fool the foin,  
Mistake the ward & wound themselves thereby:  
While only wealth doth laugh at beggary.  
For rolling stones will never gather moss,  
And ranging wits do often live by loss.   

The Preachers charge is but to chide for sin,  
While Poets steps are short of such a state:  
And who an others office enters in,  
May hope of love, but shallbe sure of hate.  
'Tis not a time offences to relate.  
Contentions sooner will begin then end:  
And one may sooner lose, then keep a friend.   

And he that writes, unwary of his words,  
May have an ill construction of the sense.  
For fortune ever not the right affords,  
Where will doth govern over patience.  
Who doth not find it by experience,  
That points and letters often times misread,  
Endanger oft the harmless writer's head?   

Good writers then, if any such ye be,  
In verse or prose, take well that I do write:  
I wish ye all what ere ye hear or see,  
Haste not your wits to bring it unto light:  
Lest ere you weet you do repent your spite.  
Your friends ill courses never do disclose,  
And make your pens no swords to hurt your foes.   

Spend not your thoughts in spilling of your wits:  
Nor spoil your eyes, in spying of offences.  
For howsoever you excuse your fits,  
They carry shrewd suspect of ill pretences:  
And when you seek to make your best defences,  
How ever private friends will poorly purse ye,  
If one do bless ye, five to one will curse ye.   

Some one will say, you are too busy pated,  
An other says the fool is idle headed:  
An other says such rakehells would be rated:  
An other, see, how will to wit is wedded:  
An other, sure the man is poorly stedded:  
He writ for coin, he knew, nor cared not what:  
But yet take heed, we must not like of that.   

Mean while perhaps he sits within his Cell,  
And sighs to hear how many descant on him:  
And for a little must his labour sell,  
While such as have the pence, do prey upon him▪  
And he poor soul, in want thus woe-begone him,  
Curseth the time, that ever he was borne,  
To use his will to make his wit a scorn.   

For let him brag, and brave it as he list,  
The Poets is a poor profession:  
And oftentimes doth fall on had I wist,  
When conscience makes of inward crimes confession:  
And sorrow makes the spirits intercession,  
For mercies pardon, to that time misspent,  
Which was the soul for better service lent.   

Yet will I say that some, oh all too few,  
Do bend their humours to divine desires:  
Those I confess, do in their verses show,  
What virtue, Grace into those souls inspires,  
That are inflamed with the heavenly fires:  
Such a good Poet, good if any be,  
Only in God, would God that I were he.   

As for those fancies, fictions, or such fables,  
That show in loss of time abuse of wit:  
That never looked into those holy Tables,  
Where doth the grace of reasons glory sit:  
And wisdom finds what is for virtue fit,  
What ere they figure in their dark constructions,  
They do but little good in their instructions.   

No, poets, no: I write to ye in love,  
Let not the world have cause to laugh at us:  
Let us our minds from such ill means remove,  
As makes good spirits for to fall out thus:  
Let us our causes with more care discuss:  
Not bite, nor claw, nor scoff, nor check, nor chide:  
But each mend one, and ware the fall of pride.   

knowst thou a fool? then let him leave his folly,  
Or be so still, and with his humour pass.  
What hath thy wit to do with trolly lolly?  
Must every wise man ride upon an Ass?  
Take heed thou mak'st not him a looking glass,  
Wherein the world may too apparent see,  
By blazing him, to find the fool in thee.   

Hast thou espied a knave? care not to know him,  
Lest that thy knowledge get thee little good.  
Or if you know him, do not seek to show him:  
Lest that your head be feared to fit his hood.  
Such sense were better never understood.  
Better to see a knave, and not to see,  
Then to be thought a knave, as well as he.   

Know you a villain? let him find his match:  
And show not you a Match a villains skill:  
A foolish dog at every Cur doth snatch,  
Words have no grace in eloquence of ill:  
There is no wrestling with a wicked will:  
Let pass the villain with his villainy,  
Make thou thy match with better company.   

Have you acquaintance with some wicked quean,  
Give her good words, and do not blaze her faults:  
Look in thy soul if it be not unclean:  
And know that Satan all the world assaults▪  
jacob himself before the Angel haultes:  
Sigh for her sin, but do not call her whore:  
But learn of Christ, to bid her sin no more.   

Know you a drunkeard? loath his drunkenness  
But do not lay it open to his foes:  
Lest in describing his ungodliness,  
You take yourself too sound by the nose:  
Who hurts himself doth give unkindly blows:  
Wink at each fault & wish it were amended,  
And think it well that's with repentance ended.   

Know you a wencher, let his wench alone,  
Wink at his fault, & age will make him leave it:  
And though he do not, tell not john of joan,  
For fear that either you may misconceive it,  
Or tone be hurt when other doth perceive it:  
Or while you seek to make their folly known,  
It be a mean to lay abroad your own.   

Know you a Miser? let him be so still,  
And let his spirits with his metal melt:  
Let him alone to die in his own ill,  
And feed not you on that which he hath felt:  
Be not you girded in so vile a belt:  
Rather pray for him, than so rail upon him,  
That all the world may lay their curses on him.   

Know you a Spendthrift secretly advise him,  
But tell not all the world of his expense:  
For if such kind of warning you devise him,  
Your course may hap to fall on such offence,  
As may be put off with an ill defence:  
For many a man that hath his wits asquint,  
Would frown to see his folly put in print.   

Know you a Gamester? let him play his game▪  
But seek not you to cheat him of his coin.  
Nor to the world do idly tell his name,  
Whose heedless fancy doth with folly join,  
That cannot see who doth his wealth purloin:  
Lest when you name the chance that lost his stake  
He light on you, & make your noddle ache.   

Know you a Plotter? study not his Plots,  
But leave the busy, to their business:  
Lest while you wind your wits into such knots,  
You do too late repent your foolishness,  
And while you write of such ungodliness,  
Find ere the lines of half your rules be red,  
To write of knaves doth bring a fool to bed▪   

Know you a Swaggerer? let him walk along:  
Trouble him not in either word, or deed.  
He is not borne to put up open wrong:  
Where every man may of his humour read.  
Be silent then good Poet and take heed  
(What ever faults you in his folly see)  
You do not talk of such a man as he.   

If that a great one have a great defect,  
Let not your thought once touch at such a thing,  
Unto Superious ever have respect:  
A Beggar must not look upon a King.  
Take heed, I say, is a most blessed thing:  
Lest if you run to far in such a fit,  
A fool may hap to hang for lack of wit.   

Learn English Proverbs, have them well by heart,  
And count them often on your finger's ends:  
Do not your secrets to the world impart:  
Beware your foes, do not abuse your friends:  
Take heed of flatterers as of hellish fiends:  
Eat up your meat, & make clean all your platters,  
And meddle not with any prince's matters.   

Read what is written on the painted cloth;  
Do no man wrong, be good unto the poor:  
Beware the Mouse, the Maggot, and the Moth;  
And ever have an eye unto the door:  
Trust not a fool, a villain, not a whore.  
Go neat, not gay; and spend but as you spare:  
And turn the Colt to pasture with the Mare.   

Be not a churl, nor yet exceed in cheer.  
Hold fast thine own, pay truly what thou owest:  
Sell not too cheap, and do not buy to dear:  
Tell but to few, what secret ere thou knowest,  
And take good heed to whom, & what thou showest:  
Love God, thyself, thy wife, thy children, friend,  
Neighbour, and servant, and so make an end.   

Believe no news, till they be nine days old,  
Nor then too much, although the print approve them:  
Mistake not dross for perfect Indian gold;  
Nor make friends gods; but as you find them, love them:  
And as you know them, keep them, or remove them.  
Beware of beauty, and affect no slutte:  
And ware the won before ye crack the nut.   

Be neither proud, nor envious, nor unchaste;  
Lest all too late, repentance overtake you:  
And take good heed how you your wealth do waste,  
Lest fools do scoff you, & your friends forsake you  
And then the beggar by the shoulders shake you.  
Give unto all that ask; not askers, all:  
And take heed how you climb, for fear you fall.   

Do well, be true, backbite no man, be just;  
The Duck, the Drake, the Owl, do teach you so:  
Speak what you think; but no more than you must  
Lest unawares you make your friend your foe  
Be wary, says the Crane; be wise, the Crow:  
Be gentle, humble, courteous, meek, & mild,  
And you shall be your mother's blessed child.   

Be loyal, says the Lion, for your life;  
Be firm and constant, says the Elephant:  
The Dove bids you be loving to your wife:  
Be careful, says the Partridge: painful, the Ant:  
Take heed, says Rainarde, of the Sycophant:  
Be wakeful, says the Cock: Witty, the Coney:  
And says the Dog; look well unto your mome.   

Have all the week a pen behind your ear,  
And wear your sword on Sundays, 'tis enough:  
Be not too venturous, not too full of fear:  
Nor stand too much upon a double ruff;  
Eor fear a falling band give you the cuff.  
Know well your horse before you fall to ride:  
And bid God bless the Bridegroom & his Bride.   

Be merry, says the Cuckoo: lusty, the Frog:  
Nimble, the Snail: the Magpie, provident:  
Be thrifty, says the Buzzard: cleanly the Hog:  
Honest, the Bull: the Pigeon resident:  
The Popingeaie doth bid you to be silent:  
Be valiant, says the Horse: simple, the Ass;  
A better Dictionary never was.   

Be gracious, says the Kite: gentle, the wasp:  
Be liberal, the Moil: sober, the Hare:  
Swift, says the Tortoise: virtuous, the Ape:  
Pitiful, the Wolf: mannerly, the Mare:  
Thankful the Eagle: bountiful, the Stare:  
Trusty, the jack-daw: faithful, says the Hearne:  
What better lessons than the Birds do learn?   

No further run, than you may turn again,  
And let not will be guider, of your wit.  
What needs a plaster, where there is no pain?  
Physic is only for the crazed fit:  
Who is in health, hath not to do with it.  
Take heed of lying lips, a swearing tongue.  
For they are odious both in old and young.   

Hast thou a wit and knowest thou canst do well,  
Use it unto some work of worth in deed.  
For 'tis no wit, to teach a fool to spell  
Nothing but fool; when he is learned to reed.  
Better, to teach him Christ's cross be his speed,  
And how the holy Ghost may better guide him,  
Then with conceits of jests for to deride him.   

It is a course of little charity,  
To find out faults, and fall upon them so;  
And 'tis a wit of singularity,  
That perfect wisdom doth but little show:  
Which thinks it gives the fool the overthrow,  
And might have been far better exercised,  
Then in the folly that it hath suprized.   

'tis women's jest to wrangle for a word.  
And what think women then of wrangling men?  
Let such fond quarrels be put under board,  
As do but spring out of an idle pen.  
Oh, trouble not the fowl within the fen.  
The fame of learning never was worse graced,  
Then where one fool an other hath defaced,   

But, art thou learned? look into thy book,  
And thou shalt find thy fancy is abused,  
Which hath thy hope of happy praise mistook;  
And done a fault that cannot be excused:  
For Wisdom never such an humour used.  
To shoot at shame, the aim was to far off,  
To beat down sin, to jerk it with a scoff.   

Hawks hoods, & bells are not for Scholars study,  
They have no argument for woe, ho, ho:  
Their spirits should not think on things so muddy,  
Where Ducks lie dibbling in the lakes below:  
But on the grounds, where sweeter graces grow.  
And though a fault be scused with a jest:  
A jest is but a folly at the best.   

Let all good Scbollers wind their wits away,  
From such ill following of their idle wills;  
Lest when they see their faults another day,  
They do repent them of their little skills,  
Where lack of Grace, a witty spirit spills.  
For drink is poison that is drunk in quaffing,  
And wit but folly, that sets fools a laughing.   

Believe me, 'tis a kind of sport to some  
That love no wit; because of ignorance:  
When waries begin, to strike a wooden drum,  
When virtuous spirits fall at variance:  
About the treading of a Morris-dance.  
But what more spite can be to a good wit,  
Then see a fool to stand and laugh at it?   

But, who will laugh so quickly as the fool?  
Although he know not well at what indeed:  
But who hath lived in any learned School,  
Would leave a line for any ass to reed;  
Except (alas) he were constrained for need,  
As many are, God knows (the more the pity)  
That were they wealthy, would be far more witty.   

Sigh then for such, to see their sorry cases,  
That must such treasure for such trash, go sell:  
And do not fall to grieve them with disgraces,  
That in their souls do so with sorrow dwell,  
As in their hearts is more than half a hell,  
To beat their brains but for a little gains,  
And, or be cursed, or scoffed at for their pains.   

But if there be some nimble witted Sir,  
That loves to play with every one he sees:  
And hath a sport to make a stinking stir  
With buzzing verses, like to Humble Bees:  
I wish such pride were plucked on his knees,  
To make him know 'twere better to be quiet,  
Then with his wits to run so far at riot.   

But for myself, I know not any such:  
Because, perhaps, I have not read their writings:  
Or else, I doubt they are too deep a tuch,  
For the short reach of my poor thoughts inditings,  
That could not rove at their conceits delighting.  
How ere it be, I know I do not know them;  
And therefore care not who do overthrow them.   

But for myself, what ever I have writ;  
And for poor Madcap, I dare swear as much:  
In all the compass of a little wit,  
It meant no one particular to touch.  
But for one should not at another grudge;  
As the clouds thickend, and the rain did fall,  
He cast his Cap, at sin in general.   

Indeed, 'tis true, he cast his Cap at sin;  
And would to God that all the world did so:  
Then do I hope our spirits should begin,  
Our wit, and senses better to bestow,  
Then one to seek another overthrow.  
But pardon him for what is passed before,  
And he hath done for capping any more.   

And for myself, good brother, by your leave,  
I will not now dispute an Argument  
Of what I would, nor what I could conceive,  
Nor what may be discretion's detriment,  
In showing of a witty excrement:  
But I will wish all Scholars should be friends,  
And Poets not to brawl for puddings ends.   

I am not worthy to be heard to speak  
Among the wise, what they should have to do;  
But if there live a wit that be too weak,  
Advised care to bring his will unto:  
Oh, with good words let me his spirit woo,  
That he will now but only study pro,  
Let nos be nobis, and the contra go.   

So shall our Muse's sweetest music make,  
When gracious spirits do agree in one:  
And every fool may not example take  
At our unnatural dissension:  
Let every Ass go by himself alone:  
And let us seem as though we knew them not,  
Since no more good is by them to be got.   

Tell not a Soldier of his bloody sword,  
Not yet the sailor of his life at sea:  
Nor tell the Courtier of his knife aboard,  
Nor tell the Lawyer of his gainful plea:  
Nor tell the lover of his little flea:  
Let them alone, and trouble none of them:  
A secret hum is better than a hem.   

If you will needs be merry with your wits,  
Take heed of names, and figuring of natures:  
And tell how near the goose the gander sits:  
Of Hob and Sib, and of such silly creatures:  
Of Croyden sanguine and of home made features:  
But scorn them not, for they are honest people,  
Although perhaps theynever saw Paul's steeple.   

But, if you could, you should do better much,  
To bend your study to a better end,  
And neither one nor other seem to touch:  
But in such sort, as may beseem a friend:  
And do no more your spirits idly spend  
Withierking, biting, scoffing and such humours  
As fill the world too full of wicked rumours.   

Bring in no Verses for Authorities:  
As in presenti, and leave out the R:  
'tis fit for Babes in their minorities,  
Among their forms, to fall at such a jar.  
Neck verses are for thieves but at the Bar.  
God bless us man from ever coming there.  
A gulitie heart can scarcely read for fear.   

Bacchus and Ceres were the Gods below:  
And there shall be, and never come above.  
And Claret wine will quicken wit I trow:  
By the Red Cross, I swear, it is to prove:  
But, what should Scholars, wine and sugar move,  
To bring in so Apollo and virorum?  
When wise men smile at horum harum horum.   

But, pardon me, if that I speak false Latin  
For lack of learning: I no scholar am:  
My master's gown deserves no face of Satin:  
I never to degree of Master came:  
But, where small learning might attain the same:  
And for a verse in Latin, let me see:  
Alas, they have too many feet for me,   

But, let me love that language yet of old,  
For Ergos sake, that many a time deluded  
My troubled heart, that knew not what to hold  
Should be upon the consequence concluded,  
While many a Placet for his place entruded:  
Until the Bell bade break up school, and then  
Sufficient, made, a world of proper men.   

And I among them, not the least contented  
To see both Mayor, and the Minor cease,  
Full many a time my hasty will repent,  
When I have wished a Placet hold his peace?  
Whose sophistry would so my fear increase,  
That to be short, my learning was so little,  
As I may write my Title in a tittle.   

Look not therefore for arguments of Art:  
But from the painted cloth upon the wall,  
What I have learned I kindly do impart,  
Hoping to purchase no ill will at all:  
Because, so rudely to my work I fall.  
Such weakness my poor wits are come unto,  
That beasts, & birds, must teach me what to do.   

My Library is but experience:  
The Authors, Men, that in my notes I find:  
My notes, the natures of such difference,  
As may descry each other in their kind:  
Where, if my wit and senses be not blind,  
I do perceive in too much ill desert:  
Pride in a Scholar, makes a fool by Arte.   

Blame me not then, if that I judge amiss:  
The Sun and Moon are my Astronomy:  
When you behold where all my cunning is,  
Charge not simplicity with villainy:  
It were enough to breed an Agony  
In many a man: but truly not in me,  
That make no care, what ere your censure be.   

If it be good, I thank you for good will:  
If contrary, so contrary come to you.  
If it be well, I can not take it ill:  
If otherwise, the like good may it do you,  
If kindly then, as kindly let me woo you  
To leave such jerkins, lest they smart too sore,  
Love me as I do you, I ask no more.   

But yet, me thinks, I see you smile at me,  
As though my Rules were scarcely worth the reading:  
And that a silly painted cloth should be  
The Library of all my learning's breeding:  
And that my wits had need of too much weeding.  
Oh what a burden must my patience carry?  
The Alehouse is the Ass' Dictionary.   

But for the Alehouse and the Painted Cloth,  
If ought I find there, that be worth the noting:  
Laying aside the filthy drunken froth;  
What good I see, I will not skip the coating.  
A good Red Herring may be worth the bloting.  
Better a good wit in an Alehouse sit,  
Then find an Alehouse in an idle wit.   

So much in honour of my homely book:  
Wherein the Birds and beasts so wisely speak:  
And so much for the notes from them I took,  
To help such wits as will hath made too weak,  
Into the bounds of blessed thoughts to break.  
Now, for the natures of those notes, you see  
What cause you have to think amiss of me.   

I will not meddle with Quae Maribus,  
The Propria will trouble me too much:  
Nor yet, Qui mihi Discipulus.  
Except I knew my mastership were such,  
As somewhat might a gracious Scholar touch.  
No, I will let the Latin lines alone;  
And speak a few more English, and be gone.   

Let all good wits, if any good there be;  
Leave trussing, and untrussing of their points,  
And hear thus much (although not learn) of me;  
The spirits, that the Oil of Grace annoyntes,  
Will keep their senses in those sacred joints,  
That each true-learned, Christian-harted brother  
Will be unwilling to offend another.   

And so would I; for if in truth, I knew  
(Although it were full much against my will)  
I should offend but any one of you,  
That might conceive just cause to wish me ill:  
I would throw down my Ink, & break my quill,  
Ere I would write one word to such an end,  
As might but gain a foe, or lose a friend.   

In kindness then let me entreat you this:  
If that your leisure serve you, look it over:  
And what you find that you may take amiss,  
Let my confession of small learning cover,  
Let every Poet be each others lover.  
Let us note follies, and be warned by them:  
But not in writing, to the world descry them.   

It is a plot among pernicious brains,  
To breed a brawl twixt better natured wits,  
By soothing sin with humour of disdains,  
Until they fall into some raging fits,  
Wherein the fruit but of Repentance sits:  
But let them listen to those tongues that list,  
Let us not labour for a Had I wist.   

For, some will say that Art is ill bestowed  
On him that knows not how to use it well.  
And he sometime may find his wits beshrowed,  
That reads his lesson ere he learn to spell:  
Mark but the truth, the painted cloth doth tell;  
Who lays to much upon his wits at once,  
May hap to prove an Idiot for the nonce.   

Sound a man's mind before you show his meaning:  
For fear repentance come an hour too late.  
Bar nor the beggars from their merry gleaning:  
Except the Landlord bid you keep the gate:  
And where you may have love, hunt not for hate.  
Let Poets drink of Helicons fair fountain,  
But bring no Mice out of a swelling mountain.   

Let Noddies go to cuffs for bloody noses:  
Let us but laugh to see their lack of reason:  
Leave them their weeds, and let us gather Roses,  
And reap our wheat, while they do pick on peason.  
Let us hate lies, ingratitude, and treason,  
And with our friends in fond conceits to strive,  
And we shall be the blessedest men alive.   

If that a mind be full of misery,  
What villainy is it to vex it more?  
And if a wench do tread her shoe awry,  
What honest heart will turn her out of door?  
Oh, if our faults were all upon the score:  
What man so holy, but would be ashamed,  
To hear himself upon the Schedule named?   

Let us then leave our biting kind of verses:  
They are too bitter for a gentle taste.  
Sharp pointed speech so near the spirit pearces,  
As grows to rankle ere the poison waste.  
But let all be forgotten that is past:  
And let us all agree in one in this;  
Let God alone to mend what is amiss.   

But if we needs will try our wits to write,  
And strive to mount our Muses to the height,  
Oh let us labour for that heavenly light,  
That may direct us in our passage straight:  
Where humble wits may holy will await;  
And there to find that work to write & reed▪  
That may be worth the looking on indeed.   

To show the life of unity in love,  
Where never discord doth the music mar:  
But, in the blessing of the souls behove,  
To see the light of that fair shining star,  
Which shows the day that never night can marry:  
But in the brightness of eternal glory,  
How love and life do make a blessed story.   

If we be touched with sorrow of our sins,  
Express our passions as the Psalmist did:  
And show how mercy, hopes relief begins,  
Where greatest harms are in repentance hid:  
When Grace in Mercy doth despair forbid:  
And sing of him, and of his glory such,  
Who hateth sin, yet will forgive so much.   

And let our hymns be Angel harmony,  
Where Halleluiah makes the heavens to ring:  
And make a consort of such company,  
As make the Choir but to their holy King:  
This, this, I say, would be a blessed thing:  
When all the world might joy to hear and see  
How Poets, in such Poetry agree.   

For who can make an Ape to leave his mows,  
Although he call him twenty times an Ape?  
And who can stop the cawing of the Crows,  
Although he tell them of their carrion gape?  
And if the colic chance to breed a escape,  
But hold your nose the scent will quickly die:  
Then cry not foh; but let the fie go by.   

A Mastiff dog will never make a Spaniel:  
Then let the Cur alone to show his kind.  
A horseman's saddle is no market paniell.  
To wash a Moor is work against the wind.  
Those blinking wits do show their wills too blind,  
That finding faults so roughly fall upon them,  
To think to mend them with their railing on them   

The devil is a knave, who knows it not?  
And who but God, can put down all his power?  
And how must God his gracious love be got?  
But all by prayer every day and hour;  
While tears of sorrow make a blessed shower:  
And humble faith doth but to mercy fly,  
In hearty prayer; not in Poetry.   

Yet say I not, but Poets well may pray;  
And praying Poets do most sweetly sing.  
For proof, of David see what truth may say;  
A praying Poet, and a blessed King:  
Whose verses all did from such virtues spring,  
As left the love of learned truth to try,  
How prayer shows the princely Poetry.   

Let us all Poets than agree together,  
To run from hell, and feigned Helicon;  
And look at heaven, and humbly high us thither,  
Where Graces shall be let in, every one,  
To sing a part in Glories union;  
And there to settle all our soul's desire,  
To hear the music of that heavenly Quire.   

Let Ovid, with Narcissus idle tale,  
Wear out his wits with figurative fables.  
Old idle Histories grow to be so stale,  
That clowns almost have bard them from their tables,  
And Phoebus, with his horses, and his stables:  
Leave them to babies: make a better choice  
Of sweeter matter for the souls rejoice.   

Who toucheth pitch and tar cannot be clean▪  
A wilful wit doth work itself much woe.  
In every course 'tis good to keep a mean:  
And being well, to live contented so.  
The softest walkers do most safely go.  
Hast maketh waste: and wits that run astray,  
Make had I wist, to make fools holiday.   

Be quiet then, I say; be quiet, Wags:  
And have no more with nothing worth to do:  
While other angle for the golden bags,  
We seek out toys, to set our wits unto:  
But let us leave the Cobbler to his shoe.  
And let the fool, himself with folly flatter:  
And bend our studies unto better matter.   

No: this is not a world for simple wits,  
That can not look a mile above the Moon:  
Nor roast their sparrows but on wooden spits:  
Nor make a morning of an afternoon:  
Nor watch a blessing when there falls a Boon:  
No, no: it is no world for weak conceit.  
The Devil is too cunning in deceit.   

A silly honest creature may do well,  
To watch a cockeshoote or a limed bush:  
For many a Scholar haply learns to spell,  
That can not put together worth a rush;  
Yet let a Poet at such humours hush:  
His will should be about some other work,  
Then where the Adder in the grass doth lurk.   

And since myself have marched in that rank,  
Where Mercury commanded Pallas Train,  
And spent my spirits in my thoughts, as frank  
As he that thought he had a better vain:  
I must confess, what idle humours gain;  
A frump, a frown, a foil, or else a fear:  
When will doth write that reason cannot bear,   

No, truly no: this world is not for me,  
I will no longer be fantastical;  
But wink at folly, when the fool I see:  
That in his gesture is so finical,  
As if his spirit were Poetical:  
And think it better wear my wits at School,  
Then spoil my wits in painting of a fool.   

Upon the painted cloth, the Nightingale  
Did bid me hear, and see, and say the best▪  
The sea Mew says it is a cruel gale,  
That drives the Swallow clean out of her nest.  
Why, simple noses now can bide no jest:  
And Poets, that are open in invectives,  
Do often fall upon too much defectives,   

Believe me brother, 'tis as thou dost write;  
Poets should wright by heavenly inspiration;  
But he that is possessed with despite,  
Shows but a wicked kind of instigation;  
To think by scoffs to make a reformation,  
No, let us all go back to virtues Schools,  
And let the world alone to bring up fools.   

I have been vain as any man alive:  
But would be virtuous now, if I knew how:  
And every day, and hour, and minute strive  
My wicked heart to better grace to bow.  
Then let me say, as to myself, to you;  
Let us leave all our idle imperfections,  
And study virtue, for our lives directions:   

Let us serve God, in word, and deed, and thought▪  
And by our silence make our quarrels cease:  
And learn those lessons that true love hath taught,  
Where concord doth a blessed world increase,  
And speak of Peace, or let us hold our peace.  
For words, or deeds, or thoughts of strife are evil,  
And are but instigations of the Devil,   

It is a shame to shun the way of Grace,  
And runour wits a gathering after wool;  
And find the hair so course in every place,  
As makes a woodcock prove himself a Gull,  
That hath no better brains within his skull,  
Then to bestow his time in idle trifles,  
With penning notes to fill the world with nifles.   

For God sake let us then our follies leave,  
And not lay open-one another's ill;  
But in our conscience learn for to conceive,  
How heedless wit may be abused by will,  
And have a care so well to use our skill,  
We may be loved for our learned lines,  
Where gracious spirits Poets make Divines.   

And for myself, I mean the Ice to break,  
Unto the passage of that Paradise;  
Where ravished Grace may of that Glory speak,  
Where mercy lives, and comfort never dies,  
And the best praise of any Poet lies:  
Or at the least if any went before,  
Follow that line, and love the world no more.   

What right bred wits, will have to do with blind men,  
Especially blind beggars and their boys?  
They that have judgement, how indeed to find men  
Will think such younkers but hobberdie-hoyes,  
That ply their wits unto such paltry toys:  
Or else to show that he hath learned in part,  
To rob the blindman of his beggars art.   

If it be so, and mean to keep a School  
To bring up boys unto the beggars craft,  
To take a threshold, for his cushen-stoole,  
To knave a crust, and drink a sorry draft,  
Let him go sleep when he hath sound quaffed,  
And shrug himself under some sorry tree,  
And, 'mong the beggars, master beggar be.   

But then me thinks he should set out his table▪  
All ye that seek to have your children taught,  
To play the beggar how he may be able,  
When that his eyesight groweth old, or nought:  
Ask for the man that hath the Coney caught,  
And dwelleth, where the matter is not great:  
And you shall have them boarded without meat.   

But 'tis no matter: men that have a name,  
Need make no table; they are known so well.  
And the blind Beggar hath so great a fame,  
As of his tricks can every highway tell.  
And since for begging he doth bear the bell,  
Let him keep School; and learn of him that will:  
The stocks will kindly fit him for his skill.   

But for I doubt, some men of good profession,  
Will take exceptions at my table-writing:  
To honest minds I make my heart's confession;  
My soul is free from virtuous spirits spitting:  
Not one of them is in my thoughts endighting▪  
I rather wish, God bless them and their Arts,  
And let the blindmen play the beggars parts.   

For all good Poets will cry out upon him,  
That falls to blindness and to beggary:  
And in his wits, be so far woe-begon him,  
That in an humour, of base trumpery,  
The world may see, in idle foolery,  
A Ballad-maker would have been a Poet:  
But hat he knew not in what point to show it.   

Thus will the world be descanting on writers,  
When they shall read their over-rude descriptions,  
And say that spirits which are grown such spighters  
Should better learned be in loves prescriptions;  
Then go about so with their circumscriptions:  
That wits of worth, that know their foolery,  
Do call it Pot-rie, and not Poetry.   

And what have we to do with pilgrimage,  
To walk bare witted to S. Dunces well?  
A Grammar Scholar but of ten years age,  
That scarce hath learned his Latin lines to spell,  
Will soon by heart, a better story tell:  
And say, such Poets as their wits so toss,  
Make all their walks by little witttam cross.   

For let the world imagine what it list,  
And idle wits deceive themselves with toys:  
Those hammering heads that breed but Had I wist,  
Are all to far from those assured joys,  
Where heavenly comfort kills all earth's annoys.  
No, no: 'tis only Unity and Peace,  
That makes all blessings prosper and increase.   

Oh Poets, turn the humour of your brains,  
Unto some heavenly Muse, or meditation;  
And let your spirits there employ your pains,  
Where never weary, needs no recreation,  
While God doth bless each gracious cogitation,  
For proud comparisons are always odious:  
But humble Muse's music is melodious.   

Then learn to sing, and leave to learn to brawl▪  
It is unfitting to a fine conceit,  
From virtues care, to vain effects to fall,  
Where careless words do carry little weight,  
While fancy angel's but with folly's bait:  
Which, hanging but a Gudgeon on the hook,  
May sigh to see, what idle pains he took.   

No, no: let fancy wean herself from folly;  
And heavenly prayers grace our Poetry.  
Let us not love the thought that is not holy,  
Nor bend our minds to blind men's beggary:  
But let us think it our soul's misery,  
That all our Muses do not join in one,  
To make a Choir to sing to God alone.   

Eor could our spirits all agree together,  
In the true ground of virtues humble grace,  
To sing of heaven, and of the highway thither,  
And of the joys in that most joyful place,  
Where Angels arms the blessed souls embrace;  
Then God himself would bless our souls inditing,  
And all the world would love a Poet's writing.   
FINIS.