Old Mad-cappes new Gallimaufry.  
Made into a merry mess of mingle-mangle, out of these three idle-conceited Humours following. 

1 I will not.  
2 Oh, the merry time.  
3 Out upon Money.    
AT LONDON Printed for Richard johnes, near St. Andrew's Church Holborn. 1602.   

TO THE TRUE TOUCH OF WIT, IN THE SPIRIT of the best understanding in a Gentlewoman (worthy of much honour) Mistress Anne Breton, of Little Catthorpe in Leicestershire, Nicho. Breton wisheth all eternal happiness.  
THE much good that I know in you, and the good that in your goodness I have received from you, makes me willing to remember you, with this small token of greater service that I owe you: wherein, though there be nothing worthy the accepting; yet upon good consideration, it may be you shall find some thing, almost worthy the reading. The humours in it are variable, but the intent aimeth at one mark; which is, the Nature of the best mind: In which, as near as I can, I have played the merry Verser, I dare not say, the Poet. But as it is; let me entreat you, in your kindness to accept it, in your good thoughts to grace it, at your idle leisure to read it, and in no wise to commend it: but, to remove a Melancholy, to look upon its; and when you have done, to laugh at it: So, in thanks for your undeserved good favours, leaving my Verses to your good patience, and my better Virtues to your commandment, I rest.  
Your in better service: Nich. Breton,   

TO THE READER.  
YOU that have good stomachs to digest any thing, may happen to make away with this Dish of Gallimaufry; where, if every morsel be not minced so fine, as may be swallowed without chewing, bear with haste in the dressing, and the 〈◊〉 will do well enough: To tell you what it is here you have tasted it may happen to make you the worse willing to middle with it To be short, Pe●er can but bite and heat the mouth, and yet it may 〈◊〉 the Colic so some Herbs may be bitter, and yet wholesome; and so some line may better be me 〈◊〉, then taken: But all is one, commend it or discommend it, I will not but refer it to the World, to like it or leave it: and so in the humour of I will not, (I mean, be tedius) I end.  
Your friend, N. B.   

OLD MADCAPS new Gallimaufry.  

1. Madcaps I will not.  

MY wretched thoughts, ye wretched thoughts of mine,  
How shall my soul your secret essence see,  
That thus with passions makes my heart to pine,  
With sorrows force, too forcible for me!  
But let me tell ye, whatsoe'er ye be,  
I will have help for all mine Agony,  
And tread upon ye in your Tyranny.   

I will not care for Beauty's clearest light,  
But shut mine eyes at such an idle look,  
Nor Midas treasure shall bewitch my sight:  
I will not be with Gold, for God mistook,  
This world's best wisdom is a wicked book,  
Whose greatest bliss shall never come aboard me,  
Nor will I care, for what it can afford me.   

Youth, I will hold a posting kind of time,  
Age, when it comes, a care that will not tarry,  
Honour, too high for quiet hearts to climb,  
Love, but a bond of them that live to marry,  
Power but a charge for conscience to carry,  
Time, but a course that never can be stayed,  
And Death, a Bugbear to make fools afraid.   

What can I wish for may be worth my wishing,  
But I were (almost) better be without it?  
What can I fish for may be worth my fishing,  
When I have lost both hook and line about it?  
If ought avail I greatly doubt it:  
What should I work for, when in fine I know,  
Myself and all, unto the grave must go?   

No, no, my thoughts, content yourselves awhile;  
I know too well the tricks of all your trust:  
Ye shall no more my beaten brain beguile,  
With seeking Diamonds in the Sea-coal dust,  
The Canker take the treasure that will rust.  
I have no mind to any of your toys,  
That, in truths judgements, are mistaken joys.   

I will not learn to tell a shameful lie,  
Because the Devil is their damned Sire.  
I will not use my tongue to blasphemy,  
For fear my soul do find it in hell fire:  
I will no place of wicked pride aspire,  
For fear when I am at the height of all,  
A slipping foot do breed a break-neck fall.   

I will not wear a Nosegay in my hat,  
A picktooth in my mouth, flowers in mine ear,  
Nor hunt the Otter, nor the water-Rat,  
Nor have an Ape sit nitting of my hear,  
Nor run betwixt the Bearward and the Bear,  
The Bull-dogge, Bandog, nor the Puppets play:  
None of these thoughts shall throw my wits away.   

Nor will I learn to cog and foist a die,  
Nor pull all day at a Primero Card:  
Nor see a Cock, to strike his spur awry.  
From all these thoughts I am by reason barred.  
To follow play, I find the time too hard.  
No, let me sit alone and keep my stake,  
While winners laugh, and losers hearts do ache.   

I take no pleasure in your sweet perfumes.  
The open air is healthful unto Nature,  
Which liveth long, while stuffed sense consumes  
Both mind and body into many a creature:  
Nor do I love a forced coloured feature,  
But plain and pure milk-white and Cherry-red:  
These are the colours that are best in bed.   

I love no leer, nor wink, nor wily look,  
But strait foreright, a penny in my face:  
I love to read in no ungodly book,  
For fear instruction breed me but disgrace:  
I love to plead in no unhonest case:  
No, no, the world such wickedness doth breed,  
I know not (almost) what to love indeed.   

What do I care to see a Swasher swagger,  
With frounced Mustachios, and a staring eye?  
Alas the day, I never saw a bragger,  
But hardly escapes the Beggar ere he die,  
If that the Hangman put not out his eye.  
No, no, I love the civil kind of gesture,  
Right on and plain, both in my look and vesture.   

What care I at a Country Wake to see  
A Fiddler fumble on a wicked note?  
Or in a play, what can it pleasure me,  
To seeking Pippin in a painted coat,  
Or hear a fellow tell a tale by rote,  
Or see a boy to play a wench's part?  
I cannot laugh at such an idle Arte.   

What if I chance to see a wench so painted,  
That not a Plastrer in the town can mend it?  
And if perhaps, her touch withal be tainted,  
Let them that be her secret friends, defend it:  
I neither will defend it, nor offend it:  
No, let her go along with her disgrace,  
I love not her that wears not her own face.   

And if I see a Miser munching Chuff  
Furred with a forest round about his face,  
Clinging his clunsh-fist in a Calfskin cuff,  
And lace his jerkin with a leathern lace,  
Within a Church, to take a Chancels place;  
Let him go sleep out all the Sermon while,  
What do I care for such a john a style?   

And if I see a crew of cunning knaves,  
Laying of plots to cousin single wits,  
Let them alone, and come not near the slaves,  
They will be met with one day for their fits,  
When that the Hangman by the halter sits.  
Let them not touch my pocket, nor my purse,  
And, let them hang, I never wish them worse.   

What if I meet with Mistress Fiddle-strings,  
That maketh twenty faces in a day?  
I will not meddle with her Apron strings:  
My dare is out for plucking flowers in May,  
Such idle humours I must throw away,  
And say unto myself, but what I see,  
Such prick me dainties are to proud for me.   

And if I meet a finical fine youth,  
That wears his best clothes on a worky day,  
And makes a leg with yea forsooth, in truth,  
And learns to lisp and look the other way,  
And knows not well upon what ground to stay:  
Alas poor fellow let the fool alone:  
What should I care for either john or jone?   

And if I meet a Mistress wide-mouthed Malkes,  
And see her slaver like a filthy slut,  
And mark her when with john a Nods she walks  
Into the wood, to learn to crack a Nut,  
I will not teach a Sparrow to keep Cut.  
Let them go tumble till their bones be weary:  
Why should I trouble them when they are merry?   

Away with all unprofitable humours,  
Your huff and snuff, and swagger, swear and swill,  
The fruits whereof are but ungracious rumours,  
That hateful wit condemns of heedless will,  
Which hunteth after nothing else but ill.  
Fie, fie upon them all, I care not for them,  
And blest are they, that in their hearts abhor them.   

What, shall a blessed beauteous virgin's face  
Beget a wicked humour in mine eye?  
Shall Reason so much run into disgrace,  
As so to yield to Nature's villainy?  
If she be fair, must I be foul thereby?  
No, no, my thoughts, I'll quickly turn the case,  
I'll have as fair a soul, as she a face.   

Come not to me with an odd coined jest,  
Or prittle prattle of a pudding's skin:  
For jests are stale, and jesters at the best,  
Unto the beggars are too near a kin,  
And idle prates I have no pleasure in:  
Tell me of somewhat that may do me good,  
And never hide your heads within my hood.   

Speak you of News? 'tis odds they be not true;  
And if they be, pray God they be not ill:  
But good or ill, if that they be too new,  
I pray you in your silence keep them still.  
For too much speech doth prove to little skill:  
But for all news, until the truth be known,  
Rather hear twenty, then report of one.   

Is there a wench within your idle walk?  
Well, let her walk, I will not hear of her:  
I do not like of such ill humoured talk:  
I can your silence to such talk prefer:  
And my Conceit to better cares refer.  
Mine eyes grow dim, ears deaf, and senses dull,  
I care not for a sheep without her wool.   

Tell not me of a horse, nor of a hound,  
The jades will kick, and Dogs will sizzle all:  
Nor tell me of a song, nor of a ground,  
I have no humour to be musical;  
Nor tell me of a vain Poetical:  
Verses are grown so common & so course,  
They bring but small revenue to the purse.   

Tell me not of a coat of cloth of gold,  
Or silk and silver, pearl and precious stone,  
'tis ten to one the fashion will not hold,  
Besides, a Prince should by such robes be known:  
And though the world to a mad pass be grown,  
I will content me with good home-made cloth,  
That hath no harm, but only by the moth.   

Tell not me of a dainty dish of meat,  
When poison may be stolen into the broth,  
Nor in my Napry how to be too neat,  
I can content me with clean linen cloth,  
And take my drink, and blow away the froth,  
Look in my purse to answer my expense,  
And make a virtue of experience.   

Tell not me of a pleasant cup of Wine,  
And Sugar to it: what is that to me?  
That drinking smack shall touch no tongue of mine.  
Wine, Beer or Ale, I care not which it be:  
I love the diet that fits my degree:  
If it will wet, and cool and quench my thirst,  
I care not who be last, so I be first.   

It may be, ye will think I love a pie  
Of spice and plums, but truly 'tis not so,  
My diet stands not upon Spicery.  
To Beef and Mutton can good stomachs go.  
Hunger is the best sauce that I do know.  
'tis good for young fine wives that be a lust,  
To long for plums, and pies, and pasticrust.   

A Tit-mouce roasted, and a sparrow stewed,  
Is meat for such as eat for fashion sake.  
And Beer or Ale, of running water brewed,  
Is good for them that fear the belly-ache,  
And crusty bread, or a hard Biscuit cake,  
These are trim victuals for some stomachs feeding,  
But such fine diet is not for my breeding.   

Tell me not of a fine and dainty book,  
A Spanish slipper, or an Irish spur:  
Give me a shoe that well may fit my foot,  
I care not for a buskin made of fur,  
'tis good for those that ever fear the murr:  
Give me a shoe or boot to keep me dry,  
I care for no fantastic foolery.   

Tell not me of a newfound piece of stuff,  
That scarce will last a minute of an hour,  
Nor of a strange conceited Muff nor Ruff,  
That may be seem a Swashers Paramour.  
I do not care to sit in Venus' bower.  
Cost is but lost that is so ill bestowed,  
And had I wist, is but a fool beshrowd.   

Bid me not keep my money in my purse,  
And pay no debts, let beggars lie and starve:  
I do not mean to get myself a curse,  
With scraping for that may the present serve:  
I will not so from honest reason serve:  
Let careless minds their conscience forget,  
I think it is a hell to be in debt.   

Yet will I never count of coin but dross,  
And wish it but for necessary use,  
To answer fortune in a froward cross,  
And to avoid the cunning of excuse,  
When lack of faith might fall into abuse:  
For in respect of Love, I care not for it:  
And as for Avarice, I do abhor it,    

2. Madcaps Oh the merry time.  

OH where is now that goodly golden time,  
When gold was counted but a needful dross,  
And Reason sought but by desert to climb,  
While few or none that feared gain or loss,  
When patience bore the brunt of every cross,  
And no man loved his neighbour to an end,  
But once and ever, say and hold a friend:   

When one might have a hundred eggs a groat,  
And for three halfpence, half a strike of Rye,  
And for a shilling make himself a coat,  
To keep him warm, & many a Winter dry:  
And for a farthing, a good pudding pie,  
A good old drawing jade for half a crown,  
And forty pence the best Cow in a town:   

When youth would serve for meat & drink and cloth,  
And wear their best clothes but on Holidays:  
And in a year you should not hear an oath:  
When Tut and stoolball were the Summer plays,  
And buffets made no sword and buckler frays.  
No puntoes nor stoccatas were not known,  
When john had nought to do but with his jone.   

When fine maid Marian in a Moris' dance,  
Could bride it like a miller's ambling Mare,  
And every blew-cote by his Cognisance,  
Made all the Country know whose cloth he ware?  
And every Farmer kept good household fare,  
And not a rich man would a beggar rate,  
But he would give him alms at his gate:   

When pride did teach no Princocks to go gay,  
Nor Prick me dainty, pick her fingers ends,  
Nor lust could take the virgins love away,  
Nor heedless wits were careless of their friends,  
Nor blessed spirits feared accursed fiends.  
But honest wits so near to wisdom came,  
That nothing almost could be out of frame:   

When Mistress Fubs that Fiddle faddle fusse,  
No colours knew to mend her course complexion,  
Nor Pranking Parnel like an idle puss,  
Could gull a Nymph with an imperfection,  
But every Schole-boy knows his Interjection,  
And had by heart a better part of speech,  
Then make a full point only in a Breech:   

When swearing Swopskin could not swash it so,  
But every Mule could point him for an Ass,  
Nor munching Miser could so closely go,  
But men could note him for an Owliglasse,  
And make him hateful wheresoe'er he was.  
And not a whore, but is so woebegone her,  
That all the Country would cry out upon her:   

When faith and truth was found in yea and nay,  
And words of wisdom had their worthy weight,  
When Sunshine beams did make the blessed day,  
And every stalk did bear her flower full straight,  
And such as saw them, joyed to see their height,  
And every Bird was bushed within the spring,  
When all were hushed, when Philomen did sing:   

When all the day, the Coneys kept their burrows,  
And not a Lamb was troubled with a worm:  
The fearful Hare was squat amid the furrows,  
Till fear or hunger made her leave her form,  
And seasoned Shepherds never feared a storm:  
And youth and beauty lived like Turtle Dones,  
When age would not be angry at their loves:   

When Nymphs and Muses sweetly kept the woods,  
And old Hobgoblin kept within the caves:  
The Farmer sought not for his neighbour's goods.  
But Sam and Simkin were the merry slaves,  
That danced Trenchmoore on their grandsires graves:  
And Su and Sib would trip it on the toe,  
As if they knew not on what ground to go:   

When curds and cream were such a dainty dish,  
As made the Lovers lick their lips for joy:  
And youth as merry as their hearts could wish,  
When Cupid was so kind a hearted boy,  
As never wrought a blessed thought annoy,  
But gracious Spirits were so well agreed,  
That truth was fair on every face to reed:   

When Ale, and Beer was once old English wine,  
And Beef, and Mutton was good Country cheer,  
And bread and cheese would make the Miller dine:  
When that an honest neighbour might come near,  
And welcome: Hoh maid, fill a pot of Beer,  
And drink it sound in a wooden dish,  
When wags were merry as their hearts could wish:   

When not a peddler walked without his pack,  
And not a Tinker, but did sound his pan,  
And every Tradesman, by What do you lack?  
And every Tapster, by his wooden can:  
And by his dealing every honest man:  
And every wife, was by her husband known,  
And then it was a blessed world alone.   

When Susan Sowre-face, that would sit and pout,  
For all the parish, was a pointing stock:  
And Lazy Lobkin, like an idle lout,  
Was made no better than a washing block:  
While the good husbands, that maintained the stock,  
And laid up closely for a rainy day,  
Were they, that kindly bore the bell away:   

When no man kept a dog but for an use,  
The Mastiff chiefly, for to hunt a hog,  
The Hound to hunt the Hare out of her mewse,  
And for a piece, a fetching water-dogge,  
Or for to beat a Fowl out of a bog.  
A Horse to bear as easy as a cradle,  
And not to kick, nor fling out of the saddle:   

When maidens wink't to see a Hen a treading,  
And careful Widows carried honest minds,  
And Brides would blush to hear but of their bedding,  
And humours would not alter with the winds,  
But love was it, that faith for ever binds,  
And pitch, and pay, and take, and try, and trust:  
When hearts were hateful that were found unjust:   

The word of coney-catching was not heard,  
The practice was so seld or ne'er in use,  
And virtues grace, was chiefly in regard,  
When justice gave redress for all abuse,  
While care of conscience suffered no excuse.  
But judgement cut off wicked wilfulness,  
Or mercy wrought repentance happiness:   

Then honest husbands had the merry lives,  
That saw their children well brought up at school,  
And joy in heart to see their honest wives,  
Seldom or never, from their spinning stool,  
When none was idle, but was held a fool.  
And he, nor she, could justly be offended,  
When all amiss could quickly be amended:   

When usurers were counted but as jews,  
And Parasites did go in painted coats,  
And whores and drabs were kept but in the slewes,  
And Cuckoos might be sounded by their notes:  
While Farmers mixed no Rye among their Oats,  
But every Ear could show what corn was sown,  
And every wife was by her husband known:   

When housewives loved to talk of home-made cloth,  
The fine even thread, and of the kindly whiting,  
And how to kill the canker and the Moth,  
And of my children's reading and their writing,  
And of mine uncles eldest sons inditing,  
As well in prose, as pleasing Countrie-rime,  
And chat, and work, for fear of losing time:   

When men would meet on Sundays at the Church,  
With true devotion, not for fashion sake:  
When cunning wit would give no fool the lurch,  
But in each cause, a kind of conscience make,  
And with indifferent hand both give and take:  
While all things were so common among friends,  
That good beginnings made as blessed ends:   

When maidens sat and neatly milked their Cows,  
And Lambs and Rabbits skipped up and down:  
And little children marched with their boughs  
In a May morning to a market town:  
And Bachelors gave wenches a green gown:  
And smouching younkers gave the girl a kiss,  
When all was well, where nothing was amiss:   

When Cake and Pudding was no simple feast,  
And dealt about in bits like holy bread,  
And ripe young Rooks were taken in the nest,  
While Ruth and Rachel did the Rye loaf knead:  
When Kit would smile to see cock Sparrows tread,  
And Pipe and Taber made as merry glee,  
As at a Maypole one would wish to see:   

When Bride-cups with their dainty gay Bridelaces,  
The Bachelors with such a grace would carry,  
And maidens follow with such mincing faces,  
As would allure a man half mad to marry:  
And not a wag nor wench without Rosemary,  
A Nosegay, Napkin▪ and a pair of Gloves,  
These were the orders of the ancient loves:   

When the old folks went mannerly before,  
And the young people kindly followed after,  
The parents held the basin at the door,  
T'one for my son, the other for my daughter:  
When all the Churchyard might beful of laughter,  
And service done, the youth on every side,  
Would run to meet the Bridegroom with the Bride.   

When going home, in order as they went,  
The Fiddlers played before them all the way:  
And not a maid that had her apron rend,  
Her face clean washed, and had not a clean stay,  
Her shoes well blacked, was held a slut that day.  
When plums and pies would fill the belly full,  
And nappy ale made many an addle skull:   

When many a Lad would lift the leaden heel,  
And dance until he sweat, and dropped again,  
And wind his wench about him like an Eel,  
and toss and turn her like a lusty swain,  
While harmless hearts were in a merry vain:  
And then a posset, and a spiced cup,  
And so good-night, to make the matter up:   

When sheepes-eys winking first began the wooing,  
And hearts and hands did set on faith and troth,  
And then the matter was not long a doing,  
When it was needless to devise an oath,  
And for apparel, good plain home-made cloth.  
She in her hair, and he in that he had,  
Thus was the Lass contented with the Lad.   

He had his father's harrow, and his plough,  
A young grey Filly, and a curtold Mare,  
She had her Mother's blessing and a Cow,  
A milkpail, and some wooden dayrie-ware,  
A slitch of Bacon for good household fare.  
He had a Cottage and a fair backside:  
And so did live the Bridegroom and his Bride:   

When scarce they had been married fifteen hours,  
But he would to his work, she to her wheel,  
And then look what's my neighbours, what is ours,  
And card, and spin, and wind upon the reel,  
And mix the Iron kindly with the steel,  
And keep some corn to fill the empty sack,  
For fear the beggar catch them by the back:   

Work all the week for a good Sundays dinner,  
And then as merry as the day was long,  
When they might well afford their drink the thinner,  
If that the meat did make the porridge strong,  
And all was right, where nothing did go wrong.  
But Sim and Sib so lovingly agreed,  
That then it was a loving world indeed.   

When hunger was the sauce for every meat,  
While early rising did good stomachs make,  
And labour was the bath to make men sweat,  
One with a fork, another with a rake:  
When Tom would work a vie for Susan's sake.  
And he that sung and whistled at the cart,  
With hay, and ho, did bear the merry heart:   

When honest minds would never beat their brains  
To fetch out words a mile above the Moon:  
Nor frame their Wits to lose a world of pains,  
To make a morning of an after noon:  
Nor wait too long, nor yet to wish too soon:  
But work their Wills and Wits together so,  
As met the wind where ever it could blow.   

Strange Words were Riddles unto simple ears,  
New Fashions, Follies unto wisdoms eyes:  
And faithful hearts, were void of idle fears,  
While true Plain meaning sought no Policies:  
For till the Poet's Figures did devise  
To make men study till their brains were mad,  
Truth was much more in estimation had.   

Oh when men's Hearts lay bare upon their Breasts,  
While Words and Deeds were all one in effect.  
And wicked Humours were not turned to jests,  
When Honour had to simple Truth respect,  
And Wisdom would ungracious thoughts reject,  
And Love was love for Love, and not for Gain,  
Then was the World in a true Golden vain.   

Then was not borne that wicked Machavile,  
Whose Rules have metaphormol'de many a mind.  
Nor Truth would stand to study out a style  
That were too high for honest wits to find.  
Nor Cunning tricks, the Careful eye would blind:  
But when the tongue did speak, the heart would prove  
Truth was the substance of the speech of love.   

Then was (in deed) that true Nobility,  
That had respect to nothing but itself:  
When no infection in Gentility  
Could gull the mind with greediness of pelf:  
Nor suffer Cupid play the peevish elf,  
Nor Venus' pride, to match with Vulcan's Croome,  
Nor wicked Midas step in Mars his room.   

Then, was the Sheep known easily by his brand,  
Cow by her low: and by his bark the Dog:  
The neighbour justly measur'de out his land,  
And helped to pull his Horse out of the bog:  
No Titles tried about a Timber-logge,  
But rather lose it, then to go to Law,  
To spend a Sheafe of Corn about a Straw.   

And then was Law the only rule of Love,  
Where many hearts agreed all in one:  
And careful Conscience did in Concord prove  
The blessed life of such an union:  
When Grace with Pride could not be overgon,  
But humble, mild, and modest smiling eyes,  
Made the World seem a kind of Paradise.   

But some will say, All those good days are past:  
Well, let them go; as good may come again:  
Time goes apace: but run he near so fast,  
He may be overtaken in the plain.  
Such as have Gold, are in the golden vain,  
While that the poor must champ upon the bit,  
And Fools must fret, because they have no wit.   

He that hath Money, may do many things,  
Yet all, as good as nothing, in the end.  
And he that wants, knows what the spirit wrings,  
That goes to heaven, to seek to find a friend,  
While all in vain, doth he his spirit spend,  
That thinks on Earth is any dainty honey,  
But that which Art distilleth out of money.    

3 MADCAPS Out upon Money.  

OH Money, Money, 'tis a Monarch such,  
As makes men know not what themselves may be:  
It makes the churl his neighbours good to grudge  
And fells the Plant before it be a Tree.  
And makes the Miller through a Millstone see  
More cunning, tolling in a Strike of Rye,  
Then can be found out by the Farmer's eye.   

It makes a Wench as tawny as a Moor,  
To seem as fair, as she were red and whighte.  
It makes a Rich men make himself as poor  
As he that were not scarcely worth a Might:  
It makes a Coward quarrel with a Knight:  
Yea, and sometime, to give him such a blow,  
As all his strength doth wholly overthrow.   

It makes a Rascal in his roguish pride,  
To thrust his Nose at tandom in the wind:  
And brings a Groom a wooing to a Bride,  
That scarce would wish to let him look behind,  
Nor take a Trencher, till her Dog had dined:  
And yet that Subject of all thoughts disgrace,  
Shall put a handsome Stripling out of place.   

Why? Money puts a Fool into some Wit,  
And makes a Wise man wary of his will:  
And puts on Roast-meat on the Beggars Spit:  
And makes a Bungler learn a better skill,  
Then take a Trade, and live by losses still.  
Why, Money such a power in Malice bears,  
As sets a World together by the ears.   

But, what of this? Be Money what it can,  
'tis but a kind of purified dross:  
The overthrow of many an honest Man,  
That hath not patience to endure a Cross,  
While one man's game, doth breed an others loss:  
And therefore let them love it that have store,  
I would but have to use it, and no more.   

Is there no God, but Gold? nor good, but gain?  
All Silver Saints; that must high worship have?  
Is there no Grace, but in the Golden vain?  
Where, either be a King, or be a Slave?  
No, 'tis for Fools, which Fortune so to shave:  
'tis Virtue only brings the truest wealth,  
Though Money may do well, to maintain health.   

What reason is there Beauty should have blame,  
For getting Money out of Folly's hands?  
Or why should Money have so ill a name,  
To lap a Spendthrift in unthrifty bands?  
Why, Money is a Monarch over lands,  
And must be sued too, when a Man doth lack,  
Or else perhaps be put into a Sack.   

Alas poor Money, how he is misus'de:  
And yet I see not who can be without him:  
I never came yet where he was refused,  
But Cap and Curtsy, all that came about him:  
And he that wants him, all the world will flout him:  
And though some haply find him idle talk,  
Yet if he have no Money, he must walk.   

Yet be it fit for never so good uses,  
Heed must be taken in the getting of it:  
For, against Law, there can be no excuses,  
When justice doth in sacred judgement sit,  
And knows what is for all offences fit:  
And therefore better 'tis for to abhor it,  
Then come before a judge to answer for it.   

No, let no mind that means to live at rest,  
Go further for his good, than Law will guide him:  
But, in the mean, to think that music best,  
That doth not let too high strains over-stride him,  
Lest true musicans happen to deride him:  
Upon enough, it is enough to look,  
And what is more, is quite beside the book.   

Profit doth well, but Honesty is better:  
But, both doth well, and parted much amiss:  
Each sense is not according to the letter,  
The truth in deed in the construction is,  
Where Wit may find, that Will not walk amiss,  
In the true judgement of Discretions eyes,  
A man may be both wealthy, kind, and wise.   

But, since it is so hard a thing to do,  
To gather Wealth with perfect Honesty:  
It is to strange a thing to come unto,  
With men of only worlds capacity:  
Let me but labour for Necessity,  
Feed, clothe, and keep the Beggar from the door,  
Pay that I owe, and I desire no more.   

For, let the Greedy-minde gape after Pelf,  
He may be choked when his throat is null:  
The Ship may tun unhapply on a Shelf,  
That little doubted, when it lay at hull:  
What is the Sheep that never lost his Wool?  
Or what is he, that must not leave his Gold,  
How dear soever he his Treasure hold?   

ungodly Dross, why should it so be witch  
The minds of men, to take away their minds,  
As in too many that are too too rich?  
Where Catching-spirites Avarice so blinds,  
As in their Bags, their beggar comfort binds:  
Oh hateful Coin, that can invent such evil,  
As so from God, to send men to the Devil.   

But yet I think, I have myself mistaken,  
'tis but the use, that makes it good or ill:  
In an ill sense it ought to be forsaken;  
But in a good, it helps a forward will:  
Then as I said, it is a blessed skill,  
So to conceive, perceive, to take and use it,  
That Wit may have no Reason to refuse it.   

For he that looks upon a World of Wealth,  
May hap be Subject to this bagidge dross:  
And when he thinks on that ungodly stealth,  
That makes a gain of many a thousands loss:  
It may be to his Comfort such a Cross,  
That he would wish for job his poverty,  
Rather than Dives superfluity.   

But let each Conscience commune with itself,  
And put off Passions with Discretions care:  
I leave the Scraper to his scratching pelf,  
And, wish the honest wealthy all welfare:  
And, to my self but an indifferent share,  
That when Good fortunes lots do kindly fall,  
I might have some, although my some be small.   

But Wishers, Wisemen say, are idle woulders,  
And wish and would, is worth but little ware:  
And they, that are no better known householders,  
Do oft at dinner, keep their Table bare,  
Where empty dishes give but hungry fate:  
And therefore let them wish for Wealth that list,  
I'll play the fool no more with Had-I-wist.   

What I can get, or keep, or kindly save,  
That's up with five; well got, and well spent:  
A little Spade will make a Great man's Grave:  
And, he lives happy, that can die content:  
And, he accursed, that is passion rend  
With grief, and fear to lose their comforts here,  
And lack the joys that to the soul are dear.   

But, let it go; for 'tis a perilous thing  
For many a man almost to meddle withal:  
It makes some dance within a wicked Ring,  
When that the Thief doth from the Gallows fall,  
And doth the Wits of many a mind install:  
So that in fine, since such it is I see,  
Let them that list, gape after Gold for me.   

And seek the treasure of the Spirits wealth,  
Where no Corruption enters with Infection:  
But Holy-love maintains the truest health,  
And keeps the Senses in their best perfection:  
While- Faith is fed, but with the Souls affection:  
And in that Treasure to repose my trust,  
Which can not fail, not with the Canker rust.   
FINIS.    

Imprinted at London for Richard johnes. 1602.