PASQVILS FOOLES-CAP SENT TO SUCH (TO keep their weak brains warm) as are not able to conceive aright of his Madcap. With Pasquil's PASSION for the world's waywardness. Begun by himself, and finished by his Friend MORPHORIUS.  
¶ Imprinted at LONDON, for Thomas johnes, dwelling near Holborn Conduit. 1600.   

TO MY VERY GOOD friend, Master Edward Conquest, as much happiness from Heaven, as his worthy heart can wish.  
SIR, to forget your undeserved kindness, were a note out of my nature: & yet how kindly to requite it, is many notes above my ability. But as a lame man, that strives to go, shows he would run, if he had legs: so, in the humour of my good will, imagine a Desire of a greater matter. But leaving these compliments, and to come to my purpose; as I have found you a kind Spectator of my Labours, so let me entreat you, at my hands to accept this treatise, with a foolish title. Where, if Wit have played the Wag, let him not have his name for nothing: and where you find a head fit for this Cap, either bestow it upon him in charity, or send him where he may have them for his money. I know you are acquainted with many that well deserve it: whom, lest they should be mistaken for better men, I pray you give them the Cap for their cognisance. And so, hoping that your discretion will bear with my imperfection, to find no better work, to give notice of my good will; I rest, with much thankfulness, in more Affection than Protestation.  
Yours assured, to command, N. B.   

❧ To the Reader.  
YOU that Read, to term you Gentle and he not, you would think I did mock you: & therefore give me leave to think of you, as I find you. But to the matter: Madcap hath passed one fit, and new is fallen into another: what it is, you may partly guess by the Title. For, in a Fool, is hid a great deal of vain matter: which you shall here find run over, in a few Verses; not the best that ever you red, nor perhaps the worst that you may meet with. But to be short, what Pasquil begun, Morphorius hath ended: how well I say not: but the better, if you like it: to whose kindness, in hope of patience, I commit it; and so abruptly I leave it.  
Your friend:   

❧ TO HIS HONEST friend Pasquil, in all haste.  
Friend Pasquil, hearing of late of the pains that thou hast taken in reprehending of the wicked (among the spirits of best condition, not a little commended) I have thought good (finding the corruption of this Age) to put a Fool, to thy Knave. Among which weak witted brains, I have not let slip such Beetle headed Asses, as taking upon them the work of thy Wit (in seeking to rob thee of thy Worthiness) have showed the height of their Foolishness. Who, among other such wise people, finding their names but in their Natures, will (I hope) like good children, rather mend their faults, then be angry with their masters: if not, let them sink in their own sorrow: give the Madman his Madcappe, and the Fool his Fooles-Cappe: thou and I be friends, and the world fare as it list. And so farewell.  
Thine, as his own, MORPHORIO.   

Morphorius to the Reader, in the behalf of his friend Pasquil.  

HE, that of late was in a Madding fit,  
Doth from a franzy to a folly fall:  
And which is better, mad, or foolish wit?  
I think as good, almost have none at all.  
Well, Sugar sweet, or bitter as the gall,  
'tis Pasquil's humour, so I pray you take it:  
And as you like it, choose it, or forsake it.   

His meaning was, to please none but himself,  
Nor to displease but those that well deserve it:  
He doth not care, though Envy play the elf:  
His dish is dressed, and he will not Reserve it:  
But to the world, for such poor diet serve it,  
As are content with ordinary dishes,  
While Nicer Gulls are choked with Gugin fishes.   

When he was Mad, he Raged against the knave:  
Now idly fitted, falls upon the Fool,  
In hope that Doctor's better wisdom have,  
Than carp at scholars that do go to school,  
And wish a workman but to know his tool:  
For Gravesend Barge can never passage have,  
Till it be furnished with a Fool or Knave.   
FINIS.   

PASQVILS Fooles-Cap.  

WHat means this world, that Muses can not rest,  
But one or other will be working still?  
'tis not time now to break too broad a jest;  
Lest, had I wist, repent a heedless will,  
While hammering sconces have unhappy skill  
Which in their Cradles, being borne accursed,  
Will ever construe all things to the worst.   

But since the Wisdom of the world I find,  
Before heavens Wisdom, Foolishness indeed,  
While such Illusions do the spirit blind,  
As only grow upon ungracious seed:  
Which wicked Humours in the heart do breed,  
While truest Wisdom lives above the Sun:  
Let me but play the Fool, and I have done.   

But some, perhaps, in peevish spite will say,  
The field is large, wherein I am to walk:  
Where I may wander many an idle way,  
And make a deal of fiddle faddle talk:  
But say, my Muse mistake green Cheese for Chalk,  
This is the worst (to hide her idle brains)  
She shall have but the Fooles-cappe for her pains.   

But, let her wear it, since it is her due.  
Who hath no Wisdom, can not speak of Wit:  
Who never came where Wit and Reason grew,  
Must needs shoot wide, when that they aim at it.  
For, while the Gander by the Goose doth sit,  
'tis ten to one, how ever prove the weather,  
But that the birds will all be of a feather.   

Then, good Wise Man, if such a one thou be,  
That dost these lines of little matter reed,  
I pray thee be not in a chafe with me,  
Although a lad be spurred till he bleed:  
Keep thou thy Stable for a better Steed:  
Who hath been well brought up in Reason's School,  
May have the patience to go by the Foole.   

But, if it be, you can not go along,  
But that you needs will stumble at a straw;  
If that yourself will do yourself such wrong,  
To let the Worm upon your Wits to gnaw,  
Until a Crow be come to be a Daw:  
Then do but think how some this ●east will smother,  
Why should one Fool be angry with another?   

Then be not angry, let the Fool alone,  
Except thou be a bird of his own brood:  
For trust it true, it will be ten to one,  
If once thy head be covered with his Hood,  
It will so heat thy brains, and stain thy blood,  
That thou wilt fall into such Ecstasies,  
As while thou liv'st, thou never wilt be wise.   

Beware therefore in time of Had I wist,  
Let not Impatience show thy peevishness:  
Keep thy Conceit within Discretions List:  
Where thou mayest look upon that Idleness,  
That fills the world too full of Foolishness:  
Seek thou to know but where true wit doth dwell,  
And learn to laugh at Fools, and all is well.   

And if thou chance to meet an idle Mate,  
Whose tongue goes all too glib upon the ●eare,  
And chief delight is so much in his prate,  
As where he comes, will be chief Prater there:  
In friendly kindness tell him in his ear,  
That in the Rules of Wit and Reason's school,  
He will be counted but a prating fool.   

And if you hap to light upon a Gull,  
That is conceited of his Mother wit,  
And doth apply his beetle-headed skull  
But to an humour of an idle fit;  
In honest kindness let him hear of it,  
That in the Rolls of Wisdoms Rules you reed,  
Less hope of him, than of a Fool indeed.   

And if you chance to see the Son of Pride  
Look fifteen thousand mile above the Moon,  
And lie abed until his idle hide  
Must make a Morning, of an afternoon;  
For fear his Worship should be up too soon:  
Lest that the Air should hap to do him harm,  
Lend him the Fooles-cappe for to keep him warm.   

And if you chance to spy a Subtle Stave,  
That hath a world of Simple wits beguiled,  
And, like a cunning, cogging cozening knave,  
On others harms, his helps doth only build,  
Tell him that Satan is a subtle child:  
That while the wicked gold for dross do sell,  
Makes Fools seem wise, until they come in hell.   

He that doth murder twenty thousand men,  
And sack their cities, and their towns deface:  
And, with the dash but of a wicked Pen,  
Bring a poor world into a piteous case,  
To gain himself a kind of monarchs grace:  
Tell him what Angels read in virtues school,  
That bloody Pride doth breed a hellish Foole.   

He that doth covet more than is his own,  
And scrapes and scratcheth for a little dross:  
And, all with ease is like a Bladder blown,  
And never cares for any neighbour's cross,  
For his own gain, to give a thousand loss:  
Tell him, when Wisdom beats the world about,  
The Fool will quickly lay the Miser out,   

The swaggering Huffecappe that will stare and swear,  
That he will cut through the whole piece of cloth;  
And face to face, will meet the old blind Bear,  
And break the Can, that's filled up with froth,  
And cares not how he throw away anoath:  
Let him be sure when virtues Honours fall,  
In Wisdoms Court he hath no place at all,   

The sneaking Coward that doth closely creep,  
And feareth every shadow where he goes:  
And of himself both watch and ward doth keep,  
For fear his Friends should grow to be his Foes:  
Doth so much title of true Manhood lose,  
That he may read what Truth in honour tries,  
A Coward never can be truly wise.   

The Idle Spendthrift that will sell his land,  
To feed the humours of an addle head:  
And sows his seed upon the barren sand,  
Till late Repentance live to beg his bread,  
Let him believe what many a one hath read:  
How ever Fancy make excuse for it,  
Such Had I wist had never happy wit.   

He that doth think that Wit is but in Wealth,  
And plots to purchase kingdoms with a Purse,  
And never thinketh of the Spirits health:  
But doth his heart with wicked humours nurse,  
And for a blessing, falls upon a curse:  
Let him confess, if in heavens blessings blot,  
He find himself a wicked Fool, or not.   

He that looks Babies in his Mistress eyes,  
And beats his brains to tell an Idle tale:  
And thinks himself, that he is wondrous wise,  
That breaks a ●east, though it be near so stale:  
And for a Nut, cracks nothing but a Shalt:  
How ere he think of his own wit amiss,  
Wisdom will tell him, what a Fool he is.   

She that is neither Noble, fair, nor wise,  
Nor scarce so rich as a new shorned Ewe;  
And yet, conceited in her own foul eyes,  
When she is dabbled three foot in the dew,  
That she may seem a pretty handsome shrew:  
Let her not think, but such a Shut the do●re  
Is half a Fool; and if she be no more.   

He that hath neither Truth nor Honesty,  
Good hand, good leg, good body, nor good face,  
Nor any such exceeding quality  
As may advance him unto Honour's place:  
Yet, thinks himself a man of special grace;  
When madmen tread the Woodcocks Morris dance,  
Give him the Fooles-cappe for his cognisance.   

She that is fifteen mile about the waste,  
And all with fat unable is to go,  
Yet makes her face up in a piece of paste,  
As though she were an Image of Rye Dowe;  
Tell her but truth that Wit and Reason know,  
That this is all, that Fame doth her afford,  
A filthy Owl is but a foolish Bird.   

He that doth hit upon a printed book,  
And finds a name near fitting to his own,  
And of his own poor wit hath undertook  
The ground of all hath from his humour grown,  
When every Bird is by her feather known,  
Pasquil doth tell him that poor Aesop's Pie  
Will show him how his Wit hath gone awry.   

He that doth many, all for Wanton love,  
And hath no Reason for his fond affection:  
But all too late doth with Repentance prove  
The woeful fruits of wretched wills direction,  
While Want and Sorrow are the Souls correction:  
Tell him, such babies may the dug go suck;  
While loving Fools have never better luck.   

She, in a glass, that sees her Sorrel hair,  
And strait will put it to the Painters die,  
And then doth think that she is wondrous fair;  
When flattery feeds her humour with a Lie,  
Oh, let her not in such an error die;  
But bid her kindly crack this friendly Nut,  
So foul a Dowd ' is but a foolish Slut.   

He that delights to tell an idle tale,  
Upon the prattle of a cogging Mate,  
And carelessly his credit se● to sale:  
Which being noted for his foolish prate,  
He shall be sure to find, although too late;  
That Wisdom reads these Rounds in Reasons schools,  
Newes-Carriers are next Neighbours unto Fools.   

She that doth file her tongue for Eloquence,  
To entertain a world with Idle talk:  
And thinks she hath the very Quintessence  
Of quick conceit, wherein her wits do walk,  
Yet doth not know a Buzzard from a Hawk;  
Let her believe, such giddy headed Tittes  
Are not commended for the truest Wits.   

He that doth love to talk of Robin Hood,  
Yet never drew one Arrow in his Bow:  
And yet doth think his skill is wondrous good,  
That scarce the compass of a mark doth know:  
When such a Goosecap doth a shooting go,  
Tell him, that in the aim of Wisdoms eye,  
Wide handed Wits will ever shoot awry.   

He that doth put his state upon his friends,  
In hope of grace, when all his good is lost,  
Shall find his Wit not worth two puddings ends,  
When want of pence to reckon with the Host,  
Doth make the Beggar chalk upon the post:  
Whose base condition doth too plainly show,  
He was not wise, that played the Woodcock so.   

She that doth think, she hath a rare conceit,  
That gives the Cuckoo to her kindest friend;  
And laughs to think upon that close deceit,  
That doth but breed Repentance in the end:  
Tell her, if she the sooner not amend,  
Wisdom sets down, that knows what Wit doth mean●  
A wicked Drab is but a foolish quean.   

He that that is proud of his conceited wit,  
When he can cog, and cozen, prate, and lie:  
And place himself with better men to sit,  
Then may beseem so base a Rascaldry,  
As is too far from thought of chivalry;  
When every Ass his due reward shall have,  
The Fooles-cappe is too good for such a Knave.   

He that in heart doth say there is no God,  
And neither thinks of Heaven, nor yet of Hell:  
Nor hath a feeling of that heavenly Rod,  
That makes the Soul, in sorrows tears, to tell  
How Mercy doth within the Spirit dwell:  
Within the book of Wisdoms blessed School,  
The Lord of Heaven hath set him down a Foole.   

He that will lend more than he well may spare,  
And he that spends all that he hath and more;  
And only trusteth unto Fortune's share,  
And cares not how he run upon the score,  
Until the Beggar meet him at his door:  
Wisdom will tell him truly in the end,  
He is a Fool that is not his own friend.   

She that can look as mildly as a Lamb,  
Yet is a Tiger inwardly in heart;  
And cares not how, nor where she leave the Ram,  
When she hath gotten once the rutting part:  
It is a Rule, in Wit and Reason's Art,  
That she, that hath no better natured Wit,  
The Wise will term a dogged foolish Tit.   

He that is brought up idly in his Youth,  
And scorns to labour in his elder years,  
And never thinks upon the day of Ruthe,  
When want (entangled in the beggars briars)  
The heavy sound of helpless Sorrow hears:  
Let him believe, that Truth doth plainly wright;  
The Fooles-cappe fits the Idle beggar right.   

He that can plot a world of villainy,  
And never cares what Virtues love deserveth:  
And sorts himself with wicked company,  
That from the way of perfect Wisdom swerveth,  
While Mercies hand the gracious heart preserveth:  
That sinful wretch will find in Satan's school,  
A damned villain is a cursed Foole.   

He that doth fill his Coffers full of Gold,  
Yet will not wear good clothes on his back:  
But doth a kind of Clownish humour hold,  
To have his Garment cut out, like a sack,  
And thinks Red Herring have a dainty smack:  
Tell him in kindness (that he may not quarrel)  
The Fooles-Cappe will be fit for his Apparel.   

She that is given to Ease and Sluttishness,  
And trifles out the time in trumpery:  
And yet will think it is no peevishness,  
To feed herself with Idle Foppery;  
May hap to find in sorrows Misery,  
That when the Grasshopper doth leave to sing,  
An idle Hielding is a foolish thing.   

He that doth study twenty things at once,  
And hath intent for to perform them all:  
And yet his beetle addleheaded sconce,  
In full conclusion can do none at all:  
If that the Fooles-cappe to his fortune fall,  
Let him not think but it will finely fit  
The Idle head, that hath no better Wit.   

She that is given to Pride and Bravery,  
And Ruffin-like, will swear, and swash it out;  
And studies nothing else but Knavery,  
To bring a wicked kind of world about;  
And cares not whom she follows with a flout:  
Such foolish Kittes of such a skittish kind,  
In Bridewell book are every where to find.   

He that is here to day, yonder to morrow,  
And cares not how he rangeth here and there:  
Not careth what he can or beg, or borrow,  
To spend or spoil, he cares not how nor where:  
Oh, tell that Idle Fellow in his ear,  
If that he do not take the greater care,  
The Fool will catch him, ere he be aware.   

She that doth love to gossip, and to tattle,  
And leaves her house to keep itself alone;  
And cares not how she spend the time in prattle,  
Till she have barred her Husband to the bone:  
Let her not think but such an Idle joan  
Must have this note set down upon ●er name;  
A Tattling housewife is a foolish Dame.   

He that can comb his head and curl his beard,  
And set his Ruffs, and wear his Cloak in print,  
And by his side can finely wear his sword,  
And learn to fleer, and leer, and look a squint,  
And keep his steps, within a measures stint:  
Let him be sure to pass with this good flout;  
He lacks the Fooles-Cappe yet to set him out.   

He that is well in service entertained,  
And justly hath the due of his desert;  
And by his labour, finds that he hath gained  
The careful comfort of an honest heart;  
Yet fond will with such a Master part:  
Tell him, what Truth doth by Experience know▪  
He is a Fool, leaves such a Master, so.   

He that will let his Wit to run on Wheels,  
And in proud terms will with his betters stand,  
Until his Tongue be tempered by his heels,  
Until his Brains have better manners scanned:  
And if the Fool do take him by the hand,  
Bid him have Patience, to endure the sound;  
That lack of Wit will lay a Fool a ground.   

He that in Libels takes delight to write,  
And cares not whom he wickedly defame;  
But pievishly will show a baggage Spite,  
To touch the Honour of an Honest name:  
What shall I say, that he is much to blame?  
Yea, and so much, as for his idle veins,  
He well deserves the Fooles-cappe for his pains.   

He that hath all his study in the Clouds,  
And all misliketh every thing he reeds:  
And what the Sun within her Circle shrouds,  
All in the height his haughty Humour feeds:  
If he do chance to light on Herbs for Weeds,  
He is but foolish; rise he near so soon,  
That runs in haste to overtake the Moon.   

He that will Read, before he learn to Spell;  
And write a Book, before he know a Blot;  
And keep a Shop, before he learn to sell;  
And fall to gallop ere he learn to troth:  
Whither such one think himself wise or not,  
Let him be sure that better wits do reed,  
Such Madhead fellows are but Fools indeed.   

He that with pleasure follows Cards and Dice,  
Drinking and wenching, and such Idle sports:  
Until too late Repentance know the price  
Of Patience passage to Saint sorrows ports;  
Whereto the Beggar most of all resorts:  
Oh let him know when he doth comfort lack.  
The Beggar Fool will have him by the back.   

She that doth find her Husband true and kind,  
And for her wants to work both ●ight and day:  
Yet like the Weathercock, with every wind,  
Will turn her Humour every idle way,  
And cares not how he fall into decay,  
So she be fed according to her fit;  
She is a Baggage, and a foolish 〈◊〉.   

He that is married to an honest wife,  
That, as her life, in love doth hold him dear:  
With whom his heart may have a quiet life,  
And, in content, live many a merry year  
Yet leaves a Do to take a Rascal Dear:  
The fruits of Will do prove his Wit accursed,  
That so will leave the best, to take the worst.   

He that doth envy every man's good hap,  
And knows not how to get himself in grace:  
And lays his Love but all in Fortune's lap,  
Whose custom is her followers to deface:  
When he is fallen into a piteous case,  
Oh let him know, before he hang himself,  
An envious fool is even such an Elf.   

She that doth keep an Inn for every Guest,  
And makes no care what wind blow up her skirt,  
And ready is to break a Chaucer's jest,  
To make a Smock even measure with a Shirt:  
If such a one be called a Foolish flirt,  
'twas not for nothing that she had her name,  
When all the world is witness to her shame,   

He that doth take the law, but as a jest,  
And will be hanged but for good fellowship,  
And thinks it nothing to be halter blest,  
When from the Gallows it is but a skip▪  
Oh, let him not in anger hang the lip,  
If by desert this due reward he take;  
He was a Fool, that hanged for fashion sake,   

He that will weary out his friends with borrowing,  
And be beholding to an Enemy,  
And kill himself with too much Sorrowing,  
To think, the touch of Treason's villainy  
Should make such work in wicked company:  
Wisdom will tell him, what Experience tries,  
That kind of Wit will never make him Wise.   

He that importunes an approved friend,  
And he that fears to speak where he may speed;  
And in beginning, looks not to the end;  
But loves to glory in a Wicked deed,  
And will his heart with wicked humours feed:  
These Wits do show (that are so fitly matched)  
A Nest of Fools, that Wisdom never hatched.   

He that doth set his hand to every Bill,  
And neither cares for Right nor Equity,  
And only bendeth his unhappy skill,  
But to the overthrow of Honesty:  
Fools, that are so near in affinity,  
When Wisdom makes a trial of true Wit,  
Not one of these that hath to do with it,   

He that doth build high Castles in the Air,  
Until they headlong tumble on his neck:  
And he that will not an old Ship repair,  
Till it be too far tainted with a leak:  
If that the Woodcock give his Wits the peake:  
Let him not chafe if that it be his chance,  
To wear the Fooles-Cappe, in a Moris-daunce.   

He that can play on Twenty hands at once,  
And turns his humour unto every time:  
And hath his Spirit tempered for the nonce,  
To set his flowers only in the prime:  
If when he thinks most warily to climb,  
By due desert a breakeneck-fall he have,  
His craft doth prove him but a Foolish knave   

He that will talk of every thing he knows,  
And credit give to every thing he hears:  
And builds his knowledge only on suppose,  
Yet understands not what too plain appears:  
How young or old soever be his years,  
Who of his poor Wit giveth witness so;  
Think him an arrant Fool, and let him go,   

He that doth wonder at a Weathercock,  
And plays with every feather in the wind,  
And is in love with every Nannicocke;  
Yet scarcely knows an Orange by the Rind:  
When every Fool is found out in his Kind,  
How is it possible but he should pass,  
For a poor silly simple witted Ass?   

He that doth think it is no Wickedness,  
To lead a young man into Wantonness.  
But takes delight in all Ungodliness;  
Until the Heart in Sorrows heaviness,  
Do show the fruits of Wills unhappiness;  
Let that vile villain read in virtues Schools,  
Such wicked wretches are Ungracious Fools.   

He that will change a jennet for a jade,  
And put his Land into a little House:  
And, in the way where Little Wit doth wade,  
Watch a great Mountain for a little Mouse,  
And sits to feed a Monkey with a Louse:  
Where Will is so in folly overgone,  
Wisdom says plainly, his is small or none.   

He that will put his state upon adventure,  
And may be safe and if it please himself:  
And he that binds his service by Indenture,  
To baggage courses for a little pelf:  
If that his Ship do run upon a Shelf,  
Let him not think, but that poor Wit of his,  
From Wisdoms Course, was carried quite amiss.   

He that will creep unto an old joyne-stoole,  
And serve a Thatcher for a Bunch of straw,  
And he that goes to work without his tool,  
And loves to wrangle with a man of Law,  
And thinks no Bird so pretty as the Daw:  
How ere such one be of his Wit conceived,  
Wisdom will tell him he is much deceived.   

He that will tread a Measure as he walks,  
And connterfaite Maid Marian's countenance:  
And loves to fall into those whisper talks,  
That bring poor Wit into a piteous trance:  
If that the Fool do light on him by chance,  
He must assume what Fates to him assign:  
I can not help him, 'tis no fault of mine.   

He that will Drink until his brains be merry,  
And Eat until his stomach be too full,  
And Lie a bed until his bones be weary,  
And Prate so long until he prove a Gull:  
If that such brains be lined with Gander's wool,  
When such Wise creatures put their Wits together,  
To choose the wisest, who knows which is whether?   

He that all day sits blowing at a coal,  
And never leaves till he put out the fire:  
And he that holds his finger in a hole,  
To please the humour of a fond desire:  
And he that loves to trample in the mire:  
When these wise men together make a play,  
The Fool will run with all their Wits away.   

He that will in an humour leave a friend,  
And in a fury fall upon a foe:  
While ill beginnings make as bad an end,  
When poor Repentance doth too late beshrew  
The heedless Will, that Wit doth overthrow:  
That Fool must needs be turned unto the List,  
Among the number of the Had I wist.   

He that will tell his secrets to a stranger,  
And play the Coward with an enemy:  
He that will put himself in needless danger,  
To follow a mad headed company:  
Let him take heed a sudden villainy  
Make him not find in true Repentance School,  
A backward Wit lacks little of A Foole.   

He that will wear his wealth upon his back,  
Yet in his purse doth scarce his dinner carry:  
And he that says to give his neck the crack,  
Because he will not for his fortune tarry:  
If such a Fool become a Buzzards quarry,  
When Careless Will doth show his Wit so small,  
'tis not my fault, I cannot do withal.   

He that doth study out his brains in trifles,  
And miss the humour of a better mark:  
And cousins his conceit with Foolish nifles,  
In taking of a Bunting for a Lark,  
And every Pibble for a Diamond spark:  
He that doth so his Will to folly fit,  
Doth plainly show he hath no perfect Wit.   

He that can eat no other Meat but Milk,  
And for his Horse, must have an Ambling Nag:  
And cannot wear a Shirt, but soft as Silk:  
Nor keep his Coin, but in a Golden Bag,  
And must be known his Mother's kindest Wag:  
Such smoothed Godsons show in Wisdoms school,  
A Milk-soppe Baby is more half a Foole.   

He that will be afraid of every dream,  
And thinketh every puddle is a pool:  
And runs ten miles to eat a mess of Cream,  
And can not sit but on a Cushion stool:  
If such a Noddy be not thought a fool,  
He hath great favour in the Rule of Wit,  
That sees his Weakness, and concealeth it.   

He that doth fill his head so full of humours,  
He knows not where he may in quiet sit:  
And he that loves to raise uncivil rumours,  
Until that justice do in judgement sit,  
Upon the works of such a wicked wit:  
Such wicked Wits, for honest people's health,  
Might well be banished from a Common wealth.   

He that all night doth watch a Coney borough,  
To catch a Ferret, that hath broke his Muzzle:  
And he that squats a Hare within a furrow,  
And sees how she within her Mucedorus doth Nuzzle;  
And yet so long about the Bush doth puzzle,  
That she is gone ere he can well beset her,  
Which, of these two good Fools, may be the better?   

He that doth put all to the latter day,  
To reckon even with all the world at once:  
And in the mean time is at such a stay,  
He knows not how to use his addle Sconce:  
If such an Ass be noddied for the nonce,  
I say but this, to help his Idle fit;  
Let him but thank himself for lack of Wit,   

He that wilfully falls into offence,  
And satisfaction never cares to make:  
But carelessly stands in his own defence,  
While that the Fool his Wits doth overtake:  
When late Repentance makes his heart to ache,  
He scapeth well, if (for such idle veins)  
Worse than the Fooles-cappe answer not his pains.   

He that loves to be noted for strange fashions,  
And for his locks, and for his kind of gate:  
And in his Muses, and his Passions,  
Will not be thought an ordinary mate:  
If that his Wits come to themselves, too late,  
I know not well how to be his Adviser;  
But even be sorry, that he was not wiser.   

He that will hoard up all for a dear year;  
Yet in the mean time want necessities  
He that will be unto himself so near,  
As bring himself into extremities,  
By his own wilful caused calamities,  
This is the end that will fall out of it;  
Such Niggard Fools have never better Wit.   

He that doth put his wealth upon a Cock,  
A Card, a Die, or such an Idle toy:  
And hath his humour so much on the Smock,  
As if it were his Spirits only joy:  
When Soorrowes sighs do show the hearts annoy,  
Let him go back unto Repentance school,  
And see how long his Wit hath played the Foole.   

He that will busy be with Every matter,  
Yet scarce hath power to bring one well to pass:  
And never leaves to cozen, lie, and flatter,  
Until he prove himself a Craftre Ass:  
Let him but look in the Foles looking Glass,  
And there his Woodcock Wit shall plainly have  
The true proportion of a Paltry Knave.   

He that persuades himself, He is a King,  
Yet all the world doth for a Beggar know him:  
And he that takes the Winter for the Spring,  
Because the Sun a little light doth show him  
If want of Wit do wholly overthrow him,  
And that the cocks comb to his cap do fall,  
'tis not my fault, I can not do withal.   

He that puts fifteen else into a Ruff,  
And seventeen yards into a swaggering slappe:  
And twenty thousand Crowns into a Muff,  
And half his land into a hunting Cap:  
If that the fool do catch him in his trap,  
There like a Woodcock let him walk about:  
When he is in, I cannot help him out.   

He that in all his thoughts is so unholy,  
He makes no care of any good conceight:  
But gives himself so much to Idle folly,  
That unto Hell he runs the high way strait:  
If he be poisoned with the devils bait,  
I can not choose but tell him like a friend,  
Such wicked Fools will have a woeful end.   

He that will Brace his face at Lothebury,  
Because he will not blush at Knavery:  
And he that will refuse no Drudgery,  
To gather Dross by any Slavery;  
And yet will stand upon his Bravery:  
He is no fool, whoever be an Ass,  
Makes such a Cover for a looking glass.   

He that reputes him of no wickedness,  
Nor takes delight in any godliness:  
But in the way of all unthriftiness,  
Doth waste the time of Nature's wretchedness;  
Where helpless Sorrows, in unhappiness,  
Do breed the Spirits endless heaviness:  
That Fool is in the height of foolishness.   

He that regards not how he use his speech,  
Nor careth how the world do go about,  
Nor maketh reckoning who behold his breech,  
Nor how he play the Were lout:  
Where Wisemen live, if he be beaten out,  
Let him be patient, if it come to pass  
A beastly Fool be handled like an Ass.   

He that doth make his Tongue a two hand sword,  
And only seeks his Honour all by stealth:  
And cares not how he falsify his word,  
Nor by how much disgrace to gather wealth:  
How ever so his Carcase be in health,  
Wisdom describes him, in true Honour's school,  
A Gull, a Knave, a Coward, and a Foole.   

He that doth gain more, than he well may spend,  
And prattles more than Truth doth understand:  
And in his actions, always doth intend  
Upon the stay of wicked works to stand:  
If that the Devil take him by the hand,  
Let him believe what highest Truth doth tell;  
He is a Fool, that leaveth Heaven for Hell.   

He that doth take a Shadow for a Substance;  
And yet doth think he hath a perfect sight:  
And he that takes an Humour for an Instance;  
And yet believes his brains be in the right:  
He that in darkness so doth look for light  
(How ever Will do take his Wits to school)  
Wisdom in deed will find him but a Foole.   

He that hath once a piece of work begun,  
And knows not how nor when to make an end:  
And he whose will his Wits doth overrun,  
To make a Foe in wronging of a Friend:  
He that doth so amiss his Spirit spend,  
(However so his own conceit do deem him)  
Wisdom in deed will but a Fool esteem him.   

He that is Esau for Unthriftiness,  
And follows Cain in his ungodliness:  
And loves Achit●phell for wickedness,  
And is a judas, in unfaithfulness,  
Whatever show he make of holiness:  
That man I find in too much foolishness,  
Hath red the Scripture in unhappiness.   

He that of Machavile doth take instruction  
To manage all the matters of his thought;  
And treads the way but to his own destruction,  
Till late Repentance be too dearly bought,  
Shall find it true, that hath been often taught:  
As good be Idle as to go to school,  
To come away with nothing but the Fool,   

For fear whereof, lest some of mine own sect  
(That have but played the Fools, with lack of Wit)  
Do kindly tell me of my Cares neglect,  
In finding humours for the time more fit:  
While wicked Spirits do their venom spit:  
I will conclude (to prove world's Wit an Ass)  
Man's Wit is vain, shallbe, and ever was.  
Sapientia mundi, stultitia coram Deo.    

Pasquil's passion for the world's waywardness.  

WIcked, ungracious, and ungodly Age,  
Where hateful thoughts are gotten to their height,  
How should my spirit in true passions rage?  
Describe the courses of thy vile conceight,  
That feed the world but with the devils bait:  
While woeful hearts, with inward sorrows wounded,  
Find Wit and Reason in their sense confounded.   

No, no, the depth of thy unknown distress  
(Wherein the heart is overwhelmed with woes)  
Exceeds the power of passion to express;  
While so much grief within the Spirit grows,  
As all the power of Patience overthrows:  
While virtuous minds, within their souls aggrieved,  
Must helpless die, and cannot be relieved.   

The clearest eye must seem to have no seeing,  
And Eloquence must be to silence bound,  
And Honour's essence seem to have no being,  
Where wicked winds run virtues ship a ground,  
While healthful spirits fall into a swoon;  
That only Pride, that wears the golden horn,  
May live at ease, and laugh the world to scorn.   

If every right were rightly apprehended,  
And best deservings best might be regarded,  
And Careful works were to their worth commended,  
And Gracious spirits graciously rewarded,  
And wicked craft from Conscience care discarded;  
Then might the Angels sing in Heaven, to see  
What blessed courses on the earth would be.   

But oh, the world is at an other pass,  
Fools have such Masks, men can not see their faces:  
There is such flattery in a looking Glass,  
That winking eyes can not see their disgraces,  
That are apparent in too open places:  
But what avails unto a wicked mind?  
No eye so cloudy, as the wilful blind.   

To see the sleight of subtle sneaking spirits  
(That dare not see the Glass of their disgraces)  
Thrive in the World, while better natured merits  
Can not aspire unto those blessed places,  
Where faithless hearts should never show there faces:  
Would it not grieve an honest heart to know it?  
Although the tongue be sworn it may not show it.   

To see a horse of service in the field,  
Hurt by a jade, that can but kick and fling:  
To see Ulysses wear Achilles' shield,  
While hissing Serpents have a Hellish sting:  
To see the Knave of Clubs take up the King,  
Although he be a wicked help at Maw,  
'twas but a clown that yet devised the law.   

To see a sight of Curs worry a Hound,  
A flight of Buzzards fall upon a Hawk,  
A Coward villain give a Knight a wound,  
To hear a Rascal to a King to talk,  
Or see a Peasant cross a Prince's walk,  
Would it not fret the heart that doth behold it,  
And yet in figures may not dare unfold it?   

But what a kind of wretched world is this!  
They that are honest, let them be so still.  
Such as are settled in their course amiss,  
Have much a do for to reform their will.  
It is the wind that drives about the Mill,  
That grinds the Corn that sometimes fills the Sack,  
That laid awry may break the Loaders back.   

What shall I say? that knows not what to say.  
This world's vile Grammar hath a wicked speech:  
Where Wealth and Will do carry such a sway,  
That many a time the Goodwife wears the breech,  
And the stout Oak must yield unto the Beech.  
Such vile conjunctions such constructions make,  
That some are poisoned with a Sugar Cake.   

Terence his Plays are too much in request.  
The Knave, the Fool, the Swagg'rer, and the Whore,  
Thraso and Gnato, Lais and the rest  
Of all the crew (that I dare say no more;  
But ware the dogs that keep the devils door)  
So play their parts upon the worldly Stage,  
That thieves are hanged before they come to age.   

Oh, 'tis a word to hear a Gander keake,  
And all the Geese to give a hist to beer:  
To hear an Owl to teach a Parrot speak,  
While Cuckoos notes make better Music dear;  
Where near a better singing bird is near,  
Would it not grieve a good musicans ear,  
To be enforced to stand attentive there?   

To see a Wise man handled like a Fool,  
An Ass exalted like a proper man:  
To see a Puddle honoured like a Pool,  
An old blind Goose swim wagers with a Swan,  
Or Silver Cups disgraced by a Can:  
Who would not grieve that so the world should go?  
But who can help it, if it will be so?   

No, no, alas it is in vain for me,  
To help the eyes, that joy not in the light:  
He that is sworn that he will never see,  
Let him play Buzzard, with his blinded sight.  
An Owl will never have an Eagles flight;  
He, that is once conceited of his Wit,  
Must die of folly: there's no help for it.   

And yet good Fools, that can not do withal,  
May well be borne with, for their simple Wits:  
But Knavish Wits, that wicked Fools we call,  
(Where hellish Satan with his Angels sits,  
To work the feats of many a thousand fits)  
Those foolish knaves, or knavish fools I mean,  
I would to God, the world were rid of clean.   

And yet it is in vain such world to wish:  
There is no pack of Cards without a Knave:  
Who loves to feed upon a Salad dish,  
Among his Herbs some wicked weed may have.  
Some men must win, some lose, and some must save.  
fools will be Fools, do wise men what they can,  
And many a Knave deceive an honest man.   

A curtal jade will show his hackney tricks,  
And Snarling Curs will bite a man behind:  
The Black Thorn Shrub is best known by his Pricks:  
A kestrel can not choose but show her kind.  
Wise men sometime must wait, till Fools have dined:  
And yet, those Fools, in common Wits conceit;  
Are Wise, when Wisdom on their wealth doth wait.   

And yet the wealthy Fool is but a Fool,  
The Knave with all his wealth is but a Knave:  
For truest Wisdom reads in virtues school,  
That there is no man happy till his grave.  
The Hermit lives more quiet in his Cave,  
Then many a King that long usurps a Crown;  
That in the end comes head long tumbling down.   

Yet who so base, as would not be a King?  
And who so fond as thinks not he is Wise?  
Doth not the Cuckoo think that she can sing,  
As clearly as the Bird of Paradise?  
The foulest Dowd ' is fair in her own eyes.  
Conceit is strong, and hath such kind of vain,  
As works strange wonders in a Woodcock's brain.   

But, what should Fancy dwell upon a Fable?  
In some far countries, Women ride a-stride:  
The Fool that in the kind can use his babble,  
Shall have Fat meat and somewhat else beside.  
For Wit doth wonders under folly hide:  
Yet in true Wisdom, all are Fools approved,  
They that love Fools, and Fools that are beloved.   

But since 'tis best that all agree in one,  
The proverb says, 'tis merry when friends meet.  
It is a kind of death to live alone.  
A loving humour is a pleasing sweet,  
Let Wise men study on the Winding sheet,  
And weaker Wits this poor contentment have,  
'tis better be a Fool then be a Knave.   

And so, good friend, if so thou be, farewell:  
I must not stand upon the Fool too long;  
Lest that my spirits so with folly swell,  
As do perhaps my better humours wrong▪  
And therefore thus in brief I end my song;  
The wisest man hath writ, that ever was,  
Vanitas vanitatum, & omnia vanitas.   

Vanity all, all is but vanity,  
Nothing on earth but that will have an end:  
Where he that trusts to bare Humanity,  
Shall hardly live to find in Heaven a friend.  
Take heed therefore the Highest to offend:  
Either learn Wit, where truest Wisdom lies,  
Or take my word, thou never wilt be Wise.   

And therefore let the wise not be displeased,  
If they be counted Fond as well as other:  
For, 'tis a plague, that hath the world diseased,  
Sinch sin became unhappy Nature's Mother:  
And let me say but this, my gentle brother;  
Since all is vain, that lives under the Sun,  
Good wise man be are with Fools, and I have done.   
FINIS.