PASQVILS Mistress: Or THE WORTHY AND unworthy woman. With his description and passion of that Fury, jealousy.  
¶ Imprinted at London, for Thomas Fisher, and are to be sold at his shop, at the Sign of the White Hart, in Fleetstreet. 1600.   

❧ THE BEST MERIriest wit in true honest kindness, not king Humphrey, but Humphrey King, God and a good wife make a happy man in this world.  
Lusty Humphrey, honest wag, hearing, of late, of your determination, to enter into the honourable course of kindness (which, after many mad Rounds, will be the best dance to continue with) hoping that you are old enough to know what is good for yourself, and yet not so wilful in conceit, but you will take advisement of your good friends; for the better instruction of your judgement in this loves lawcase, I have thought good to set you down such notes worthy memory, as may give you great light, in the best way to your comfort: where, finding the true description of the worthy, and unworthy woman, you may, by gods help, make a choice worth the choosing. Pasquil sent them to me, and I to you; hoping, that if they be not as they should be, you will blame him, and not me. So, wishing thine honest heart as good fortune as myself, and as much better as shall please God; if you light well, to be glad, but not proud of it; if otherwise, to be as patient as your poor friends (hoping, that you will find a jewel worth the keeping, and dross but worth the discarding) I commit my book to your kind reading, & my love to your like keeping: and so rest  
Your affectionate friend, Salohcin Treboun.   

❧ To the Reader.  
PASQVILL, as you have heard, having had many mad humours in his head, could never be at quiet in his heart, till he had eased his mind of his melancholy: now of late, leaving boys play to go to quoits, to put toys out of his head, fell to study of love: which, finding out a Mistress for his humour, put his wits to many good services, scarce worthy the reciting. But, in brief, he was so graveled in the admiration of her perfections, that he looked so far into her mind, as made him have mind almost of nothing else; till, finding the variety of her inclination, he grew out of love with love: his mistress was but a dream, and women were strange creatures: if they were as they should be, they were to hard to come by: if, as too many be, they were better lost than found. And in this quandary of quimeddledy, how now (according to the old country Round, Take the best, and leave the worst, and break none of the pale) he hath written his mind of all that came to his thought, hoping the best will be quiet, and the rest will mend. And so, wishing every man to take his fortune, as patiently as he may, and to speak as well of him, as he list, he rests, after his old fashion,  
Pasquil.   

❧ Pasquil, in general, to women.  
YE that are worthy of honour, I willingly give it ye: ye that deserve ill, I will pray for ye, that God will amend ye: but ye that are gracious, be not proud, lest ye fallere ye be aware: and ye that are too blame, be not desperate; God is merciful: among ye all, let none be more peevish than another, to take ill to herself. What is good take it, ye that deserve it: what is ill, I bequeath it to none at all: for, I know not her, whom particularly I will touch with imperfections. Some kind of shadows I dreamt of, that were like women: which when I awoke, I found nothing such. And therefore, hoping all women will deserve some good thought, or other, I will honour the best, & pray for the worst, and so rest.  
Pasquil.   

❧ PASQVILS MISTRESS.  

NOt she, that braves a picture for a face,  
Nor she whose waste is little as a wand:  
Nor she whose eye can glance it with a grace,  
Nor she that hath a Spider fingered hand,  
Nor she that doth upon her Tiptoes stand:  
Nor she that is with beauty's dross bedight,  
Is she, of whom my Muse doth mean to write.   

For Beauty fadeth like a Morning flower,  
And sickness winds the body soon awry:  
And Pride is but the shadow of a power,  
Nor in a finger, doth all fairness lie.  
For when foot, hand, head, heart, and all must die,  
And death hath made a Carcase of a Creature,  
What good do then the Ornaments of Nature?   

No, no: there is an other kind of thing,  
Which in the heart doth grow, as some do guess,  
That secretly doth through the spirit spring,  
And heavenly powers especially do bless:  
Which as it grows, by measure, more or less:  
Doth beautify the body where it grows,  
As wit and reason, all in wonder shows.   

Which some do call the Quintessence of Nature:  
Other set down for reason's government:  
And some do call the form of honour's feature:  
And other some the spirits Instrument,  
That gives each limb, & sense, their ornament:  
But all and some agree on this, I find,  
It is the wonder in a woman's mind.   

It is the Mind that gives the Majesty:  
The purest beauty, is within the Mind.  
It is the Mind that makes the dignity,  
It is the Mind that makes the Nature kind,  
And keeps the eye, that never can be blind:  
It is the Mind that guides both heart & head:  
For kill the Mind, the body is but dead.   

And this same mind, that monarcheth the thought  
Wherein it doth by inspiration dwell,  
By whom, the ground of every grace is sought,  
The eye to see, ear hear, the tongue to tell,  
How every sense may in itself excel,  
This mind I say, the majesty of Nature,  
Is only it, that makes the perfect Creature.   

This mind, the gift of the Supernal grace,  
Descending from the life of Mercies love,  
Which in true music skorns to touch the Base,  
But (in the height of honours best behove)  
Doth the true consort of contentments prove:  
This mind is it, that in true happiness,  
Doth only make a woman's worthiness.   

For, let her be as fair as Curds and Cream,  
Yet if her mind be made of Milk and Cheese,  
Her water is but like a common stream,  
That in a puddle doth her honour lose.  
A Waspish mind is not for honey Bees:  
While the true mind, where honour hath her height,  
Can not descend into a base conceit.   

And let her be a bag of gold for wealth,  
Yet, if withal she bear a beggar mind:  
The gracious eye, that sees the spirits health,  
Knows that the heart that is to hell inclined,  
In virtues heaven can never honour find:  
While the true mind, where virtue hath her place,  
Makes gold but dross, to purchase honours grace.   

And let her be a very Ape for wit,  
Yet, if she be inclined to monkeys toys:  
Virtue, that doth the heart to honour fit,  
Finds it too full of follies fowl annoys,  
To seek the jewel of true Grace's joys:  
While wisdom shows, that in the soul doth sit,  
There is no honour in an Apish wit.   

And let her be a Lady for her honour,  
Yet if she be of an ungentle mind,  
What heart of worth that will attend upon her?  
That can not grace true virtue in her kind:  
But like a Buzzard, let her beat the wind,  
While the true mind that hath true honour proved,  
Makes gracious kindness worthily beloved.   

Thus, let her be, fair, wealthy, noble, wise:  
Yet if these be not inly in the mind,  
In the clear judgement of true wisdoms eyes,  
She is no Creature of an Angel's kind:  
While shadows do but Indiscretion blind.  
No, 'tis the mind, that the true worth retaineth:  
That all by virtue, endless honour gaineth.   

For, if I may describe a worthy woman,  
Worthy of honour in the highest kind  
(Such, as but such one, known to few, or no man)  
But by the module of a heavenly mind,  
If that mine eye be not conceited blind,  
I will set down how gracious thoughts bring forth  
The perfect wonder of a woman's worth.   

If she be fair without, gracious within,  
Noble of birth, and in demeanour kind:  
Wealthy in purse, yet will with bounty win  
The worthy honour of a Noble mind:  
Such a rare Phoenix in the world to find,  
And to be matched in her worth by no man,  
May well describe the wonder of a woman.   

But if her beauty be a common blaze,  
To fire the heart of every foolish head:  
Or like a glass, be every woodcocks gaze,  
By fond affects to bring a fool to bed:  
If such ill humours have the spirit fed,  
Where wisdom wants to give the mind a grace,  
It makes a picture of a painted face.   

And if she be of Noble Parentage,  
Yet turn her mind unto a meaner string:  
And by the want of honour's carriage,  
Will grace a beggar, and disgrace a King,  
And leave a Lark to hear a Cuckoo sing:  
Unfitly was that honour's title given her,  
When a base mind hath to such beggary driven her.   

And if she be as rich as Croesus was,  
Yet if her mind be given to greediness:  
And doth for wealth more than for honour pass:  
And thinks no honour but in wealthiness:  
In the true Rules of honour's worthiness,  
She is as far from true Nobility,  
As an old Churl from true Gentility.   

And if she be as wise as wit can make her,  
Yet if that wisdom do not guide her mind,  
Such Apish humours will so overtake her,  
That oftentimes she will be wilful blind,  
And lose the worth that better wit might find:  
And then the wit that hath but folly proved,  
Will make her little worthy to be loved.   

Oh then, let virtue govern beauty's eye,  
And honour's love, a noble spirit Nurse:  
Let wisdom, wit, to cares discretion tie,  
And Bounty keep the wealthy Lady's Purse:  
So in the bliss where never fell a curse,  
Perfections grace the spirit of that kind,  
That so can make a body of a mind.   

For such a body of a mind so framed,  
Contains more worth than passion can express.  
Which wonder, being in a woman named,  
In honour's title can deserve no less  
Than Reason's grace in Nature's worthiness:  
Which on the earth in any one well known,  
Might make her only, by herself, alone.   

The Noble mind regards true Nobleness,  
And bends no eye upon a base aspect:  
Rejecteth pride, rewardeth thankfulness;  
And unto virtue hath a chief affect:  
And is not of the subtle humoured sect:  
But plainly sees and marks, & loves the heart,  
That only seeks for honour by desert.   

It loves no creeping that doth sinell of craft,  
Where fair before doth hide the fowl behind:  
Nor is it pleased in a sugared draft,  
That fills the stomach only but with wind:  
Nor loves a Falcon of a Buzzards kind:  
But like a Phoenix soaring in the Sun,  
Begins to live when that her life is done.   

It maketh patience kill each discontent,  
And reason comforts in their kinds to measure:  
It breeds the humour of the best intent,  
And tells the heart, what should be her chief treasure:  
And but in heaven doth place the spirits pleasure:  
It lives on earth, but hath not here her living,  
While heavenly love hath all her essence giving.   

What worth hath won the fairest women's fame?  
But that which honour in the mind hath wrought:  
And what hath wrought the truest honours frame?  
But that which virtue in the mind hath taught:  
To which the body is a thing of nought:  
For in the mind the gracious spirit dwelleth,  
That gives the ground, wherein each sense excelleth.   

The gracious glorious Queen of womankind,  
The virgin Marie, mother of all Bliss,  
What won her honour, but an humble mind?  
That shows the vain where truest virtue is:  
Leading the soul it cannot go amiss:  
But in perfection plainly hath approved,  
The only life that is of God beloved.   

Venus was fair, but to Diana, fowl:  
Minerva wise, till Pallas came in place:  
But oh, to match an Eagle with an Owl,  
A baggage spirit with an Angel's face:  
Honour can never yield to such disgrace.  
No: virtues hand, that giveth honour's crown,  
Will strike the thought of all dishonour down.   

Oh, the true noble beauty of the mind,  
The hearts chief riches, and the spirits treasure,  
That doth the soul to sacred service bind,  
That only seeks in Paradise her pleasure,  
Hath even of heaven already made a seizure,  
And shows where virtue doth the wit refine,  
It makes the creature to be known Divine.   

It makes the eye of beauty bless true honour,  
And honour grace the heart of humbleness,  
And wisdom make best wits to wait upon her,  
While wealth rewardeth service thankfulness:  
And fills the mind so full of worthiness,  
As where such true perfections are approved,  
Can not but be of heaven and earth beloved.   

Penelope was constant in her love:  
Which to her beauty gave a glorious grace:  
Did not Lucretia as great honour prove,  
Against Tarqvinius, in a woeful case?  
Oh, modest beauty hath a blessed face:  
But fair and noble, constant, wise, and kind  
Do show an Angel in a woman's mind.   

Oh this same mind, a spirit of that power,  
That joys in nothing but in doing good:  
And will omit no mean, no place, nor hour,  
That may bring in the height of honours 'slud,  
carries no falsehood, in too fair a hood,  
But, only grieves at an ungracious Nature,  
Doth in a woman make a worthy Creature.   

Oh that same mind of true humility,  
Doth gain more grace, than mountain mine's of gold:  
Where the true badge of true Nobility:  
Doth show the honour that will ever hold,  
While baggage humours will be bought & sold:  
Where beggars pride, the Tower of Babylon,  
Will quickly fall unto confusion.   

To show examples of our former times,  
In true recording of those worthy minds,  
That would but fill my paper up with Rhymes  
Of commendations, in deserved kinds,  
Which wisdoms judgement in perfection finds,  
It were too tedious: let thus much suffice,  
To show the mind wherein true honour lies.   

But, as in all things, contrariety  
Doth show the difference twixt the good and bad:  
And in all humours, the variety  
Shows which deserveth chiefest to be had:  
Which makes the mind most grievous or most sad:  
So let me show the truth of every token,  
That makes a woman, in her fame forespoken.   

If that her eyes do troll like tennis balls,  
Her tongue be always licking of her lips:  
Her heels be so upon the slippery falls,  
They scarce have power to carry up her hips:  
If that she tread awry among her trips:  
Although her face be like an Angel painted,  
Ho there alas, her credit will be tainted.   

If that her tongue be like an Aspen leaf,  
Her hair unkembed like a Carthorse tail:  
Her finger's ends like to a threshed sheaf,  
Her gate be like unto a garden snail:  
While winter dust hangs knotted at her sail,  
And have a mind to answer every part,  
She is a darling for the devils dart.   

If she be basely borne, and vilely bred,  
Dogged in Nature, sottish in conceit:  
A Camel's visage and a beetle head,  
And hold her nose up to a steeples height,  
And yet can scarcely on a trencher wait:  
Though she be anointed with the Curriersoyle,  
She will be counted but a filthy roil.   

If she make curtsy like Maid Marian,  
And wear her linen never so well slicked:  
And be the flower of all the frying pan,  
And have her bosom with a Nosegay sticked:  
And in her tire be never so betricked:  
And shall be married to the bailiffs son:  
She shall be but the wench, when all is done.   

If she can ask, what lack you Gentleman,  
And with good words make profit of her ware:  
If she can turn the Kirrling in the pan,  
And knows both how to spend & how to spare,  
And how to shift, to make a private share:  
She may do well, for one of her vocation:  
But there's the top of all her commendation.   

If she can flaunt it bravely at her door,  
And have her Ruffs, clear starched and well set,  
Her Stomacher bear out a yard before,  
Her Motley cheeks with pure Vermilion wet,  
And for a scoff be found in no man's debt:  
Yet, he that sees her cloth, & knows the will,  
Finds her a Gugin but to hang a Gull.   

If she can play upon an Instrument,  
And sing, and turn the white up of the eye.  
And tell a tale of wantoness merriment,  
And fleer and flatter, laugh, and look awry,  
And make a show for very love to die:  
Yet may her mind be of so vile a making,  
That scarce her body may be worth the taking.   

But, if she have the gift to brawl and scold,  
To scowl, and frown, to lower, & hang the lip:  
And be not past a hundredth winter's old,  
And like a flower, that a frost doth nip:  
And goes no further than a flea can skip:  
How ever wicked wealth hath overgon her,  
He needs no other plague that lights upon her.   

And, if she know not how to make her ready,  
Nor what to wear, nor how to speak, nor look:  
But in her humours will be proud and heady:  
And never read, but in a golden book,  
And will be caught but with the golden hook:  
Surely, I fear, her gold is all but dross,  
And he that buys her, will but live by loss.   

And if she be in her conceit so muddy,  
She hath no mind, but of her home made clothe:  
Or in her wicked humours be so bloody,  
She cares not how she fills the devils froth,  
Nor how she swear, nor how she coin an oath:  
Oh such an egg so full of hellish evil,  
Is even a morsel fit to feed the devil.   

And she that is into a beast transformed,  
By all the humours of unhuman Nature:  
And by good counsel, will not be reform,  
But is resolved to be a wicked creature  
(How ever like a woman be her feature)  
Who ever hath to do with her, shall find  
She is a woman of a wicked kind.   

And she that credits every tale she hears,  
And tells her mind to every idle ear:  
And every idle fiddling gossip cheers,  
That can but flatter, prate, and lie, and swear:  
And now and then, let fall a feigned tear:  
Such a good gossip with her housewifery,  
Will quickly bring a man to beggary.   

If she be fowl, ill-favoured, and worse faced,  
Wry mouthed, crook legged, lame handed, & squint eyed:  
And every way so thoroughly disgraced,  
As for a monster might be made a bride:  
Whose ugly face doth no ill feature hide:  
If such a creature may be worth the wooing,  
Woe be to him that hath the deed in doing.   

But if she be but breasted like a Cow,  
Necked like a wild goose, toothed like a dog:  
Lipped like a horse, & snouted like a Sow,  
Breathed like a Fox, and spirited like a log,  
And in effect, half sister to a hog:  
Yet think her penny is good currant money,  
Hard is his hap that takes her gall for honey.   

But if that she can simper like a Mare,  
And like a Hobby horse can hold her head,  
Prate like a Parrot, like an Owlet stare,  
And sleep and snort before she go to bed,  
And in her pocket have a crust of bread,  
And play the wanton on a wooden bench,  
Who would not cast his gorge for such a wench?   

But if she can say yea, and no forsooth,  
And fie, and tush, and how now, pray away:  
And blow her nose, and pick a rotten tooth,  
And wear her best clothes on a holiday,  
And skim the cream pot when her dam's away,  
And make her spindle twist without a whirl,  
Who would not spend his groat for such a girl?   

But if she get the garland on the green,  
By truly treading of a Morris dance:  
Or in a wheat Cart, as she sits unseen,  
Unto her lubber can convey a glance,  
To bring a poor man in a piteous trance:  
Who would not dance until he could not stand,  
That had so sweet a pigeon by the hand.   

If she be sluttish, peevish, and untoward,  
Wilful, and wanton, lazy, cursed, and sullen,  
Frantic, and foolish, whincling, and froward,  
And scarce can make a thread of russet woollen,  
But must be taught how to put up her pullen:  
To have a wench well followed with such fits,  
Would make a poor man hall beside his wits.   

If that her eyes be bleared, and run a water,  
Her nose hang dropping all the Summer long,  
Her mouth do slaver, and her teeth do chatter,  
Her breath be for the swinish nose too strong,  
And ban, and cursing be her hourly song,  
With such a Beldame who is forced to dwell,  
Needs in this world to have no other hell.   

But, if she do but love the nappy Ale,  
And lie a bed until eleven a clock,  
And secretly can set her ware to sale,  
For a red Petticoat or a Canvas Smock,  
Dive in a pocket, or can pick a lock,  
And call her husband Rascal, Fool, and Scab,  
Never seek further for a filthy Drab.   

But if she have a filthy brazen face,  
That will not blush, what ever weather fall,  
Swear, and speak bawdy, think of no disgrace,  
Play with all comers, cog, and throw at all,  
And toss her kindness like a Tennis ball:  
In the true course of vices declaration,  
She is the Nurse of all abomination.   

If she can smooth it with a Card of ten,  
And speak no word, but truly, and indeed,  
And seem as though she could abide no men,  
And had no joy, but holy books to reed,  
Look like a flower, and be a wicked weed,  
And for her gain can play the Parasite,  
She were a fit wife for an Hypocrite.   

If she be neither honest, fair, nor kind,  
Well faced, well bodied, handed, legged, nor footed,  
Good heart, good thought, good nature nor good mind:  
But in the poison of all rancour rooted,  
And in the mire up to the knees be booted:  
Such a strange monster, fit to match with no man,  
I think 'twere pity should be called a woman.   

But, if she can use cunning words of Art,  
To make her copper seem good currant coin:  
And weep, & swear her love is from the heart,  
And with an humour jump, and Issue join,  
And finely so can give a fool the foin:  
Though she her matters carry near so clean,  
She shall be but a coney-catching quean.   

But, if she be a fool that can not speak,  
But only blush, and look the other way:  
And will alone into a corner sneak,  
Because, alas, she knows not what to say,  
But loves with children, & with fools to play:  
Such a sweet Parnell, if a man were mad,  
Might think himself half happy if he had.   

But, if she can but pick her fingers ends,  
And pair her nails, and wash, & wipe her hands:  
Run to the Fair, be merry with her friends,  
And tell her mother how the market stands,  
And pick the sheaves, who ever make the bands:  
Such an odd Malkin were a mistress fit,  
To make a rich man with the beggar sit.   

But, if she can both seawe, and knit and spin,  
Seawe slight, knit false, and spin a rau'led thread,  
And cunningly can play joan Silver pin,  
With idle humours, how a fool to feed,  
If such a lesson she can kindly reed,  
She and a Tinker, in a market town,  
Would help to cozen many a silly clown.   

But, if she can be quiet, and content,  
Speak fair, make curtsy, fear for to offend:  
And look as sober as a jack of Lent,  
What is amiss, be careful to amend,  
And bring distempers to a quiet end:  
Oh such a wench would be a member fit,  
To cozen twenty thousand with her wit.   

But, if she have no patience in her passions,  
No settled humour, but all in self will,  
No pleasing fancy, but in proving fashions,  
Nor for her meal, go further than the Mill,  
And cares not whether it be good or ill:  
Such a vile baggage, were a purgatory,  
To sink a very soul in misery.   

She that is given but to all wickedness,  
And loves to live but all in wantonness,  
And will be led but all by wilfulness,  
And spend her years but all in wretchedness,  
Not caring how to end in woefulness:  
Such a fowl fiend is fit in filthiness,  
To match the devil in his hellishness.   

She that can look a head, and stroke a beard,  
And pick a moth, and finely set a ruff,  
And make herself of every fly afeard,  
And seem to take all idle words in snuff,  
And wear no cloth but of the purest stuff,  
And make her Coll a Nightcap for the cough,  
God help the man: for she is well enough.   

She that can have her breakfast in her bed,  
And sit at dinner like a maiden Bride,  
And all the morning learn to dress her head,  
And after dinner, how her eye to guide,  
To show herself to be the child of pride,  
God, in his mercy, may do much to save her:  
But what a case were he in that should have her!   

She that will ride but on an ambling Nag,  
And travel not above a mile an hour,  
Will not be pleased but with the golden bag,  
And have her coin come raining like a shower,  
And give an Angel for a Gilliflowre:  
That is a wench, that if she had a spring,  
Would make a beggar, that were half a King.   

She that can walk the by-lanes and the Allies,  
And make close matches twixt young lads & wenches  
And from the mountains can survey the valleys,  
And lay such Ambuscadoes in her trenches,  
That she will make her profit of her benches:  
Such an odd whiffler swears that shewil thrive,  
As long as she can find one man alive.   

But if she will be cozened with fair speech,  
And think all gold that makes a glistering show,  
And doth mistake a black thorn for a Beech,  
Because she doth no better timber know,  
If heedless will do feel a helpless woe,  
What says the wag that got the wench with child?  
Had she been wise, she had not been beguiled.   

She that can neither boil, nor bake, nor brew,  
Nor rarely well conceited for her wit:  
Nor scarcely honest, nor was ever true,  
But every way, an idle headed Tit,  
Yet thinks herself for a good husband fit:  
Oh, how accursed was that creature borne,  
That took that wench, to dub him with a horn!   

But, hoping there is no such kind of woman,  
But 'twas a dream of some mistaken creatures,  
That women will be cursed, nor false to no man,  
But of good humours, & of better Natures,  
And have their fancies fitting to their features,  
I will describe those gracious women's lives,  
That make good husbands happy, in their wives.   

She that is fair, and wise, courteous and kind:  
Patient to bear the crosses of conceit,  
Of Nature mild, and of an humble mind,  
Constant in love, and free from all deceit,  
And will the time of her content await:  
Such a true virgin, to become a wise,  
Will make a man to know a happy life.   

She that is careful over that she hath,  
Painful in that she wisely undertaketh,  
And will not tread out of discretion's path,  
But all fond idle thriftless ways forsaketh,  
That to the least of her dishonour maketh,  
She, that is known to have this kind of carriage,  
Will make a man half happy in her marriage.   

She that doth love to keep within her house,  
And to the door can have a watchful eye:  
She in her head that will not leave a louse,  
Nor in her heart a thought to go awry,  
From the true course of virtues constancy,  
And keeps the honour of her husbands bedding,  
Doth make a man twice happy in her wedding.   

She that doth go to Church but for devotion,  
And feareth God, and loves his word in deed,  
And in her heart will harbour no ill motion,  
That may her fancy with corruption feed,  
And in her garden will abide no weed:  
She, to that man, that on her virtue stays,  
Gives a prolonging of his happy days.   

She that forbears to talk with every Tit,  
And will not bend her ear to every tale,  
And will employ the spirit of her wit,  
In keeping passions in true patience pale,  
And for a Nut will not mistake a shalt:  
But shun all sly conceits that may beset her,  
Will make his life thrice happy that can get her.   

She that can truly judge twixt good and ill,  
And paints her face, but with a Maiden blush,  
And to the best doth ever bend her will,  
And cramp all thoughts that would true honour crush,  
And make her soul unto her mind a brush,  
And loves entirely, where she takes affection,  
Makes man's life happy in his loves direction.   

She that is Nobly borne, and Princely bred,  
Heavenly inclined, and holily disposed,  
A Sarahs' spirit, and a Indiths head,  
And have her comforts in that care enclosed,  
That have their rest in virtue all reposed:  
Such an Angelical Creature in a wife,  
Might make a king to know a happy life.   

She that doth rather love to hear than speak,  
And rather strives to understand than teach,  
And never will the bands of honour break,  
Nor ever seek to climb above her reach,  
Nor in her thoughts let folly make a breach:  
Such a wise wench, in true wits wealthiness,  
Will make a man find his life's happiness.   

She that will rather a defect amend,  
Then to defend, or any way excuse,  
Nor coin a lie, nor an untruth defend,  
Nor from a friend a good advise refuse,  
Nor the true honour of her love abuse,  
Nor hath that blame, that worthily may blot her  
Makes the man happy, for a wife hath got her.   

She that will wear according to her calling,  
Such decent garments as she may maintain,  
And will not in her busbands' ear be bawling,  
To feed her humour with an idle vain,  
And make his purse beyond his penny strain:  
Such a kind wench, that so her will doth carry,  
Doth make him happy that doth live to marry.   

She that can go to market for her meat,  
And not stay twattling there with good wife Twat,  
Come home and dress it, and can kindly eat  
That which God sends, and be content with that,  
And take the lean together with the fat,  
Know when to be a spender, when a saver,  
Will make a poor man happy that could have her.   

She that doth wear but her own proper hear,  
And hath no beauty, but of Nature's bliss,  
Can not command a kind of feigned tear,  
But when just cause of hearty sorrow is,  
And rich, or poor, will never run amiss:  
Such a true wench, to make a happy wife,  
Would make a man to lead a blessed life.   

She, that doth bear the eye of modesty,  
The face of grace, mind of humility,  
The tongue of truth, the heart of honesty,  
The parentage of true Gentility,  
In the true notes of true Nobility,  
In my conceit, would surely prove a wife,  
To make a Lord, to lead a happy life.   

She that is full of liberality,  
And to the beggar never shuts her door,  
And loves to keep good hospitality,  
And hath delight for to relieve the poor,  
Yet hath a care for to enrich her store,  
Doth make a man a very happy Creature,  
That marries with a wench of such a Nature.   

She that doth hate to brabble, brawl and scold,  
To swear, and lie, and talk of Robin Hood:  
And will no longer any question hold,  
Then while she well may make her judgement good  
To prove that she herself hath understood:  
Such a rare wench, for a well governed wit,  
Would make him happy that were matched with it.   

She that is free from infamies deface,  
Wealthy in lands, her Coffers full of gold,  
Her mind of virtue, and her heart of grace,  
And doth no honour but in virtue hold,  
That true sweet Lady be she young or old,  
Will make that man to lead a happy life,  
That knows what makes man happy in a wife.   

She that is mistress of her own affection,  
And unto reason hath subdued her will,  
And will not hearken unto imperfection,  
To leave the good to entertain the ill:  
In the true rules of my experience skill,  
I think that woman where she is a wife,  
Doth make a man to know a happy life.   

She that in wealth and woe, sickness, and health,  
Is all alike unto her settled love,  
And in the world doth count her chiefest wealth,  
But in the life but of her turtle dove,  
And seeks on earth no other heavens to prove:  
In my conceit, who had her to a wife,  
Had no small means to make a happy life.   

She that is wholly given to godliness,  
And hates to lead the life of wantonness,  
And hath true patience in unhappiness,  
And only seeks the spirits wealthiness,  
In the true weight of honour's worthiness:  
If that a man were in heart's heaviness,  
With such a wife might live in blessedness.   

Now, hoping that (although the bird be rare)  
The Phoenix in a woman may be found,  
And doubting not, but many women are  
Of their good husband's happiness the ground,  
I wish the wise a woman's worth to sound,  
And dearly love her for that worthiness,  
That makes a man to live in happiness.   

But, if that Youth for wealth will match with Age,  
And witless age, will dote on wanton Youth,  
If discontent do grow to rancours rage,  
When hollow hearts do hammer with untruth,  
If ruin then be subject unto ruth,  
What shall I say? but sob for such a wooing,  
Where kindness hath no comfort in the doing.   

Make then thy choice, not all alone by chance,  
Let reason guide thine eye, honour thy mind,  
Virtue thy heart, and so thy thought advance,  
That wisdoms care may happy comfort find:  
That if that fortune fall to be unkind,  
Yet heavenly love, that doth the life rejoice,  
Will make thee happy in a heavenly choice.   

If thou canst get thee wealth, then do not want:  
But chiefly take good heed thou want not grace.  
For gracious spirits in the world are scant:  
And conscience lives in such a piteous case,  
That faith on earth can hardly show her face:  
And simple love alas, without some living,  
Is like a present hardly worth the giving.   

And therefore leaving each one to their lot,  
To like, to love, and live as likes them best,  
To keep their choice, or if it like them not,  
When as they feel their spirits most oppressed,  
To use their best discretion for their Rest,  
I wish good husbands all to have good wives,  
And all good loving wenches all good lives.   

So hoping that the best will be content  
To know the worst must have a time to mend:  
Who have been ill may have a good intent,  
To bring bad humours to a better end,  
Unto your kindness kindly I commend  
Pasquil's mad humour, to describe a woman,  
Fit to be loved of all, or liked of no man.   
FINIS.   

❧ PASQVILS DESCRIPTION OF HIS Mistress, with a passion upon the jealousy of her match.  

MY sweet Muse behold a creature,  
Of the world the sweetest feature,  
Garnished with those inward graces,  
That adorn the fairest faces:  
Which described in their essence,  
Show the earth a heavenly presence.   

Hairs, no hairs, but golden wires,  
Binding life in loves desires:  
Eyes no eyes, but starry glories,  
Reason's states, and honours stories:  
Cheeks enchaining hearts beholding,  
Lips maintaining loves unfolding.   

Neck, no neck, but alabaster,  
Nature's mistress, Reason's master:  
Breasts, not breasts, but beauty's mountains,  
Of Mine●uas milk the fountains:  
Arms embracing loves deserving:  
Hands unlacing loves preserving.   

Belly, no, but Venus bedding,  
All too fair for Vulcan's wedding,  
Navel, not, but Nature's signet,  
All the graces graven within it:  
For the secret sweet of reason,  
Careful thoughts must speak no treason.   

Thighs, no thighs, but beauty's pillars,  
Made for beauty's best well-willers:  
Knees, not knees, but palla's bending,  
While Diana was commending:  
Legs, no legs, but honour's passage,  
To the life of lovers message.   

Feet, no feet, but favours staying,  
Where no favours are decaying:  
Toes, not toes, but each a token  
Of more truth, then may be spoken:  
That in all, for much perfection,  
Nature's draft by loves direction.   

This fair creature▪ wonder-woman,  
Scene to few, and known to no man,  
By those heavenly powers created,  
That have hellish humours hated,  
While the Angels all were sleeping,  
Fell to cursed creatures keeping.   

Cursed creatures, carnal devils,  
Hates of good, and grounds of evils,  
Wronging virtue, killing reason,  
Vowing truth, but working treason:  
These, oh these, by loves illusion,  
Wrought the course of my confusion.   

Hateful course in heart concealed:  
But, by hell to be revealed:  
In which briefly is contained,  
Never eased, ever pained:  
In which cruel cares tormented,  
lives my comfort discontented.   

Pity weeps to see this wonder,  
Love and virtue live asunder,  
Honour sigheth without ceasing  
To behold this hell increasing,  
And the heart of love is dying,  
While he hears his darling crying.   

Oh how is the soul aggrieved,  
Where no sorrows are relieved,  
And where crosses are so many,  
Nor the comforts can be any!  
Think if this be hell mistaken,  
So of heavenly hopes forsaken.   

But, oh wicked wretched fre●nzy,  
That hast so corrupted fancy,  
Helpless, hopeless, matchless shameless,  
Dost thou think thou shalt be nameless?  
No: the world shall know thine evil:  
jealousy, thou art the devil.   

This is that same inward treason,  
That hath so confounded reason:  
This is that same hellish humour,  
Fills the world so full of rumour:  
This is it that kills the lover,  
That he never can recover.   

This is that same hellish fiend,  
That was never virtues friend:  
This is that same foolish blindness,  
That confoundeth lovers kindness:  
This is it, by proof of many,  
Never yet did good to any.   

Then, on thee, and thy possessor,  
Wilful follies plain professor,  
(That hast so my mistress wronged,  
And her helpless woes prolonged)  
Fall the curse of loves confusion,  
By the death of loves illusion.   

A description of jealousy.  

WIthin the heart there breeds a kind of thought  
Begotten (as some guess it) by the eye:  
But, I do rather think it to be wrought,  
By a blind sight that ever looks awry,  
And only feeds but of a Lunacy:  
Which being gotten kindly in the head,  
Works a weak wit, to bring a fool to bed.   

It thinks it knows not what, nor how, nor why:  
But once persuaded, 'twill not beremooved,  
Cares for no truth, believeth every lie,  
That hath appearance, though it be not proved,  
loves but in fear, and fears it is not loved,  
Frets, chafes, and grieves, and never is at rest:  
Because the worst doth ever doubt the best.   

It works, and watches, pries, and peers about,  
Takes counsel, stays; yet goes on with intent,  
Brings in one humour, puts another out,  
And finds out nothing but all discontent,  
And keeps the spirit still so passion-rent,  
That in the world, if that there be a hell,  
Ask, but in love, what jealousy can tell.   

It would have more than all it doth possess,  
And turns content unto a cross conceit,  
It brings discretion but into distress,  
Where fear doth only but on folly wait,  
While doubts do only dwell upon deceit:  
It doth abuse the wit, distract the mind,  
And knows not what to seek, nor how to find.   

It doth amaze the eye, enchant the ear,  
And wholly kills the stomachs appetite.  
With spiteful thoughts it doth the spirit tear,  
And keeps poor patience in a piteous plight,  
While dark suspicion makes the day a night:  
It is, in sum, a very hellish fiend,  
That never yet was love, nor beauty's friend.   

It is a plague, that Nature was ordained,  
In beauty's eye, to wound the heart of love,  
An inward poison, that hath thoroughly veined  
The hapless wit, that works for wills behove,  
To make a jack Daw of a turtle Dove,  
Where best, contentments are too much abused,  
While wilful follies can not be excused.   

It is the death of joy, twixt man and wife,  
Where love is too much loaden with mistrust:  
It makes the maid to fear the married life,  
Lest firmest faith should fall to be unjust:  
It beats the brain and grinds the wit to dust,  
It makes the wise a fool, the wealthy poor,  
And her that would keep house, to open the door.   

Oh, 'tis a child of an unhappy choice,  
Nursed by the milk of an ilfavoured beast:  
Which never suffers reason to rejoice,  
But keeps the heart within an Hornets nest,  
Which nought but venom bring into the breast:  
It is, in sum, a kind of secret ill,  
That never yet did good, nor ever will.   

How it hath handled many a hapless heart,  
Let them describe it, that do better know it:  
But how it works the souls continual smart,  
He that is able, let him truly show it,  
Or seek by all means how he may forego it:  
But for myself, I say no more but this,  
God bless me from it, and my mistresses.   

And such as will be mad, let them be so.  
Who cannot judge of good, conceive it ill.  
He, that will take a finger for a toe,  
Must either blame his wit, or else his will,  
That knows his folly, and will be so still.  
Who will be led but only by illusion,  
Must be content to fall upon confusion.   

And thus my friend, what so thou be that readest  
These few invective lines of jealousy  
(Hoping that thou thy fancy better feedest,  
Then with the aspen leaves of Lunacy,  
Whose juice gives nothing, but inconstancy)  
I wish thy love more kindly to be borne,  
Or for thy jealous head, a huge great horn.   

What? art thou angry? are thy ribs so gaid,  
They cannot bide the chinking of a spur?  
Be still a while: and be not so paid:  
A thousand gowns are furred with Coney fur:  
Every one's not dead, that hath the Murr:  
lovers may look, and laugh, and haply like:  
But many a one may frown, that will not strike.   

Because her eye is fair, shall thine be fowl?  
Because that she is wise, wilt thou be fond?  
Because that thee doth smile, must thou needs scowl?  
Because that she is free, wilt thou be bod?  
Oh make not to a puddle of a pond:  
Be pleased to think of every thing the best.  
F●r, jealousy is but an idle jest.   

Mistrust doth argue but a misconceit:  
Suspi●ion, somewhat in thyself amiss:  
Doubt, but a dreaming only on deceit:  
Fear, but a curse, where never fell a bliss,  
Tush, smile, and laugh, em●●ace, and college & kiss,  
And thou shalt live as merry as a cricket,  
While jealousy shall stand without the wicket.    
FINIS.