AMANDA: OR, THE REFORMED WHORE.  
Composed, and made by Thomas Cranley: Gent. now a Prisoner in the Kings-bench, Anno Dom. 1635.  
Admiranda canunt, credenda aliquando Poetae.  
Poets do tell of strange things not a few,  
Yet often times those things, though strange, are true  
Printed at LONDON, and are to be sold at the golden Key, over against the middle- 〈…〉   

To the worshipful, his worthy friend, and Brother in law, THOMAS GILEOURNE, Esquire: All health, and happiness.  
SIr, having composed this small Volume, I was resolved to Dedicate it to a right worthy, and worshipful Gentleman, living within the walls of the City of London: being persuaded thereunto by an intimate friend, and familiar acquaintance of mine, which Gentleman, as he reported unto me was an especial favourer of the Muses. But upon better consideration, well knowing, that for my own part, I had no particular relation unto him, neither was he a man with whom I had at any time the least acquaintance, or one whom to my knowledge I had ever fised my eye upon. I was doubtful left some ill construction might have been made of my honest, and simple meaning: and therefore unwilling to be taxed with over bold presumption, I thought it better to reflect my eye upon a more familiar object, and to present the dedication of these poor labours to such a man, of whose goodness, and worth, I have had sufficient trial by the testimony of many years acquaintance: and the more emboldened thereunto by that conjugal affinity which hath more strongly united me to anindeered, and in violable obligation If I consider of the work itself, I may well blush at the performance thereof, and with the Poet say, 
Cum relego scripsisse pudet, quia plurima cerno,  
Me quoque qui feci, judice digna lini.  For although I have had an Idea in my mind, which hath presented me with a better form, yet my productions I must confess, are lame, and imperfect, and come far short of the extentions of my wishes, and imaginations. Let your better judgement rather allow of my intentions, then of my unpolisht expressions: and what I am not able to delineate in words, let my wellmeaning endeavours be supplied out of the treasure of your more judicious apprehension. So shall I have a further trial of your favours, and acknowledge a sacrifice which I owe unto the graces, and you: and shall always rest,  
Your most obliged, THOMAS CRANLEY.   

july 1. 1635.  
Perlegi hoc opusculum cui titulus (Amanda, or the Reformed Whore) quod continet folia 52ᵒ aut circiter, in quibus nihil reperio quo minùs cum utilitate publica imprimi queant, modò supprimantur quae deleta sunt, & intra sex menses proximè sequentes reliqua typis mandentur.  
GVILIELMUS HAYWOOD. RR. P. Arch. Cant. Cap. dom.   

The Author to his Book.  
Go little Book, the issue of my brain.  
Begot in bondage, now at last made free:  
To keep thee still in prison, 'twere in vain.  
Make trial how the world will favour thee,  
If none receive thee turn again to me,  
I am no starter, here thou shalt me finde,  
Shift for thyself, be gone, thou know'st my mind.  
But whether shall I have thee go at first?  
Unto the Cruicke? no, let him alone.  
Many are bad, but he of all is worst.  
I'd rather, thou shouldst die, and go to none,  
Be sure avoid his hands, of any one.  
eat Momus too, lest he at thee do carp,  
And Zoilus for his rebukes are sharp.  
Avoid their sight, and then go where thou wilt,  
Thy meaning's good, how ere it take effect,  
Although with words of art thou art not guilt.  
Some, thy unlearned plainness will respect,  
And perchance fancy this thy Dialect.  
That may please some, which will not profit all,  
Although thy lines are not didactical.  
Chiefly, I send thee to the female sex,  
Whom I do truly honour, and regard:  
Thy ready service shall attend their becks,  
Without expecting profit, or reward:  
Oh that some one, would take thee to their guard.  
Mayst thou please them (as I could wish it so)  
I care not if the rest be pleased, or no.  
In thy first interprize, thou conquerd'st one,  
And dragged her by thy force out of the mire.  
Let that encourage thee, and suffer none  
To shun thy strong encounter, till thou try her,  
Boldly go on, and neither faint nor tire.  
God knows, so happy the success may be,  
To one resisting, thou mayst conquer three.  
Thou hast thy charge, and now thou mayst be gone.  
Go to the Country, City, and the Court:  
They all yield matter for to work upon.  
I send in earnest go not thou in sport;  
To great aswell as mean do thou resort.  
If so thou be esteemed of any worth,  
I shall be glad that ere I sent thee forth.  
Cranley   

CRANLEYS' Amanda. Or, The Reformed Whore.  
HAving been many months a prisoner in the Fleet, and overwearyed with the tedious length of idle time, glad of the least occasion of employment, as well to put the thoughts of my distracted fortunes out of my head, as also to help waste, and bring to an end the wearisome day. It was my fortune walking one day solitarily on the Leads, being on the top of an high Tower adjoining unto my Chamber, and looking over the battlements into the Fleet-lane, I espied in one of the Houses right opposite against me, a young Gentlewoman, of a comely feature, and sweet grace, apparelled very richly, and attired according to the fashion then most in use, she was looking out at a window into the street, and I standing on the top of the Tower, being almost two stories higher than her chamber window, could easily discern her, without being seen myself, where after she had looked a while into the street, she retires into her chamber, and shuts the casement, I thinking she had been a stranger, and came to visit some friend or kinsman in that house, took little regard of her for that time. But afterwards walking many times upon the Leads looking again into the Lane, I by chance cast mine eye against the same window, out of the which I did first see the Gentlewoman to look, where I might darkly perceive through the Glass (the casement being then shut) the same Gentlewoman stand, busy about something which I could not discern, and perceiving her to be the same woman which I had there formerly seen, I began to think that she might perchance lodge in the same house, and knowing her to be a stranger, and not inhabitant there, and that it was no fit place for a Gentlewoman of her fashion (as she seemed to be) to lodge in such a place, whereas every house almost in the Lane was filled with prisoners, I began to inquire if she were wife of any prisoner, or if she were a prisoner herself, because such women as are prisoners, do for the most part lie in the Lane: upon enquiry I understood that she was neither prisoner, nor prisoners wife, but a stranger, newly come out of the City, and that she had no acquaintance there, but what she had gotten since her first coming thither. To be brief, I understood that she was a woman apt to give entertainment to any that desired her company, by reason whereof her honesty was much suspected, and the general report about the street was, that she was no better than a whore: having understood thus much of her, I often attended to see what company resorted to the house, thinking thereby I should the better conceive whether report had wronged her or not: At the last I perceived that diverse Gentlemen, and men of great fashion and worth had daily recourse thither, but more especially, I noted one man to resort unto her more than any of the rest; & when that man was in the house there could be no admittance for any other that desired to come unto her, for by one frivolous excuse or other they would send them away without the sight of the Gentlewoman: at other times if they came, when that Gentleman was not with her, they had free access to her chamber, where they might stay, and be merry with her at their pleasure, this I observed, & this made me conjecture that if she were not common unto them all, yet at the least she was nought with one, but desirous to be satisfied of the truth, and not to be lead either by my own conjecture, or the report of others I determined to write unto her. Long it was before I could resolve in what manner I should write, for considering that I was a stranger unto her, and not known, either by person or name, and herself as little known unto me, I was in doubt whether she would receive any such letters or not, again I thought, if I should write unto her in the nature of a Lover, if she should happily receive the Letters, and read the same, having no acquaintance at all with me, she would imagine that I went about to entrap her, and of purpose to find out the nature of her inclination, thereby to question her manner of life. I therefore resolved to write unto her in a careless, and bold manner, so as she might neither understand me to be one of the assailants of her love, nor yet a despiser of her acquaintance, therefore so near as I could, without any insinuating flattery, or course harshness, I adventured to write in this familiar manner.  
LAdy though I am a stranger,  
Yet because I am your neighbour,  
I do hope there is no danger,  
If I now do take the labour  
Lonely wasting tedious times,  
To salute you with my rhymes.  
Pardon, if I be too bold,  
I intent no hurt unto you,  
That which here I shall unfold  
Cannot any damage do you;  
Let it vanish as a vapour,  
'tis but naked Ink, and Paper▪  
You, it may be, will condemn  
Me of sauciness to send it,  
Yet I pray be not extreme,  
If it be a fault, i'll mend it.  
I delight to anger no man,  
And muchless displease a woman.  
When I first did write, my pen  
Fearing your displeasure fainted,  
Yet at last I thought again,  
Neighbours should be well acquainted.  
If you had not come so nigh me,  
I had kept my papers by me.  
Sure, I do not know your name,  
Nor your Person very well,  
Once I think I saw the same,  
And but once as I can tell:  
And I would be much your debtor,  
If you'll let me know you better,  
Yet I would not wrong you neither:  
Be it far from my desire,  
But that we may talk together,  
My ambition strives no higher.  
Neither should my speeches tend  
To those tones that may offend.  
Once I saw that face of your,  
As you were at window standing;  
'twas a face that would allure,  
And a look that was commanding:  
But you left me straight to mourning  
By your sudden back returning.  
Turn again unto your place,  
At the window, and be bold;  
Once more let me see that face  
That was made for to behold:  
It is not a woman's duty  
To obscure so rich a beauty.  
In those looks to read the story  
Of delight, is much desired:  
It is beauty's chiefest glory  
To be gazed on, and admired,  
Show it freely, and abide it,  
'twas not given you to bide it.  
You perchance will say I flatter,  
Though yourself doth truly know it:  
If you do, it is no matter,  
Take your glass, and that will show it.  
That can tell as well as I,  
Neither of us both doth lie.  
Oft I wish 'twere in my power  
For to raise your window higher  
Or else to abate this Tower,  
That our lodgings might be nigher.  
But alas these wishes prove not,  
What I like perchance you love not.  
Put away all doubtful fears,  
Where no evil is intended:  
Rise another pair of stairs,  
And our lodgings will be mended.  
Strive to equal me in height  
And be you my opposite.  
We will talk of what shall ease us,  
And make merry with discourse:  
So to spend the time, 'twill ease us,  
Better so to do then worse.  
I have Riddles to content ye,  
Purposes, and Sonnets plenty.  
If you'll talk of other things  
That your mind more fitly moves:  
I can tell you tales of Kings,  
And of Noble Princes loves.  
Monsters of the Earth or Sea,  
Best to pass the time away.  
Fear not, we will lack no matter  
For to talk of if we meet:  
If we want where on to flatter,  
We'll discourse of this our Fleet.  
That will find us talking play,  
Though we prattle all the day.  
Let me then, this favour crave,  
If you will a favour deign,  
That my lines acceptance have,  
And be pleased to take the pain,  
For to grace my poor induing,  
Make me reader of your writing.  
What, though here within this Bar,  
I a thralled Prisoner be,  
Though my feet restrained are,  
Yet my better part is free.  
He which doth the body bind,  
Hath no power to thrall the mind.  
That's a thing that goes beyond  
Any mortal creatures power,  
That doth scorn for to be penned  
In the compass of a Tower.  
Or be tied to others leisure,  
But will freely range at pleasure.  
Take your Paper then, and write  
Though it be but e'en a word,  
Never study to indite,  
I'll accept what you afford:  
Though it be but e'en your name,  
I will gladly take the same.  
Something grant me by your favour,  
Whatsoever thing it be.  
They say, something hath some savour,  
Though a crooked Pin it be.  
I'll accept it in good part,  
With a kind, and thankful heart.  
And now pardon my presumption,  
And the rudeness of my Pen,  
Waste your anger by consumption,  
And give leave to write again.  
If such favours you repel,  
joys attend you, and farewell.  
When I had written these Letters, I knew not how to have them conveyed to her hands, neither could I direct them by superscription, because I knew not her name, nor had any acquaintance with any person in the house; at the length having some speeches with a friend of mine concerning her, I told him that I had a Letter to be sent to her, and I knew not how to have it delivered, whereupon he offered himself to be the messenger, and to use his best endeavour to deliver it to her, and if he could not have admittance himself, yet at the least to take such course as it should come unto her hands, hereupon I put my name to the Letter, and sealed it, and gave it to my friend, and withal entreated him that if it were possible he would get me an answer to it, he vowing to do his best, took my letters, and departed, and waiting his opportunity, when as he thought she was all alone, went to the house, and desired that he might speak with her, he was examined presently by the Mistress of the house, from whence he came, he told her, from a friend of the Gentlewoman's, naming such a one as he had before seen to resort to her, and that his business was only to deliver a Letter from him into her hands, with that she bid him follow her, and she would bring him to her Chamber, he glad of his success followed her until she came to the Chamber door, and there the Mistress of the house leaving of him, bid him go in, so he entering into the Chamber found the Gentlewoman writing at her window, he saluting of her told her that he was requested by a Gentleman to deliver a Letter unto her, and withal gave the Letter into her hands, she never examining what the Gentleman's name was, or where he dwelled, took the Letters, and opening of them, perceived the same to be in verse, stood still, as it were wondering whence it should come: at length after she had paused a while, she began to read, and in the reading she would sometimes smile to herself, and sometimes set her countenance as if she had been angry: but having read the Letter to the end, and perceiving a Gentleman's name thereto, whom she knew not, she asked my friend if he knew the Gentleman that sent the Letter, he told her he did, and that he lay in the high Tower over against her Chamber, how do you know said she, this Letter was sent to me, for there is no direction upon it to show to whom it should be carried, I know very well, quoth he, that you are the party it was intended unto, because the Gentleman, though he knew not your name, showed me the house, and in what Chamber in the house you were lodged in, well said she it is no great matter, to whom it was sent, it seems that he that writ it had not much to do, and, because he shall advise better upon it, there take it, and carry it to him again, and tell him this from me, that if he can exercise his wit to no better purpose I would wish him to spare his pains hereafter, and to employ his Muse about matter of more moment, that may be more profitable to himself, and less prejudicial to others. With that, delivering the Letter unto him she turns towards her window, and he without further stay or reply left her, and coming to my Chamber, told me of all that had passed betwixt them, I was glad that she had read it, because thereby she had occasion to take notice of my name, and although she seemed to be a little angry, yet I knew there was nothing in the Letter that she could justly tax me for, but only my boldness in sending, having no acquaintance at all with her, and that I thought she would quickly forget, when her anger was a little qualified, and if it were not extreme, I thought it might be an occasion that I should more often see her at her window: for women are not always angry when they seem so to be, and indeed so it fell out, for after that time I should see her window often times standing open, and herself showing herself thereat, and sometimes I should perceive her look up towards the Tower, where I used to be, which made me conjecture that she would bestow the reading of another Letter, if I could use the means to have it conveyed cunningly unto her: whereupon resolving with myself to make a further trial of her, and not to give her over upon one single repulse, I determined to try her once more by writing, but my greatest fear was how I should have it conveyed into her hands, for I thought if I should send it by my first messenger, he should scarce have access again unto her, or if he had, she would hardly receive any thing from him being so much vexed at the other, at the length as I was walking late one night on the top of the Tower, the Moon shining very bright, and looking towards her Chamber, I espied the casement of her window to be open, and perceiving no light to be in the room, I thought how I might convey my Letter in at her window, where she finding such a thing to lie, could not choose but open the same, not suspecting but that some of the same house having continual intercourse into her Chamber, might either forget it behind them, or leave it for her to read over, wherefore following this opportunity, I took my Pen, and wrote certain Verses unto her, and only folding up the paper, without any Seal or direction upon it, with the help of a long Pole which I had in my Chamber, I made such shift that I put the Letter in at her window, and with the end of the Pole shut the casement lest she should suspect which way the Letter should come, the Verses which I wrote were these.  
Fairest, though my lines of late  
Were not welcome to your hand,  
Though they argu'de too much prate,  
Do not on your niceness stand.  
Read again my second Letter  
See if now my phrase be better.  
I am sorry to offend,  
So to purchase your displeasure,  
And it grieves me I did send,  
And do now repent at leisure.  
And I hope you'll be contented.  
To forgive, since 'tis repent.  
Sure I am, I meant no ill,  
Howsoever you may take it,  
And I keep that meaning still,  
If you doubt, your trial make it.  
What I speak in words you shall,  
Find my deeds agree with all,  
Will you not be once persuaded  
To return an answer to me,  
Can your heart not be invaded  
Such a courtesy to do me?  
If for much you have been tried,  
I must look 't'had been denied.  
When so poor a thing as this  
Can so hardly be obtained  
So as nothing comes amiss,  
If from you it may be gained;  
Write a line, a word, a letter,  
Worst is best, when there's no better.  
Do you never use to write,  
But to such as you do know?  
If love bids not, yet for spite,  
To be rid of such a foe;  
Let your nimble Pen disclose,  
Whether we be friends, or foes.  
I will never give you over  
Till you grant me my desire,  
Do you like or loathe a lover,  
Be you frost, or be you fire,  
I will send though you abhor it,  
Till you write, or chide me for it.  
Wherefore to avoid the trouble  
Take the course that may prevent it,  
Give a single for a double,  
So exchange, and ne'er repent it.  
For two letters send me one,  
'tis a thing is quickly done.  
If you think I am too bold,  
Chide me for it, I will leave it,  
And when once your anger's cold  
Write your mind, and i'll receive it:  
So to be advised, 'tis good  
Not to write in heat of blood.  
Then as I do feel your mind  
I'll reply, or else forbear;  
If you list not to be kind,  
'twill not make me shed a tear;  
But continue as before,  
Never writing to you more.  
The casement being shut, and the Letter left in the window, I attended three or four days to see whether I should hear from her or not, and hearing nothing in all that time, I began to doubt whether my Letters were come to her hands, at the length taking my usual recreation on the top of the Tower, the room over her chamber being a place where Embroiderers did use to work, and opposite against the Tower where I was walking, the windows of the room lay open, I perceived her sitting at a Frame whereon was a fair Wastecote, which she was richly embroidering with coloured Silks, and Gold, and being very diligent at her work, I observed whether she did at any time cast her eye up to the Tower, supposing that she came thither, as well to give an occasion to be seen as for the eagerness of the work, she had then in hand, because I had never seen her in that room before: I had not stayed long, but I perceived her many times to look up towards the Tower, with such earnestness, as if she had been desirous to have seen some body, which made me conjecture that her coming thither was of purpose to see the party that had so boldly wrote unto her, therefore leaving the place where I was I stood directly against the room where she sat at work, that if she happily looked that way again, she should not choose but perceive me, I had not stayed there long, but she took notice of me, and blushing exceedingly upon the first view, me thought she looked like Niobe when she contended with Latona for the prize, I must confess I had so long played with the bait, that I had almost swallowed the hook, being so surprised with the amiable prospect of so sweet a countenance, yet unwilling to be caught by those fair allurements considering that under the greenest Grass lieth the most venomous serpent. I was sorry that so sweet a face should be set to sale to every amorous passenger, and where so much beauty was placed, that there should want virtue to adorn it, and make it truly loveworthy: and having a settled determination to know of what coin she was stamped, whether Gold or Copper, and if I should find her to be of the worst, which I did much suspect, that then I would use the best art, and skill I could, to have her cast in a new mould, and to purge the dross out of her, that she might be refined to purer mettle. Willing therefore to enter into some discourse with her, no person being in the room but herself, I began in this manner to salute her:  
Fair Lady, I have upon no acquaintance at all been bold to trouble you with my writing, wherein I fear I have much offended, yet am glad that I have so good an opportunity to crave pardon for my errors, which I now do, entreating you not to conceive any wrong thereby intended, but to impute my fault rather to want of employment, and to the present troubles that I endure, by reason of my imprisonment, then to the least intent of distaste, that I would willingly give to yourself. Sir, said she, are you the Gentleman that wrote those pleasant verses to me not long since, and sent them to my chamber by I know not whom: I am the same, said I, and am sorry if either the messenger, or the sender have displeased you; no great displeasure, said she, but I thought it strange to receive Letters from one that I knew not, and written in such a fashion as I was ignorant, in what sense to construe them; and now I know you are the same that so lately conveyed another Letter written in verse likewise into my chamber window, I have often wondered how it should come thither, pray let me crave so much of you as to tell me truly what means you used to have it laid there, and who brought it thither, I will tell you truly, said I, upon this condition, first that you will pardon my boldness therein, then whether it were delivered unto you by another, or found by yourself in the window, for the first, said she, I do freely forgive, and for the later, I confess truly that I found it myself in the window, but knew not how it came thither, then, said I, I will tell you, and so I acquainted her with the manner of it as before is expressed. Here upon we entered into further discourse, and having known each others name, and all former offences absolutely forgiven, we agreed to be better acquainted, and that she would come once every afternoon into the same room of purpose to talk with me, and to spend the time in some pleasant discourse, wherein she was many days as good as her word, where we talked of those things which best pleased us, and one day among the rest talking of some amorous discourse, she began thus. Sir, said she, you are one that can make verses, and have skill in poetry, and I make no question but some things lie by you of your own invention, either to try what your own art can do, or to entertain such Gentlewomen withal as you shall be best affected unto, and therefore let me entreat you to bring some of your odd papers with you, and sit with me, either here or in my chamber, for I do like your vein in writing so well, that I am persuaded I shall take great delight in reading some of your own works, I make no question but though you are a prisoner, you may come so far, because I see daily such as are prisoners pass freely into any part of the Lane, and if you please to take that pains you shall not find me unwilling to requite it, if it lieth in my power. I was glad to hear her say thus much, desiring nothing more than to have such an opportunity to confer privately with her at her chamber, yet always resolved not to do or attempt any thing but what should be fit an honest man, only I had such a compassionate love to those sweet looks, that I thought it was pity they should not be accompanied with a due measure of grace, and therefore I thanked her greatly that she would show me so high a favour, and promised to attend her at her chamber within a day or two after, and so we parted for that time. The next day perceiving her alone at her window, I called to her, and told her, that if she were at leisure; if it pleased her, I would come over the way to her: she told me I should be welcome, and desired me to come. With that going to my Study, and taking some idle pamphlets that I had there, I went unto the house where she lay, she kindly met me at the door, and so conducted me to her chamber, where with reading sometimes, and sometimes with talking, we spent a good part of the afternoon, and after many questions asked her, I perceived that a little siege would batter the fortress of her honesty, and understood by her that her means was small, and her friends not many, and herself, as she seemed willing to take any honest course that should suit with the credit of a Gentlewoman, with many other speeches to that purpose, but taking leave of her for that time she entreated me that I would be no stranger at her Chamber, for that she should take it very kindly if I would come and sit with her at my leisure times when I had nothing else to do, which I promised her to perform. But afterwards considering with myself, if I should often resort thither, it might be a cause that some malignant tongue would speak worse of me than I deserved, and thereby draw a scandal upon myself, which once gotten; would not be easily shaken off. I did therefore forbear going to her chamber, yet every day, she sitting in the Embroiderers room, we had conference together, and so continued our acquaintance, where often talking with her, at length she told me she was to go from thence, and to lie in the Town, and asked me, if I did not go sometimes abroad in the City, I answered her, I did: and desired that if she pleased to tell me where she lay in the Town, I would make bold to visit her at her lodging: she told me where I should find her, who shortly after going from the place where she than lay, sent a note in writing, entreating me not to forget my promise to visit her at her lodging, and therein set down the place where I should inquire for her. It was not long after but I had occasion to go into London in company of another Gentleman, and passing near the place where she lay, determined to go visit her, and so enquiring for her at her lodging we were told that she lay there, but she was that day abroad at dinner with certain Gentlemen, but where, or with whom they knew not: whereupon we returning thence, it came in our minds to go to a Tavern not far off, to drink a pint of Wine, and if occasion served to inquire whether such a Gentlewoman did lie in the street, and what she was, where coming in, we were brought into a little room sitting our company, where, as we were drinking of our Wine, we heard music, and much mirth, in the next room unto us, and enquiring what company was there, we understood that there were two or three Gentlewomen, with diverse gallants in their company that dined there that day, but what they were, we could by no means understand, whereupon I entreated one of the drawers to help me privately to a sight of them, for I thought I did hear the voice of one that I knew, he presently brings me to a secret place where I might discover the whole company, and amongst them all, I perceived the same Gentlewoman that I came that day to visit, and noting her carriage with the rest of her associates, she seemed to me more jocund, merry, and familiar than any woman respecting her honesty, and her credit would have been, I desired the Gentleman that was with me, that we might stay, and see the conclusion, and parting of that company, who was contented and thereupon understanding that they intended to sup there, we resolved to sup there also, by ourselves in the little room, where we were at the first placed, by which means we both heard and saw most of their conversation, presently after supper they dismissed their music, and having all of them well steeped their brains in Wine, they then began to show of what metal they were made, where after much rude, and unseemly behaviour, they discharged the house, and went their way: my friend, and I having likewise paid our reckoning followed after them, to see the uttermost event of this meeting: they had not gone far from the Tavern but the company parted, and only one Gentleman conducted my acquaintance to her lodging, where so soon as we saw them to enter the house, we betook ourselves likewise to our lodgings, having by that days work sounded more of her disposition, than I had done in all the time of my acquaintance before. For whereas I was till then led by report, and some suspicion which I drew from my own conjecture, I now saw so much of her carriage that I could not conceive that her former report had wronged her. Not many days after, I took an occasion to write unto her, and the effect of my Letters was this, That I had lately been at her lodging to have seen her, but could not be so happy as to find her within, therefore I desired, in regard that I had not the privilege to go often abroad, that she would give me leave to write unto her, and withal, that liberty in writing, that she would not take any thing distastefully, but to read it over with patience, and deliberation, and desired likewise her answer in writing. This Letter I sent unto her, and received an answer in writing, that she was sorry that she was not at home at the time of my being there, which if she had known of, she would have remedied, and desired she might see me, if I could coveniently, otherwise if I would take the pains to write unto her, she would be so far from taking offence at any thing that I should write of, that she would think herself much bound unto me for the same, and did faithfully promise to read it with patience, and due consideration, and withal desired me that I would write unto her in verse, because it was a thing she much affected, and would be pleasing unto her in the reading. Having understood thus much by her answer, I determined to use the strongest arguments that I could for her reformation, hoping that my writing might perchance work so much with her as it might bring her into a loathing of her former life, and persuade her to such courses as might be more profitable both to her soul, and body. Wherefore taking some pains for her conversion, I wrote these lines following, and making them up in a little book, sent the same unto her, the success whereof you shall afterwards hear.   

To the fair Amanda.  

1.  
BOld of thy promise, and obliged word,  
From which I do presume thou wilt not start:  
Whereby thou didst so willingly afford  
Acceptance of my lines with gentle heart,  
And what I write to take is in good part.  
This is one ground that moves me to discover  
My will to thee, then freely read it over.   

2.  
But look not here for pleasant tales of love,  
Nor sycophanticke speech to please thy sense:  
No lines encomiasticke thee to move,  
Nor oily words of guilded eloquence,  
My humble Muse avoids such eminence.  
I do not strive to please thee, yet well know,  
I am a friend of thine, and not a foe.   

3.  
My purpose is, to call thee to account  
How thou hast wasted thy fore passed time:  
Whether thy virtue doth thy vice surmount,  
And how thou conquer'st passion in thy prime:  
I must examine it, in this my rhyme.  
Nay start not back, nor throw it now away,  
Thy word stands good against me, thou must stay.   

4.  
Thou art arraigned, and indicted here  
Of many impious, and vile offences  
Use thy best policy thyself to clear,  
They are not vain surmises, nor pretences,  
But direct proofs, apparent inferences.  
What says thy conscience to it, dar'st thou plead  
Not guilty, so thy doom to supersede?   

5.  
No, no, thou canst not, it is too apparent,  
The tincture that remains upon thy name,  
Is rooted in the marrow, there's no warrant  
Can shroud thee from an ignominious shame,  
Reproach, and infamy doth blast thy fame.  
And such a scandal hangs upon thy head,  
As wall not be by time abolished.   

6.  
For know (Amanda) to thy grief, even I  
Have pried into thy secret passages,  
And have observed with a watchful eye  
Such as to thee come with Embassages,  
And understood their private messages.  
I know their suits, and whereunto they tend.  
And see destruction wait upon the end.   

7.  
I well perceive what thy companions are,  
Rough roaring roisters, young untamed fellows,  
Gallants from Court, and Captains from the war,  
These to thy fire of lust do blow the bellowes.  
Of such men I have reason to be jealous.  
To thy bed chamber they have free access,  
And revel there in beastly wantonness.   

8.  
Th' acquaintance that thou hast, are whores, & bawds.  
God dammees, drunkards, cheaters, swearers, thiefs.  
Young bold faced Queans, and old fore-ridden jades.  
Such company as those thy want relieves.  
These are thy mates, thou hangest upon their sleeves.  
And then beside thou always hast in store  
Thy Patroness a Bawd, thy Maid a Whore.   

9  
Thou think'st thou art not bad enough, unless  
Thou dost invoke on God, to sink and damn thee;  
Nor that thou canst sufficiently transgress,  
Because no wickedness at all will shame thee,  
It is thy praise thou think'st, and none can blame thee,  
To tip thy tongue with fearful three-piled oaths,  
And that they grace thee better than thy clothes.   

10.  
Familiarly thou swearest by life and death  
By flesh, blood, wounds, heart, foot, and soul of God,  
Three or four several times within a breath,  
Careless, and almost fearless of his rod.  
As if thy life would have no period.  
It is thy grace and glory for to roar,  
And use strange oaths, unheard of heretofore.   

11.  
Hath God forbid to take his Name in vain  
And thee commanded that thou shalt not swear?  
Dost thou despair of mercy, as did Cain;  
That nothing will constrain thee to forbear?  
Hast thou within thee neither love nor fear?  
The reins that thou dost give unto thy will,  
Makes thee run headlong unto all that's ill.   

12.  
Oh that one sin should get another thus,  
And thy foul lust to be the cause of all;  
Thy oaths, and actions are so odious,  
They daily do to Heaven for vengeance call,  
Prevent it then in time before it fall▪  
Make peace with God, before it be too late,  
Prevent his wrath thy sins abominate.   

13.  
I have observed the wicked course thou leadest,  
And know the places thou dost use to haunt,  
I see the path wherein thou daily treadest,  
I hear thee proudly honest virtue taunt,  
And of thy base, and wicked actions vaunt.  
I see the little fear of God thou hast,  
At no time sorry for thy follies past.   

14.  
This do I know, and see it with mine eyes,  
It is not blazed unto me by report,  
I see thy Minion come in a disguise,  
And his kind welcome, hugging of him for't,  
And whilst he stays, debarring all resort.  
You, as near matched, and undistinguished twins,  
Wallow in filthy pools of stinking sins.   

15.  
I see thy wanton, thy unseemly carriage,  
And loose behaviour unto every comer:  
More bold than wert thou links to them in marriage.  
Spending thy youth, and vigour of thy summer,  
Sometimes with common Soldiers or a Drummer.  
Nay, if thy lust, but once begin to burn,  
A Dray man, or a Porter serves thy turn.   

16.  
I see it, and it makes me tell thee thus,  
Thou art unchaste (alas a word too mild)  
Thou art a strumpet, and more odious  
Than Furies, or Hobgoblins to a child.  
Thou art too tame, by being too too wild.  
Thou art a Harlot, or if it be more,  
Thou art a shameless, and a boldfaced Whore.   

17.  
Did not I tempt thee minding for to try,  
And sound the depth of thy too loose condition?  
Remember well, didst thou not answer I?  
When as that answer struck in me contrition,  
Sorry to see so ready a submission;  
And no repulse at all, but giving fire  
Unto the fuel of a hot desire.   

18.  
I durst not thee condemn without a trial,  
Knowing the great uncertainty of fame,  
I thought perchance I might have had denial:  
Although I greatly did not doubt the same,  
But rather feared thou wert void of shame.  
And now thou hast confirmed my suspicion,  
By manifesting thy too base condition.   

19  
This was the mark at which I levelled first,  
And the chief cause to satisfy my mind.  
Though knowing nought, I did suspect the worst,  
Conjecturing which way thou wert inclined.  
And now, as I supposed, I truly find.  
Here therefore I my chiefest force will bend,  
And put in practice what I did intend.   

20.  
I thought within myself, that if I could  
Work into thy acquaintance, for to know  
Thy secret disposition, than I would  
(Finding the same, as I imagined tho  
And as I did conjecture to be so)  
Use the best art, and policy I might  
To make thee a reformed convertite.   

21.  
For when I first beheld that face of thine,  
I could not but commend the works of nature  
A look so pleasing, as it were divine,  
Of a well fashioned, and a comely feature,  
I thought thou wert an admirable creature,  
Adorned with such a presence, that I saw  
It well deserved reverence, and awe.   

22.  
O Lord, thought I, what pity is't that thou,  
And those sweet beauties should be put to sale?  
Why should they, unto every peasant bow,  
Till they are worn out or waxed stale:  
And their fresh colour turned into a pale?  
Is't not a misery that such a woman,  
Should as a thing of nought be usde in common?   

23.  
In pity therefore of thy wretched state,  
And merely in compassion of that face,  
I vowed my best, thy life to renovate,  
And see if in thy breast there were a place  
That would give entertainment unto grace.  
For doubtless in my heart I should condole  
The loss of such a body and a soul.   

34.  
Surely thou art not made for such a one,  
As now thou dost profess thyself to be.  
Keep thou thy beauty unto thee alone  
Rather than to be prodigally free,  
And let it live alone, and die in thee,  
Before thou dost abuse it in this fashion,  
To prostitute it with such exprobration.   

25.  
God which created thee of such a fashion,  
As few there are with thee to parallel,  
Thy friends, that added to it education,  
Making that better, which before was well,  
So that thou dost exceed those that excel.  
Of that fair Image wilt thou be so evil,  
To make a habitation for the devil?   

26.  
What, is there no man living on the earth  
That can deserve to have thy single love?  
Cannot a true affection have a birth  
Within thy breast, ill fancies to remove,  
And thy unbridled lust for to reprove?  
Is there no place for virtue left within thee;  
Nor no means from thy wickedness to win thee?   

27.  
Oh what a vile and hateful thing it is  
To all chaste ears for to be termed a Whore?  
The very name of such a thing as this  
Is most contemptible to rich, and poor▪  
And breeds a loathing in them evermore.  
That term me thinks should thee from folly win.  
If nothing else, and make thee loath the sin.   

28.  
The very name will doubtless thee condemn,  
Of all foul crimes, such poison in it lies,  
'twill make all honest people thee contemn  
Thyself alone it doth not scandalise,  
But Parents, kindred, and thy friends likewise.  
Under that word is commonly comprised  
The foulest evils that may be devised.   

29.  
Call to remembrance wherefore thou wert made,  
Not to serve sin, but serve the living Lord.  
How dar'st thou then of Whoredom make a trade;  
And lead a life, that is so much abhorred:  
Rejecting of his statutes, and his word?  
And make those gifts of his thine own damnation  
Which were ordained to further thy salvation.   

30.  
He first created thee to be the Temple,  
And habitation of the Holy Ghost.  
And made thee perfect, fit for an example,  
And wilt thou love him least, that loved thee most,  
And strive to be one of the sheep that's lost?  
Hast thou no power to curb thy fond desire,  
But headlong runnest into damnation's fire?   

31.  
Consider well the way that thou art going,  
And look into the steps that thou hast trod.  
Make not such haste unto thine own undoing:  
Think with thyself, there's an allseeing God,  
That will correct thee with his scourging rod.  
And hath ordained a hell from the beginning,  
For such as unrepentant live in sinning.   

32.  
What dost thou only trust unto thy face,  
And think thy beauty will acquire thy guilt?  
Art thou grown shameless, and clean void of grace?  
Running against all modesty a tilt.  
Until the beauty of thy soul be spilt?  
Will no persuasion, nor no council win thee,  
Nor fear of God, nor moral virtue in thee?   

33.  
Oh! wicked, and thrice wicked wantonness,  
Accursed wretch, shame to virginity.  
Thy breath doth blast the air, thou dost digress  
From all religion, stain'st divinity.  
'twixt thee, and it, there's no affinity.  
Poison thou drinkest, with affectation,  
And spin'st the thread of condemnation.   

34.  
Look on thyself, and let thy inward thought  
Examine well thy outward action.  
Give not away that which was dearly bought,  
Confound not reason with distraction,  
Nor in thy senses make a fraction.  
Let not thy conscience be distended so,  
Nor smother virtue, where it ought to grow.   

35.  
Look back into thyself, and call to mind  
How thou hast spent the April of thy days,  
Think how thou hast been heretofore inclined  
And then consider of thy present ways:  
And see if those or these deserveth praise.  
And then look forward to the times to come;  
And see what Furies wait upon thy doom.   

36.  
Of if thou think'st it be too hard a task,  
To call thyself to strict examination:  
Then give me leave thy follies to unmask,  
And see if I can breed a detestation  
Of sin in thee, and work a reformation.  
I will not soothe thee in thy impious course,  
But strive to make thee better, and not worse.   

37.  
Hear then what I shall tell thee without feigning.  
And read the legend of thy wicked life.  
Thou art a woman from no ill abstaining,  
And neither art a widow, maid, nor wife:  
Dull in all virtue, but in vice most rife.  
Full of deceit, and of dishonest tricks,  
A shame unto thyself, and to thy sex.   

38.  
See how all honest women do abhor thee,  
Scorn thy acquaintance, and thy base society.  
Where civil meetings are, they care not for thee,  
But blush to hear of thy impiety,  
Offending of so high a Deity.  
Thou canst not fit their mirth, nor yet their moanings.  
Nor art thou for their churching or their groan   

39  
No civil Gossips feasts will thee invite,  
Nor honest Bridal claim thee as a guest:  
Grave modest Matrons loathe thy very sight;  
And virgin-damsels do thy course detest.  
Thy sensual life, more brutish than a beast:  
That prostitutes thy body thus in common,  
Makes thee unworthy to be called a woman.   

40.  
Consider how thy whoredom is attended  
With many dismal, black, and fearful sins.  
Whereby the high Creator is offended.  
Thy drunkenness, and gluttony, two twins  
To serve thee at thine elbow, strait begins.  
Next these, with bloody oaths, thy fearful swearing  
And execrations, hell, nor heaven fearing.   

41.  
And then thy scurrilous, and idle speaking;  
With words obscene, and beastly language using.  
Thy wilful, and continual Sabbath breaking:  
Gods holy Name unreverently abusing,  
And all religious, and good men accusing.  
With these, dissembling, cheating, thieving, pride,  
A lying tongue, and all ill else beside.   

42.  
This is the sinful family thou keepest:  
And these wait on thee at thy bed, and board.  
With these thou wakest, and with these thou sleepest;  
Their absence at no time thou canst afford.  
They wait thy pleasure, and obey thy word.  
And while each banquets with thee as thy guest  
Thy whoredom fits as mistress of the feast.   

43.  
The furniture that doth adorn thy chamber  
Are pictures of some famous Courtesan.  
Here stands a box of Bracelets, Pearl, and Amber.  
There by a watchet Ribbon hangs thy Fan:  
And next to that a brazen Warming-pan.  
By these within a Band-case lies thy Ruff:  
And next to that thy Brush, and then thy Muff.   

44.  
near to thy chamber window stands thy bed:  
Curtains, and Vallens, hanging fair about it;  
Which with a Rug, or Quilt is covered.  
Sometimes within it, and sometimes without it  
There dost thou dance carrantoes, who needs doubt it?  
And daily vaulting for to use thy trade,  
Thou quickly spoyl'st the fashion when 'tis made.   

45.  
At windows end, are certain glasses set,  
Filled with rare water, for to make thee fair.  
At other end, locked in a Cabinet,  
Are dainty powders for thy hands, and haeyre.  
White prick seamed Gloves of Kid full many a pair.  
With them are bags of precious sweet perfume;  
And Mastic patches for to stay the rheum.   

46.  
At thy bed's feet doth stand thy Trunk below:  
On which there are two letters for thy name.  
Thy lace, and dressing there thou dost bestow:  
And in a painted box (Oh! fie for shame)  
Thou puttest thy plaster, and there keep'st the same.  
And in another likewise out of sight,  
Thy Mallow roots to make thy teeth look white,   

47.  
Here likewise lies thy gorgets made of Lawn:  
Hard by, upon a nail against the wall,  
Doth hang thy Gowns, save those that are at pawn.  
With them, thy Petty-cotes, and Wastecotes all:  
near unto them, because the room's but small,  
Wrapped in a paper, next unto thy Beaver,  
As light as thou thyself doth hang thy Fether.   

49.  
Nor far from these doth stand all in a row  
A box with curls, and counterfeited hair,  
Flaxen, brown, yellow, some as black's a Crow.  
Just under these doth stand thy groaning-chaire.  
And close by it of Chamber pots a pair.  
Then next thy bed, upon another shelf,  
There stands a Pot of painting for thyself.   

49.  
By that, within a glass, doth stand a Potion  
To clear thy stomach, and make sweet thy breath.  
And then a heap of books of thy devotion  
Lying upon a shelf close underneath,  
Which thou more think'st upon then on thy death.  
They are not prayers of a grieved soul,  
That with repentance doth his sins condole.   

50.  
But amorous Pamphlets, that best likes thine eyes,  
And Songs of love, and Sonnets exquisite.  
Among these Venus, and Adonis lies,  
With Salmacis, and her Hermaphrodite:  
Pigmalion's there, with his transformed delight.  
And many merry Comedies, with this,  
Where the Athenian Phryne acted is.   

51.  
Two casements to thy window always are,  
One of the which stands open very wide.  
Where thou presentest thy face, unmasked, and bare:  
And if by chance thou hast a gallant eyed,  
Passing the street, that hath not thee espied,  
Thou hast a trick, which thou wilt seldom spare,  
To give him notice that thou standest there.   

52.  
For with a clap, thou pullest the casement too,  
That he may cast his eye up to the place,  
With other hand thou dost the next undo,  
And there again presentest to him thy face:  
And looking on him with a smiling grace,  
Thou lettest the gallant thereby understand,  
That thou art at his service, and command.   

53.  
Between those casements hangs a Christ all glass,  
Closed in a case Embosted fair with Gold.  
Where thou dost oft view, and review thy face,  
Spending whole hours thy picture to behold.  
Setting thy looks the best way to be sold.  
So turning round about, and walking then  
Once through the room, comest to the glass again.   

54.  
By this time, there is something sits awry,  
One lock is bigger than the other is.  
That hangs too far back, this too near thine eye,  
The pin upon thy band is set amiss:  
Thy lace worn so is handsomer than this.  
Then thus it must be, and then thus, and thus,  
That Pendent's dark, this more perspicuous.   

55.  
Thy swelling-brests are not displayed enough,  
Pull them up higher, set thy dressing lower.  
Those strippings suit far better with a Ruff,  
T'other is laid aside, this used more:  
Thy Crossecloth is not pinned right before.  
Thus with thy tiffing, trimming, and thy mending,  
Thou spendest whole hours together without ending.   

56.  
The Mistress of the house where thou dost lie,  
Hath formerly been of the selfsame trade:  
One that long since hath sold her honesty,  
And now is turned from Whore unto a Bawd,  
And of a hilding is become a jade.  
She tells thee, how thou shouldst thyself demean,  
And act the part of an audacious Quean.   

57  
Two servants to attend thy lawless lust,  
As Ministers of thy ungodly course,  
Are never wanting, by the which thou must  
Fill the defects of thy decaying purse,  
And make the wicked to become more worse.  
With thee, and for thee, these do use to wander,  
One as a Pimp, the other as a Pander,   

58.  
Beside thy Pimp, thy Pander, and thy Bawd,  
To make thee a complete, and perfect whore,  
As necessary members to thy trade,  
To help thee at thy need, thou keep'st in store,  
Some well approved Physician evermore.  
As his assistants, lest thou shouldst miscarry,  
Thou hast a Surgeon, and Apothecary.   

59  
Thy Doctor, he to keep thy body clean  
Begins at first with his preparatives,  
To make of thee a sound, and wholesome quean,  
And then his purgatives, and his restoratives.  
And afterwards with his preservatives.  
Who for thy julips, Potions, Glisters, Pills.  
To thy Apothecary sends his bills.   

60.  
Directed thus by thy Physician,  
He must accordingly prepare them all,  
And then comes to thee with his composition,  
And brings thee jelleys, with a Cordial,  
And other potions diuretical.  
And as he took direction how to make them  
So he must now inform thee how to take them.   

61.  
The Surgeon too must his attendance give,  
With all such instruments as fits his art.  
Without his needful help thou canst not live,  
To thy polluted corpse he must impart  
His chiefest skill to keep thee sound at heart,  
His seringe, and his cerecloths, and his patches,  
Must be applied to thy sores, and aches.   

62.  
The places thou dost usually frequent,  
Is to some Playhouse in an afternoon.  
And for no other meaning, and intent,  
But to get company to sup with soon,  
More changeable, and wavering then the Moon.  
And with thy wanton looks, attracting to thee,  
The amorous spectators for to woo thee.   

63.  
Thither thou comest, in several forms, and shapes,  
To make thee still a stranger to the place:  
And train new lovers, like young Birds to scrapes.  
And by thy habit so to change thy face.  
At this time plain, too morrow all in lace.  
Now in the richest colours may be had,  
The next day, all in mourning black, and sad.   

64.  
In a Stuff Waistcoat, and a Petticoat  
Like to a chambermaid, thou comest to day:  
The next day after thou dost change thy note,  
Then like a country wench, thou comest in grey;  
And sittest like a stranger at the Play.  
The morrow after that, thou comest then  
In the neat habit of a Citizen.   

65.  
The next time, rushing in thy Silken weeds,  
Embroidered, laced, perfumed, in glittering show.  
So that thy looks an admiration breeds,  
Rich like a Lady, and attended so,  
As brave as any Countess dost thou go.  
Thus Proteus-like strange shapes thou ventrest on  
And changest hue, with the Chameleon.   

66.  
The Play once ended, to some Tavern near,  
Thou, and thy Copesmates presently resort,  
Where the best Wine and the most costly cheer  
Must be provided in the neatest sort,  
For thy choice palate, else thou carest not for't.  
And when thou hast it, yet thou canst not eat  
Without a noise of Fiddlers to thy meat.   

67.  
There dost thou spend thy time, till almost day,  
In drinking, dancing, and in beastly riot.  
And never think'st it time to go away,  
Until some quarrel makes the house unquiet.  
Or a large bill affrights thee for thy diet.  
The night thus spent, and mornings near approach  
Sends thee home tumbling in a tottering Coach.   

68  
Thy new acquaintance brings thee to the door  
Of thy close lodging in some private place.  
To know the house that ne'er was there before,  
And staying with thee but a little space  
He takes his leave of thy so late-knowne face.  
And tells thee, when the morning comes, that then  
At thy bed's side, he'll visit thee again.   

69.  
To bed thou go'st about the hour of three,  
Drunk as a beggar, else it were a wonder.  
Where thou continu'st till eleven it be,  
And never pullest thine eyelids once asunder.  
Nor wakest by any stormy wind, or thunder.  
Unless it cometh in the Youngsters head,  
To take thee napping early in thy bed.   

70.  
Then he comes ruffeling, ere his brains be steady,  
With drinking Sack, and Claret over night.  
Untrust, unbuttoned, and scarce half made ready,  
Of his new Mistress for to have a sight,  
Hoping in time to be thy favourite.  
And needs must feel if that thy breasts are soft,  
And give thee in thy bed thy morning's draft.   

71.  
Then thou sittest up, to bid him welcome in,  
And striking of thy locks to either side,  
Display'st thy breast, to show thy milk white skin.  
And if he list a journey for to ride,  
Thou art a Hackney, that hast oft been tried.  
And art not coy to grant him such a favour,  
To try the courage of so young a shaver.   

72.  
Thus having had his pleasure as he list,  
With much good mirth, to either's sweet content.  
He goes his way as soon as he hath kissed,  
Using some plain familiar compliment,  
And for his sport, perchance benificent.  
No sooner gone (as 'tis thy daily guise)  
Just about twelve thou think'st it time to rise.   

73.  
Thy coats put on, and having left thy bed,  
Unto the Looking-glass thou straight dost go.  
Whereas two hours thou spendest about thy head.  
At two a clock, thou goest to dinner though  
With thy Land lady, and her maid below.  
At three unto the Playhouse back again,  
To be acquainted with some other men.   

74.  
Thou turn'st the day into a sleepy night:  
And changest night into a waking day.  
To God's appointment thou art opposite:  
What he commands thee, that thou dost gainsay,  
And neither him nor nature dost obey.  
Thy wicked heart, that's only bend to evil  
Doth make thee for thy God, to serve the devil.   

75.  
Thou laughest indeed, and livest in pleasant mirth:  
And fall'st in travel strongly with delight.  
But yet it doth not come unto its birth.  
Thou groanst at noon, but bring'st not forth till night  
Of a strange issue that doth loathe the light.  
Cursed be those joys, that bring, with lasting sorrow  
For this day's mirth eternal death to morrow.   

76.  
Thou feedest thy pleasures as the Pelican  
Doth feed her young ones, with her hearts dear blood  
They likewise do conspire against thee than,  
To take thy life, and like that viperous brood  
Gnaw through thy bowels, for to gain their food.  
Accursed crew, of all things else most vild,  
Both murderers, the mother, and the-childe.   

77.  
Thus dost thou spend thy time, to please thy will,  
As if thou wert made only for to sin.  
Thinking on nothing, but on what is ill,  
Keeping out God, to let the devil in.  
Bending thy whole endeavours for to win  
A shameful pleasure, that's not worth a thought  
And lose a soul that was so dear bought.   

78.  
Thou dost not keep one Sunday in a year.  
Nor hearest a Sermon once in two years' space.  
Thou carest neither for to read nor hear.  
Devotion dwells not in thee, nor yet grace.  
No divine thought hath in thy heart a place.  
Thou hast no resolution or intent  
Once to take comfort of the Sacrament.   

79.  
Thou knowst not what to prayer doth belong,  
Private, or public, nor to meditation.  
Thou dost not use to exercise thy tongue  
In vocal sound, or silent adoration.  
Nor send'st thy thoughts up by ejaculation.  
Nor worshippest any Deity above  
But Venus, and her son, the god of love.   

80.  
Who follows after fashions more than thou,  
And who more rich in jewels, Silk, and Gold?  
Yet thou esteemest them not half good enough,  
For thee to wear if better may be sold.  
Thy pride makes thee so impudently bold.  
Thou dar'st compare thyself with any woman,  
Though faithful she to all, thou true to no man.   

81.  
What honour doth thy clothing purchase thee?  
Or what respect attends on thy attire?  
Thy jewels are like blossoms on a tree,  
That's cutting down for fuel for the fire.  
Gold worn by thee is prized as Copper wire.  
Rich sumptuous garments, if thy body bear them  
They are of no regard whilst thou dost wear them.   

82.  
What glory hast thou gotten by thy face?  
Or is thy beauty honoured at all?  
To others such a feature were a grace.  
And such a beauty were angelical.  
But thou that mak'st such gifts mechanical.  
Heinous reproach, and calumny dost do them,  
And tak'st away the honour due unto them.   

83.  
Me thinks I hear thee pleading an excuse,  
And ask me, what I would have thee do,  
Thou sayst to work, it never was thy use,  
Thy friends did never bring thee up thereto.  
And therefore know'st not how thou shouldst so do.  
Nor left thee means enough, for to defray.  
The charge of life, to feed thee once a day   

84.  
Unable therefore any pains to tack,  
And destitute of means whereby to live,  
Since all thy Friends, and Kindred thee forsak;  
And no man unto thee will comfort give,  
Or in thy wants, or troubles thee relieve.  
These are the reasons that do thee enforce  
To take so wicked, and so lewd a course.   

85.  
But will these reasons purge thee of thy crime,  
And take away the guilt of thy offence?  
Will these, to cleanse thy blot, at any time  
Wipe off the scandal of thy impudence?  
Or will they supersede thy indigence?  
Is it more credit to be called a Whore,  
Then to be counted honest though but poor?   

86.  
Must riches only make a woman civil,  
And modesty be limited by wealth?  
Wilt thou extract thy virtue from the devil?  
Being once sick, wilt thou despair of health?  
And reckon less of honesty than stealth?  
Shall not fair virtue, thy foul vice control?  
Wilt thou to please thy body, kill thy soul?   

87.  
Wherefore did the Almighty give thee hands?  
For nothing but to trim, and deck thy face?  
What is he bound to give thee means, and Lands  
And more of thy deserts then of his grace?  
Art thou not bound his Statutes to embrace?  
How art thou puffed in mind to think that thou  
Shouldst live by sweeting of another's brow?   

88  
God made thee not to live in idleness,  
Nor to depend on nothing else but pleasure.  
Thou ought'st not so to wanton in excess  
But for to bond thy will within a measure,  
And patiently for to attend his leisure.  
If he will have thee poor, be thou content,  
By honest labour earn thy aliment.   

89.  
Learn to prefer an honest poverty  
Before a wealthy, and a wicked life.  
Riches do often make us run awry,  
And stirs us up to hatred, and to strife.  
Then is a poor, and beauteous maid, or wife,  
Nothing more comely, nor deserving praise.  
She is esteemed the mirror of her days.   

90.  
How wouldst thou be unfit to manage wealth  
If such a blessing had betided thee?  
When as thou hast not wit to guide thyself,  
Nor carefully to thine own body see:  
But of thyself so wastefully art free.  
Such as respect not credit, nor good name,  
Are to all goodness a reproach, and shame.   

91.  
Dost thou think foul to live by honest pain,  
When 'tis esteemed a commendable thing:  
Many thereby a virtuous name do gain,  
And to themselves deserved honour bring:  
Yet thou delight'st so much in wantoning.  
Thou leavest God, to wait upon the devil,  
And art ashamed of goodness, not of evil.   

92.  
Be not ashamed of that deserves no shame:  
But shame to do what brings a shameful end.  
Be thou ashamed with shame to stain thy name,  
And shamefully thy honour to misspend,  
Such shame, a shameful punishment will send.  
And as thou shameless of all shame dost live,  
So death to thee a shameful end will give.   

93.  
Thou dar'st not publicly be seen abroad,  
For fear thy clothes be plucked from off thy back.  
But keep'st thy chamber with thy Pimp, and Bawd.  
For if thou walkest the streets, thou shalt not lack  
Such as will make thy bravery go to wrack.  
Close stools, dirt, chamberpots shall wash thy clothes  
For thy foul life, that stinks as bad as those.   

94.  
One comes, and cries aloud, there goes a whore,  
A Bridewell baggage, that deserves the lash,  
Oh hang her quean, she makes a thousand poor,  
'tis pity there should live such filthy trash:  
To wear good clothes, and swagger thus in slash,  
Pull off her Plush, disrobe her of her gown,  
And into Kennell thrust the Strumpet down.   

95.  
Thus shouting, and out-crying they abuse thee,  
If that thou show'st thyself in open Street,  
And think it no dishonour to misuse thee,  
And if thy best acquaintance doth thee meet.  
He passeth by ashamed thee to greet.  
Knowing it is a blemish to his name  
To be seen speaking to so base a dame.   

96.  
That makes thee like an Owl come forth by night,  
And steal into a Tavern in the dark,  
Because thou dar'st not to be seen by light.  
And fearing then, that some thy ways do mark,  
Thou tremblest, if thou hear a dog but bark.  
The day to some doth fly away too fast,  
Thou reckon'st it the greatest foe thou hast.   

97.  
Oh! how a Constable will make thee start,  
And run into a corner for to shun him.  
A Beedle puts such fear into thy heart,  
That thou canst make thy feet strive to out run him  
As if thou hadst been she that had undone him.  
As children love the Bears of Paris-garden,  
So dost thou like the sight of a Churchwarden.   

98.  
Bridewell expects thee for to beat some Hemp.  
And Middleton doth want thee for his cart,  
The Compters will not yield thou art exempt  
From their command, but that they claim a part  
And share in thee, and ought not thence to start.  
The Marshals of the City, and the Court,  
Must play with thee in earnest, not in sport.   

99  
Dost thou not blush Amanda, tell me true,  
To see thyself as in a mirror here?  
I call thee by such names, as are thy due,  
And speak the simple truth without all fear.  
Nor can I any longer thee forbear.  
Read farther yet, and look thou well unto it,  
The pity I have on thee makes me do it.   

100  
How many several ways wilt thou devise  
To make that fair which is but foul deceit.  
Why dost thou cast such glances with thine eyes?  
'tis but to draw the Fish unto the bait,  
Thy golden Apples are but counterfeit.  
Thy tears, thy sighs, thy smiles, thy pensive passion,  
Are borrowed shows, and mere dissimulation,   

101.  
As a hot blast before a hasty shower:  
So are thy pleasing, and enamouring smiles.  
Thy voice Hiena-like, is to devour,  
Thy sweet alluring songs, are Siren's wiles.  
Thy tears are but the tears of Crocodiles.  
Eyes of a Basilisk, a Panther's breath,  
A Tiger's heart, intending nought but death.   

102.  
Thou art a Serpent in a Crystal brook,  
A poisoned Potion in a Cup of Gold.  
A Magic spell within a golden book.  
A painted Sepulchre of bones, and mould,  
Bitter in taste, though glorious to behold.  
Thy wolvish throat for guiltless Lambs doth gape,  
And play'st the devil in an Angel's shape.   

103.  
Drone like, from painful Bee thou suckest the honey.  
Moth like, thou cloath'st, and feedest on others spoil.  
Canker-like eating, and consuming money.  
Grashopper-like, thou singest whilst others toil.  
And like a Caterpillar liv'st the while.  
Like leprosies thou art, or scabs, or tetters.  
Or the black Cross, before the row of Letters.   

104.  
Thy glorious clothing, and thy glittering show,  
Thy gorgeous dressing, and thy painted face,  
Makes thee admired of them that do not know  
The seeming substance of a feigned grace.  
But oh! within that heart there is no place  
For virtue's harbour, nor of sin no sense,  
But baleful lust, and stinking impudence.   

305.  
How cunningly thy lover to deceive  
Wilt thou fain shows of sorrow, and of passion,  
For sometime in his presence thou wilt leave  
Thy wanton tricks, and then in imitation  
Of a grieved soul, thereby to gain compassion,  
Sigh, and seem sad, dejecting of thy look,  
As of thy life, no comfort thou hadst taken.   

106.  
Then wilt thou tell him how thou lov'st the man,  
And that his great neglect doth make thee sad.  
That thou must love him still do what he can,  
Though back from him no love again be had.  
And that through passion thou art almost mad.  
Then wilt thou kiss, and hug him in thine arms,  
Shedding forth tears, to make those tears thy charms.   

107.  
When out alas, thou scarce hast seen him thrice  
And dost not know what honest love doth mean.  
And then perchance forsooth thou wilt be nice,  
And tell him, thou dost scorn to be unclean.  
And dost abhor the very name of quean.  
And by thy feigned seem so to win  
My dainty gallant to a deadly sin.   

108.  
Thus aiming only, to be only ill,  
Thou seem'st to hate vice, that thou may'st be vicious.  
Willing to have unwillingly thy will,  
Striving through modesty to be pernicious,  
And hating whoredom, to be meretritious.  
Thus thy fair glosses seem for to discover  
Thy cursed disposition to thy lover.   

109.  
Consider how thy guilt doth make thee fly  
From house to house, from one Street to another.  
Thou dar'st not in one lodging long timely,  
But strive by changing place thy sin to smother,  
That thy lewd courses no man may discover.  
Thou knowst full well, that what thou dost is ill,  
Yet wilt thou lose thy soul, to gain thy will?   

110.  
This month, near Westminster thy lodgings are,  
The next month thou remov'st to Clarkenwell.  
Within a while that chamber is to far.  
Then to the Strand thou back returnest to dwell,  
there's better trading, as report doth tell.  
From thence unto the City dost thou fly,  
And for a month or two thou there dost lie.   

111.  
It is not long, but there is notice taken,  
That so much company makes thee suspected:  
And thereupon that place is strait forsaken.  
To Shoreditch than thou go'st, to be protected,  
But there thou art not to thy mind respected.  
And therefore wisely to amend the matter,  
Thou think'st there's better trading o'er the water.   

112.  
At Lambeth than thou settest up thy rest,  
Because that place is near unto the Court.  
There for one quarter thou dost think it best.  
To make that place the place for thy resort,  
Where thou mayst best gain profit with thy sport.  
But there's a fault too, when the term is ended,  
And Court removed, than thou art unbefriended.   

113.  
Then for a while thyself to recreate,  
Thou think'st it best to take the Country's air.  
And with new friends, thyself exhilarate.  
To Hackney therefore, thou dost strait repair,  
Intending there to keep an open fair.  
For there thou hop'st (if fame be not belied)  
That Hackney gallants will a hackney ride   

114.  
Thus like a wand'ring vagabond, thou fliest  
From place to place, and at no place dost tarry.  
In City, Suburbs, Country, if thou liest,  
Fear takes thee up, and thee from thence doth carry.  
So that thou liv'st like a ubiquitary.  
Nor here, nor there, nor any where residing,  
But one that hath no home, nor no abiding.   

115.  
And as thy lodging thou dost often change,  
So art thou metamorphosed in thy name,  
For using too, and fro, so much to range,  
In often moving thou dost lose the same.  
Well knowing thereunto thou art a shame.  
Sometime thy name is Mary, sometime Anna,  
Within a while 'tis Edith, than Susanna.   

116.  
Then wilt thou take the surname of another,  
And have it as thine own, by usurpation.  
Forgetting that which thou hadst from thy mother,  
And so thou passest by that appellation,  
Till note is taken of thy occupation.  
Then as ashamed of it, that's forsaken,  
And blotted out, and so another taken.   

116.  
Thus in uncertainties thou always dealest,  
Constant in nothing, but committing sin.  
And by thy outward carriage thou revealest,  
The disposition of thy heart within.  
Where had there any grace, or virtue been,  
Thou wouldst have loathed so lewd a life as this,  
Despising that, wherein no goodness is.   

118.  
Alas (Amanda) think upon the time,  
How soon it fleets, and quickly flies away,  
Now thou art young, and in thy flower, and prime.  
Thou cans'st into the world but other day,  
Make a good market, for thou canst not slay.  
Those pleasing looks, and beauties which thou hast,  
Will quickly wither, long they cannot last.   

119.  
Let not such fading pomp, thy pleasure cherish,  
Nor transitory joy, be thy delight.  
Things that are good determine, and do perish,  
Much more the wicked pastimes of the night,  
Although thy sin doth glister, and look bright,  
By the continual using of thy lust,  
'twill canker eat thy heart, and make it rust.   

120.  
Do not once think thou canst continue long,  
When as all pleasures, and delights, are short.  
Though now thou art respected being young,  
It is no supersedeas for thy sport,  
As thy days wither, so declines thy port.  
Time gnaws upon thee, and will thee devour,  
Before thou be aware, within an hour.   

121.  
Four or five years will bring thee out of date,  
And make thee dry, as is a withered tree,  
Then all the beauty that thou hadst of late  
Will be decayed, and found dead in thee.  
And thou grown hoarse with crying woe is me.  
Then will thy friends, and lovers thee forsake,  
And no compassion on thy person take.   

122.  
Nay, ten to one if thou so long dost last,  
But that some foul, and loath some grief doth seize thee,  
Before two summers over thee have past,  
Some angry rising ulcer will disease thee:  
Or else some sore, as bad as that displease thee.  
Thy Mercury, thy Unguents, and thy Lotions  
Will eat thy flesh, and work in thee strange motions.   

123.  
there's a disease that is the plague of whores,  
Which rooteth in the marrow and the bones.  
Within thee, and without thee full of sores:  
That, that I say, will take thee all at once,  
And make thee to reduplicate thy groans.  
That Morbus Gallicus will fill thy veins,  
And gnaw into thy bowels, and thy reins.   

124.  
Where are thy lovers then, and all thy friends?  
What profit is there of thy gaudy clothes?  
Where are the men that to thee comfort sends?  
That so much vowed with many fearful oaths?  
He that seemed then to love thee most, now loathes.  
Thou, full of aches, groanest by the wall.  
And no man sees, nor pities thee at all.   

125.  
Now vengeance doth begin to shower upon thee,  
And every one doth laugh at thy distress.  
Where are thy pleasures now, that have undone thee?  
This is the fruit of thy licentiousness.  
Thy griefs are more than I can well express.  
And thou forlorn, forsaken, full of woe  
Liest bedrid, full of pain, and canst not go.   

116.  
Example take, by such as heretofore  
Set light by honesty, as thou hast done,  
And bravely lived, by playing of the Whore.  
Observe their manner, when they first begun.  
And how they entertained every one.  
The honour they have gotten, and the glory,  
And mark their ending, when thou readst the story   

127.  
Licaste of Sicilia, long ago,  
The famous Courtesan of all her days.  
Thessalian Metra, one that lived a foe  
To civil modesty, and Matron's praise.  
Fair Rhodopis, that shined with beauty's rays.  
Leoena, Flora, the Athenian Thais.  
Bright Batine, and the Corinthian Lais.   

128.  
These were the famous creatures of their time,  
Much sought too for their beauties, and admired.  
And whilst they bravely flourished in their prime  
None were so much resorted, or desired,  
Till with their often riding they were tired.  
Princes, Philosophers, and famous men  
Longed to be of their acquaintance then.   

129.  
In pomp they lived, and great magnificence,  
Enjoying all things to their hearts content:  
Clothed in robes of greatest eminence,  
Feeding on dainties for their aliment,  
And wanting nothing thereto congruent.  
Thus they enjoyed a while delight, and pleasure,  
In gorgeous clothes abounding, and in treasure.   

130.  
But when their beauty ceased for to shine,  
And sliding time began to make them old,  
Their glory than did presently decline,  
And those that fed them to the full with gold,  
Withdrew desire, and made affection cold,  
Their Pomp decaying, and their got store,  
Made them at length become exceeding poor.   

131.  
The price that was at first an hundred pounds,  
To quench the fury of their burning fire,  
Fell quickly down, to less than twenty Crowns.  
Nay if that any were disposed to try her,  
A single Crown, or half a Crown would buy he:  
And rather than she would a cheapman miss,  
She would be bought with half the price of this.   

132.  
The great ones then, when they had cast them off,  
And surfeited themselves in their delight.  
Those dainty faces were to them a scoff.  
Nor did they once respect at all their sight.  
They were abhorred, and disesteemed quite.  
Then every rude, and base mechanic slave,  
Got his desire, in what he wished to have.   

133.  
At length forsaken of the rich, and poor,  
Their beauty vanished, and their glory gone,  
Despised, scoffed, and scorned, from door to door,  
They sadly walked, disdained of every one.  
Their cries unheard, unpitied their moan.  
They lay them down, distressed, and forlorn,  
And die with wishing they had ne'er been borne.   

134.  
Yet they are more to be excused than thou,  
Because they had not knowledge of a god,  
And sinned, not knowing against whom, or how,  
Hearing, nor fearing of his scourging rod.  
Nor did they know the way wherein thy trod.  
But in blind ignorance did walk awry.  
Having no notice of a Deity.   

135.  
But thou hast with a greater care been bred,  
And well acquainted with God's holy Word.  
Thou knowst the path, which thou dost daily tread,  
Leads unto hell, and that thy life's absurd.  
And will damnation in the end afford.  
Thy conscience tells thee that thy course is evil,  
Displeasing God, and pleasing to the devil.   

136.  
And yet thy knowledge doth not work at all,  
To bring thy life to reformation:  
Thou wilt not hear the Lord when he doth call,  
And sufferest in thy heart an obduration.  
And practisest recidivation.  
Thy voluntary wilfulness doth bend  
To work thy own destruction in the end.   

137.  
Shall I delare unto thee in a word,  
The virtue of unstained virginity?  
What strange, and rare effects it doth afford,  
Being to grace allied by affinity:  
How near it cometh to divinity.  
What hath been acted by the influence  
Of undefiled, and chaste continence.   

138.  
Laerthes, King of Egypt being blind,  
And seeking long time cure, but finding none,  
Was by Apollo's Oracle, enjoined  
To get a woman's water, that had known  
The use of one man, and but only one.  
And with the same, his blinded eyes wash over,  
He should (and did) his long lost sight recover.   

139.  
A vestal virgin, called Claudia,  
To make't appear, that she had lived chaste,  
Did draw the Image of Aritia  
Up Tiber-river, where the same was placed.  
Tying it only to her girdle fast.  
When as the same, all other means being proved,  
Could not by any force at all be moved.   

140.  
Another Vestal, Tuccia by name,  
Being accused of fornication,  
For to acquit, and free her from that shame,  
And to remove that imputation,  
Cleared herself (and got such commendation  
As nothing else the like to her could give)  
By bearing of fair water in a Sieve.   

141.  
Lo here Amanda, and observe it well,  
The strange effects that chastity hath wrought,  
Such things as are incredible to tell,  
By virtue thereof, hath to pass been brought.  
Which to our judgements would have come to nought.  
At what high rates then, ought'st thou to have prized it?  
And not in such base sort to to have despised it.   

142.  
On other side, behold the strange events,  
The ruins, downfals, and the desolations,  
Bloody destructions, fearful accidents,  
Of Kings, of People, Countries, Kingdoms, Nations.  
Their miseries, and their depopulations.  
That have been wrought, through foul concupiscence,  
And by that ugly sin, Incontinence.   

143.  
How many Kings have lost Imperial Crowns?  
Their lives, their Wives, their Children, Subjects all?  
How many Cities, and renowned Towns,  
Have into ashes been observed to fall,  
By that one sin, that sin venereal?  
It were too long, to tedious to relate,  
'twould tyre thy senses to enumerate.   

144.  
Had Helena been true, the famous Troy  
Had never suffered by the Grecians arms.  
She had not tasted of that sad annoy  
Which was procured by their proud alarms,  
Nor they themselves, had suffered half those harms.  
Young Alexander had not lost his life.  
And Menelaus had enjoyed his Wife.   

145.  
Hector had lived, that died so well beloved.  
The stately tower of Ilium had stood,  
And the Palladium had not been removed.  
Old Priam, and his fifty headed brood,  
Had not all by the sword poured out their blood.  
The Grecians had not stoned Hecuba.  
Nor had they sacrificed Polixena.   

146.  
These mischiefs, and a thousand others more,  
Bylust, and by concupiscences rage,  
Did all accrue, that else had not been so.  
The like enormities in every age  
Still swell apace, and never will assuage.  
And thy foul life, by playing of the Whore  
Adds to the wound, and doth increase the sore.   

147.  
Unto thy followers, thou dein'st to give,  
Two liveries, nhereby they may be known:  
Which they do wear so long as they do live,  
For their true service unto thee alone,  
Of these two liveries, the pox is one,  
With this, as a companion, or a brother  
Is poverty, copartner with the other.   

148.  
These two are never absent from thee long,  
But wait upon thee, wherefoe're thou go'si.  
They serve thee being old, as well as young,  
And cleave unto thee whatsoever thou dost.  
From place to place they haunt thee like a ghost.  
These show the great dependence that they have  
Nor parting, till they bring thee to thy grave.   

149.  
How many fearful curses do attend thee,  
And execrations hang upon thy life,  
Praying that God, such miseries would send thee,  
As amongst wretched creatures are most rife?  
Thy father, mother, kindred, man, and wife,  
As thou endeavour'st to grow worse, and worse,  
They all heap on thee curse upon a curse.   

150.  
Thy father is ashamed to name thee daughter,  
Thy mother blusheth for to call thee child,  
Thy kindred all implore the high Creator,  
That since thou shamest not to be defiled,  
As is thy life, so may thy end be vild.  
Thy brothers, sisters, friends, acquaintance all,  
Wish that the plagues of Egypt on thee fall.   

151.  
Thou ruinst heirs, and mak'st them sell their lands,  
To beggary thou bringest men of wealth.  
Thou mak'st good husbands for to forfeit bands,  
And younger brothers for to live by stealth.  
Thou mak'st a man diseased that was in health.  
And those that ne'er intended wicked course,  
Thou mak'st them daily to grow worse, and worse.   

152.  
Thou mak'st the husband leave his loving wife,  
And the rich father to neglect his son:  
To maidens thou dispraisest civil life,  
By thy allurements masters are undone,  
And servants are confounded many a one.  
The fatherless, and widow, as forlorn,  
Do curse the time that ever thou wert borne.   

153.  
'tis thou, that often art the cause of murder,  
Of blasphemy, of drunkenness, and theft,  
Thou mak'st the wicked man to run on further,  
And spend his means on thee, till none is left.  
And since thyself art of all good bereft.  
Thou dost so much delight in doing evil;  
Thou art a painful steward for the devil.   

154.  
And yet me thinks, if thou conceivest aright,  
The little honour, & respect is shown thee,  
Of such as daily do frequent thy sight,  
And of thy company that best have known thee.  
How they in public places will not own thee.  
That thing alone should make thee change thy mind  
And be more pure, as mettle new refined.   

155.  
Thou seest daily how they do abuse thee,  
And to thy face, will call thee common Whore.  
Nor do regard, how basely they do use thee,  
By thy rich clothes they set not any store.  
But tumble, toss, and touse thee, evermore.  
Pulling from thee thy jewels, and thy Rings,  
And using all thou hast as common things.   

156.  
Think of the famous women heretofore,  
Whose chastity, fidelity, and fame,  
Not only in the rich, but in the poor.  
Have purchased to themselves a lasting name,  
Of matchless honour, and still keep't the same.  
Their classicke virtues, to their endless glories.  
Have volumes filled with memorable stories.   

157.  
Poor Baldraca, the mirror of a maid,  
Though base by birth, of meanest parentage.  
Thought scorn to have her honesty betrayed,  
By Otho, greatest Monarch of that age,  
Though he a Kingdom for it would engage.  
She highly prized her honour, more than treasure,  
And scorned his gifts should win her to his pleasure.   

158.  
Read thou the Story of Penelope.  
Of Chiomara, and Timoclea.  
Of Camma, and of bright Zenocrite.  
Of the Egyptian fair Edesia.  
Of Claudia, and of chaste Lucretia.  
And many more beside, whose high-prized worth,  
In Histories are to their praise set forth.   

159.  
Theano blushed, when one by accident  
Espied her arm, unto the elbow bare.  
Doubting she should be thouht incontinent,  
And therefore as ashamed, and in fear,  
Forthwith to cover it she did not spare,  
Blaming herself, that let it so be seen,  
As if therein, immodest she had been.   

160.  
Oh! wert thou but of her opinion,  
And near allied 〈…〉 to the rest,  
So as, 'twixt thee, and them there were a union:  
And that thou couldst a better course digest,  
Then that which hitherto thou hast expressed.  
Thy meretritious life would be amended,  
And thou at thine own follies much offended.   

161.  
But now the course that thou dost undertake,  
Is most abominable, rude, and base.  
It makes the hearts of honest people ache,  
So vile a life should spoil so fair a face.  
Want of God's fear, and of his heavenly grace,  
Hath overgrown thy heart with impudence,  
And filled thy veins full of concupiscence.   

162.  
Yet do not think (Amanda) that thou art,  
The only she, nhich hath this way transgressed.  
Though sin hath made a conquest of thy heart.  
And for some years, hath thereof been possessed.  
Grace notwithstanding, hath an interest.  
On which, if wisely thou lay hold in time  
It will re-enter, and evict thy crime.   

163.  
Commence thy suit against the power of hell,  
By writ of Melius Inquirendum brought.  
And prosecute it, till thou dost expel  
That bold suggestor, lust: and brought to nought  
Her false suggestions, that these mischiefs wrought.  
Three helps thou hast to make thy title fair,  
Against all, claim, Repentance, Faith, and Prayer.   

164.  
These three conjoined, bind fast the arms of sin.  
Chain up ill thoughts, ill words, ill actions all,  
Expelling vice, and letting virtue in.  
They captivate, I say, and keep in thrall  
The force of hell, and po●●● satanical.  
By these thou dost ascend unto the throne  
Of the almighty Godhead, three in One.   

165.  
Be not dismayed (Amanda) nor despair,  
Although thy sins are of an ugly shape.  
Boldly approach to God by frequent prayer.  
there's yet a means, whereby thou mayst escape,  
And stop hell's mouth, though it so wide doth gape.  
As bad as thou, have wallowed in like sin,  
Whose heart at last have let God's spirit in.   

166.  
Hilaria's daughter; Aphra, borne in Crete,  
A famous Bawd, as in those days did live,  
For prostitution did three servants keep,  
Common for any, that would money give.  
She for her folly past, did so much grieve,  
That by Narcissus of jerusalem  
Being converted, suffered Martyrdom.   

167.  
Niceta fair, and Aquilina to,  
Both famous strumpets of admired feature.  
Were by St. Christopher, transformed so,  
That each of them, became a new made creature,  
Embracing grace, and quite forsaking nature.  
And after many torments, and much pain,  
Under King Dagnes, both of them were slain.   

168.  
Another Thais, an Egyptian borne,  
Grown very rich by prostitution.  
Of whose vile course, Panutius oft did warn:  
Was won at last, by's admonition,  
Unto a godly, and devout contrition,  
Went from the stews, whereas she lived a Whore,  
And in a Monastery died poor.   

196.  
Pelagia of Antioch sometime  
Exceeding rich, and beautiful withal,  
Immoderate in lust, and in her prime.  
Her mind, that was before venereal,  
By Bishop Nonius, grew seraphical.  
Her sins bewailed, her wealth at nought she set,  
Lived, and did poorly in Mount Oliver.   

170.  
See to thy comfort these, and many more,  
Whose boundless lust had made them satans slave▪  
Yet notwithstanding were converted so,  
And from their sins retracted, that they have  
By penitence (their wicked souls to save)  
Through Christ obtained their sins to be forgiven,  
And are now crowned blessed Saints in Heaven.   

171.  
Thus the true penitents shall mercy find,  
Although their sins are of a Scarlet die.  
And sure, unless thou wilfully art blind,  
Thou mayst perceive grace offered to thine eye.  
Embrace it then, I charge thee presently.  
Or else I see thee so exposed to slaughter,  
Earth's plagues will seize thee here, & hells hereafter.   

172.  
I see (me thinks) a solemn Congregation  
At Old-bridewell, of grave, and solid men,  
Sitting together there in consultation,  
What punishment shall be inflicted then  
On thy polluted corpse, and thou again  
Standing near to them in another room,  
Trembling with fear, attending of thy doom.   

173.  
The judges on thy penance there agreed,  
For executing of their strict command.  
According as they had before decreed,  
A Beedle comes, and takes thee by the hand  
To bring thee forth, and lets thee understand,  
That thou for all thy bravery, and cost,  
Must walk with him unto the whipping post.   

174.  
Whither he brings thee, straightways without slaying,  
Pulls off thy robes, and locks thy hands up fast.  
Then to his office, without long delaying,  
Thy clothes pulled down, stark naked to thy waste,  
He thereby lets thee understand the taste,  
Of his smart Whipcord, where there doth imprint  
Each lash a seam, and every knot a dint.   

175.  
For flourishing with hand above his head,  
And shaking of his four limbed instrument,  
In the descent, so learnedly they spread  
About thy shoulders, that incontinent  
Thy dainty skin, is all sanguinolent,  
And so he deals his lashes one by one,  
Till the set number of his stripes are done,   

176.  
Thus being of thy silks, and Satins stripped,  
Exposed to public shame, and so disgraced.  
And for thy impudent abuses whipped:  
A poor blue gown upon thy back is placed,  
And Canvas coyse upon thy head unlaced.  
Where in that guise thou marchest from the stock,  
And then dost practise Hemp, & Flaxto knock.   

177.  
This is the least of all that can betide thee,  
If by great fortune thou diseases miss.  
The lash will scourge thee, and thy friends deride thee,  
And whatsoever more disgraceful is,  
That will attend thy shame, as well as this.  
And nothing shall be wanting, till thou hast,  
Plague upon plague, for all thy follies past.   

178.  
Thus living in dishonour, and disgrace,  
A scandal to thy Kindred, and thy Friends:  
Thy pleasure lasting but a little space,  
Ripe in iniquity, thy glory ends,  
And to a dismal sad confusion tends.  
And having lost thy credit, and good name,  
Concludest thy days in infamy, and shame.   

179.  
For being turned into the open street,  
Unworthy of a chamber, or a bed,  
Bare legged, not having shoes unto thy feet,  
Nor any thing, to put upon thy head.  
Scarce rags to keep thy secrets covered,  
Liest unlamented, for the louse to gnaw,  
And eat thy flesh upon a pad of straw.   

180.  
Where being full of aches, sores, and biles,  
Thy beauty turned to a tawny hue,  
And that consumed, which was so fair ere while,  
Unknown of those, that thee but lately knew,  
As a just vengeance to thy merits due.  
Breathest thy last, beneath some open stall,  
Or diest diseased in an Hospital.   

181.  
There lies thy pomp, and glory in the dust,  
Thy body clothed with rags, and all too torn,  
Thy flesh consumed, and wasted by thy lust.  
Loathed, condemned, disdained, and held in scorn.  
Not one of all thy friends for thee will mourn.  
Nor hardly think thee worthy for to have,  
To hide thy stinking corpse, a simple grave.   

182.  
Lo here Amanda, view thyself at large,  
Behold thy life, and after that thy death,  
Peruse each line, and letter, I thee charge.  
Let it not be forgotten in a breath,  
To thy best thoughts I do the same bequeath.  
Advisedly consider of the matter,  
I tell thee what is true, and scorn to flatter.   

183.  
And if it take effect as I desire,  
And breed a sorrow for thy time misspent,  
If it shall cause thee from thy course retire,  
And be a means to make thy heart relent,  
And be reformed by my admonishment,  
Assure thyself that thou hast gained a friend,  
That shall not fail thee till his life doth end.   

184.  
For my sake therefore I adjure thee here,  
To turn thy course, and bend another way:  
For thy friend's sake, to whom thou shouldst be dear,  
Come home unto thyself, and do not stay.  
For thine own sake, I charge thee to obey,  
And in compassion of that soul of thine,  
Live not in darkness when the sun doth shine.   

185.  
Pity thy years, that are but young, and tender.  
Pity thy father's care, thy mother's love,  
For thy sad kindred's sorrow, pity render.  
Let thy acquaintance some compassion move,  
Look not still down, but raise thy thoughts above.  
If no thing else prevail, let fear of God,  
Work thy conversion, and his threatening rod.   

186.  
Strive to regain the honour thou hast lost.  
And seek thy ruined credit to repair.  
Thy conscience is benumbed with folly's frost,  
Let thy warm tears of sorrow thaw the air  
That chills thy heart with nipping cold despair.  
And so dissolve thy crusty ice of sin,  
That hot repentance, may let mercy in.   

187.  
Redeem the time that thou hast spent in vain,  
And pursue honour as thou followd'st vice.  
Although unwilling, yet thyself constrain,  
Against thy will to virtue be not nice.  
Tyre not in acting goodness, twice or thrice.  
But persevere from one unto another,  
As happy daughter of a blessed mother.   

188.  
And when thou hast this little Pamphlet read,  
And seen the scope whereto these lines do tend;  
Let them not pass an hour out of thy head,  
Until thy sorrow make thy life amend,  
And work a reformation in the end.  
Do not, oh do not, put them from thy heart,  
But to thy sickly soul some help impart.   

189.  
Then shall my prayers fly aloft with thine,  
And my desires seek earnestly thy bliss.  
Thy happiness shall be to me as mine.  
Thy godly sorrow, for thy life amiss,  
Shall breed such joy, as none shall be like this.  
The comfort that thy soul shall thereby taste,  
Shall be a Crown of glory at the last.   

190.  
In hope therefore of this my good success,  
And of a happy welcome to these lines,  
Wishing thou mayst thy wicked lusts suppress,  
I leave thee unto him, whose grace refines,  
Praying his blessing unto these designs.  
Heavens grant thee that which none on earth can give,  
A life prepared to die, a death to live.    

When I had written these lines, I made them up in a little book, and by a friend which I had, sent them unto her lodging, with a letter likewise to be delivered unto her, both which my friend presented to her own hands, and she receiving of them thankfully, read over the letter presently in his sight, and told him, that so soon as she had perused the book, which should not be long, she would send her answer unto me: and so my friend taking a courteous farewell, left her, and returned telling me of the kind welcome both of the letter, and the book, which I was glad to hear of, and therefore hoped in a short time to receive her answer, which I did wish might be according as I both expected, and desired. I waited for her answer about ten days, and not hearing from her, well knowing in that time she might at her leisure have read it over, I began to wonder what the reason should be, imagining, that either she was loath to bestow so much pains as to read it, or else having read it, she was offended at it, and being willing to be satisfied herein, yet unwilling that she should take any notice of my desire, I sent another friend, not to her lodging, but near unto it, to the end that I might be assured whether she still continued there, or whether she were removed to any other place: my friend taking occasion secretly to inquire of her, understood by one of the neighbours, that she kept her old lodging, and that she had lately been very sick, and was not then recovered. Of which her sickness, when I understood, I was in some hope that she had considered seriously on the contents of the book, and that it had wrought so far with her, that she had laid the same to her heart, and was thereby drawn to a strict examination of her own life, which might be the means of troubling her conscience, so far, as that it might breed a distemper in her body, and so be the cause of impairing her health: desirous therefore to understand how she digested it, & whether there were any other cause of her disease, I sent my friend to her lodging to see how she did, not taking any notice that I had known of her sickness, and withal, to excuse my not coming unto her all that time: whither when he came, he was willingly conducted into her chamber, where she than lay in her bed, and delivering his message unto her, she told him that she had been very ill, and wonderful desirous to see me, and entreated him to signify so much unto me, and that she was minded to send a messenger unto me, but that by reason of her sickness she knew not how conveniently to do it (not speaking one word unto him concerning the book.) My friend not staying long with her, and promisig to acquaint me with her desire, departed: and telling me what her request was, and in what case he found her, I resolved within few days to visit her, and accordingly within a day or two after, I came unto her chamber, where being entered, I found her sitting in her chair by the fire, and weeping exceedingly. I coming in so suddenly, and she turning her head espying of me, presently leapt out of her chair, and coming towards me, took me by the hand, and looking earnestly in my face, she began to speak to me to this effect, the substance whereof for memory sake I have set down in verse, as followeth, viz.   

The penitential answer of the reformed Amanda.  

1.  
OH thou that art the only man alive,  
Which with these eyes I did desire to see.  
Thou, thou, for whom my heart shall always strive  
To gratulate the kindness shown by thee,  
Welcome a thousand, thousand times to me.  
With that, the tears gushed from her eyes apace,  
And silence stayed her tongue a little space.   

2.  
Then breaking forth in words again, she said,  
Come dearest friend, and sit thee down by me.  
Thy presence makes me joy, and well apaid.  
I have great matters to reveal to thee,  
Such as till now I thought would never be.  
Then rising from her seat, she locked the door,  
And came, and sat down by me as before.   

3.  
And fixing earnestly her eye upon me,  
In a still silent manner she looked on me,  
And say as if she had been in a trance.  
At length her milk white hand she did advance.  
And then the same within my hand she laid,  
Whilst with a ruthful voice these words she said.   

4.  
I have perused each letter in thy Book,  
And carefully considered every line.  
I did advisedly the same overlook,  
Applying of it to this heart of mine:  
Which is awakened by those words of thine,  
And thereby do I understand aright,  
My much lamented state, and wretched plight.   

5.  
I see the scope whereto thy thoughts do tend,  
And understand the mark at which thou aim'st,  
I find thou art unto my soul a friend,  
And through thy love thereto such right thou claimest,  
That thou wouldst save it, though my life thou blamest.  
Oh such a friend how can I truly prise?  
With that the tears down trickled from her eyes.   

6.  
But do not think, quoth she that thou hast wrought  
On a remorseless stone, or senseless stock:  
Let it not enter once into thy thought,  
That thou hast beat an Adamantine rock,  
But unto me hast been as Peter's Cock.  
Checking my sinful life, that I might know,  
The path was ill which I had traced so.   

7.  
Thou hast depainted here unto the life,  
The miserablest creature ever breathed.  
A female wretch, unfit to make a wife,  
Shame to the sex, one of all good bereaved.  
That hath all mischief in her heart conceived.  
That nought but ugly sins about her bears,  
A foul offence unto all modest ears.   

8.  
Thou hast before me laid what e'er is ill,  
Murder, lust, thiefdome, drunkenness, and pride.  
All these with free consent, and willing will,  
I have embraced, and none of them denied.  
With many other fearful sins beside.  
Thou plainly hast discovered unto me,  
And made me see what erst I could not see.   

9  
How blind was I, that knew not this before,  
And yet I know, I knew it too too well.  
But wanted that true knowledge evermore,  
That should unto my seared conscience tell,  
That I was running down the hall to hell.  
Thou hast wide open set my hoodwinked eyes,  
And made me see the devil's fallacies.   

10.  
Thou hast made known to me the short content  
And fleeting comfort of a fading pleasure.  
The miseries that wait on merriment,  
Though they look Gold-like, yet they are not treasure,  
A sudden joy that brings forth grief at leisure.  
A gilded Pill, where poison lieth under,  
A lightning flash before a clap of thunder.   

11.  
Nor hast thou lost the labour that thou took'st,  
But brought thy pains unto a perfect end.  
Thou hast obtained the thing for which thou look'st  
And as thou hast expressed thyself a friend,  
Beyond all friendship, and thy love doth tend  
To so much good, as for to save a soul,  
Teach me at full, my follies to condole.   

12.  
For lo my heart is like to break with sorrow,  
For my lost time, and for my life misled.  
Well could I wish to die before too morrow,  
And happy should I be if I were dead.  
Since all true comfort from my heart is fled.  
But that my conscience tells me presently  
I am not yet prepared for to die.   

13.  
For my sad soul that is of sable hue  
Stained with the spots of millions of sin  
Must with a flood of tears be washed anew:  
My hardened heart to melt must first begin,  
And let a true repentance enter in,  
Before I can expect, or hope to have,  
Comfort from him that died my soul to save.   

14.  
Oh leave me not in this my great distress,  
For fear I yield to desperation;  
My sinful heart doth feel such heaviness,  
And in itself such perturbation,  
That I am void of consolation;  
Ready to sink into the deep abyss,  
Of hell's black gulf, where nought but horror is.   

15.  
Put forth thy helping hand to save me then,  
And keep me from the hazard I am in:  
Thou brought'st me down, now raise me up again.  
And heal the sore that festered is by sin,  
Cure a sick soul by wholesome medicine.  
Purge the malignant humours which do feed  
The swelling vice that in my heart doth breed.   

16.  
I must confess I swim'd in lawless pleasure,  
And gave large reins unto my boundless lust.  
I drank all vices in an equal measure,  
And let religion in my heart to rust,  
And suffered on my conscience such a crust,  
That no remorse or sorrow for my sin,  
Could have admittance, or once enter in.   

17.  
A Tavern was the Temple I did use,  
A Stage the market where I bought, and sold,  
The Cloister that I lived in was a stews.  
My Chamber the Exchange, my trade t'uphold.  
There did I traffic, and contract for gold.  
My ghostly father was a Galenist,  
My Clerk a Pimp, a Pander was my Priest.   

18.  
I offered Holocausts on Venus' Altar,  
And burned Incense to the god of Love.  
My Prayer book Astianassa's Psalter,  
My Matins were to Aphrodite above,  
My Vespers would not Amarusia move,  
Nor actions for a chaste Zenocrite,  
But sitter for a wanton Chione.   

19  
'twas I that drank iniquity like water,  
And with the sow did wallow in the mire.  
I sported, like Adultus wanton daughter,  
And let myself for money out to hire:  
I was a bargain fit for any buyer.  
For Silver to mechanickes I was sold,  
But with the Nobler sort I dealt for gold.   

20.  
I caused the usurer to empt his bags,  
And made those fools that were esteemed wise,  
I shifted gallants from their robes to rags,  
And changed their plush into a Country freeze,  
And by my cunning crafty policies.  
I did allure the modest, and the chaste,  
Of Cytheraean dainties for to taste.   

21.  
All sorts, all ages, all degrees of men,  
I could apply myself to please their pallet.  
To Lords, to Gentry, to the Citizen,  
I could prepare myself a dainty salad:  
Or to the beggar that doth bear the wallet.  
And like unto Theramines his shoe,  
That fitted each man's foot, so could I do.   

22.  
Let a new lover take what shape he would,  
As Neptune to Bisaltis like a Ram.  
As Jove to Danae in a shower of Gold.  
Or to Aegina, in a fiery flame,  
Or like a Swan, as he to Leda came,  
Or to Europa, in a Bulls true shape,  
He hardly could my wily snares escape.   

23.  
As Rhodope the Thracian Courtesan  
Did make Caraxus spend his whole estate,  
And so through want of means turn Pirate than,  
Whereby he aid incur a mortal hate,  
And on himself a lasting scandal brought.  
So hath my luxury consumed to nothing  
Rich heirs, and made them steal for meat, and clothing.   

24.  
How many men have perished by my fault:  
And how am I made guilty of their sin?  
Can I be ever sound that thus do halt,  
And by my winding plots, and cunning gin,  
Intraped the simple, and ensnared them in.  
Can I a ransom pay for this offence,  
Or e'er be able to make recompense?   

25.  
Oh Noah, I cannot, for beside my own,  
Other men's guilt lies heavy on my soul,  
I have not been content to sin alone,  
But caused others to make mine more foul,  
And in their filihinesse did likewise roll.  
Their follies with mine own I did conjoin,  
And by commixtion made their vices mine.   

26.  
I was as common as the Proetides,  
Receiving all that came with joy, and mirth,  
I thought on nothing but my own delights.  
Thinking there was no other heaven but earth,  
(Ah wicked wretch as e'er received birth)  
My spotted life hath made me satans den,  
Fuller of fiends than Mary Magdalene.   

27.  
Her sins I do commit, but want her sorrow,  
Of all the ill she had I am possessed,  
I get the bad, the good I cannot borrow:  
I have her vices all, but want the rest.  
Her worst acts I embrace, but leave the best.  
My Saviour's feet I wash not with my tears,  
Nor (with her) do I wipe them with my hairs.   

28.  
I want the gifts of grace that she had given,  
And her repentance, my hard heart to move.  
I cannot apprehend the joys of heaven,  
Nor love my Saviour with her ardent love,  
My hearts desire with hers flies not above.  
I feel no spiritual comfort in my soul,  
Nor can I thoroughly my state condole.   

29.  
All will be ready to report my shame,  
And blaze my infamy in every ear.  
But none will plead my cause, to quit my blame,  
Or for my sorrow that will shed a tear.  
Or else excuse my fault when they it hear.  
Indeed they cannot, for my foul abuse  
Is far beyond the reach of an excuse.   

30.  
How then shall I find comfort in my grief,  
Or drive sad desperation from my heart?  
Myself unto myself yields no relief.  
And other men no comfort will impart,  
But rather add more torment to my smart.  
If thou shouldst leave me too, in my distress,  
Then must I die in all my wickedness.   

31.  
Oh teach me truly to lament my sin,  
And humble my proud heart by low submission:  
Rouse me out of the sleep that I am in,  
That of my state I may have true cognition,  
And make my peace with God by my contrition.  
Instruct me in the perfect way of prayer,  
Lest I fall headlong into deep despair.   

32.  
Help me to pray to God, that he would shower  
Into my heart the graces of his Spirit.  
That through his mercy, and his saving power  
I may escape the guerdon of my merit,  
And after life his heavenly bless inherit.  
Teach me to pray, teach me sweet friend, I say,  
For I have almost quite forgot to pray.   

33.  
My heart is willing, oh my heart is willing,  
I feel my conscience terrified by sin,  
Oh by my tears by these my tears down trilling,  
Lift up thy heart with mine, come, come, begin,  
Lord open my breast, that grace may enter in.  
Rouse my dead heart, out of his drowsy den,  
Pardon my faults, sweet jesus say Amen.   

34.  
Then from her eyes the tears did gush apace,  
And down she fell upon her bended knees,  
Wring her hands, she did lament her case,  
With sighs expressing her soul's miseries.  
In forcible, and strong Hiperbolees.  
My sins, my sins she cries, with heav'd-up-hands,  
Are more in number then the Stars, or Sands.   

35.  
Then beating of her breast in woeful wise  
With high swollen sobs, and heavy heartsick groans,  
Now, woe is me, now woe is me she cries,  
My stinking sins lie boiling in my bones,  
And kills my soul, as Bees are starved by drones.  
And whilst like furies round about they hem me,  
As a just judge my conscience doth condemn me.   

36.  
Listen, oh listen to my sad complaint,  
I have no friend to moan to, but to thee,  
I need not with my follies thee acquaint,  
Thou knowst my steps, how retrograde they be;  
And how my vices have overwhelmed me.  
Pity my case, and my sad state condole,  
And add some comfort to my sicke-growne soul.   

37.  
Be thou my Pharos to direct me home  
Unto the harbour of my heavenly rest,  
Without a help to guide me, I shall roam,  
And get a curse in seeking to be blessed,  
Good counsel to a soul that is distressed  
Comes in fit season, and doth comfort bring,  
To a sad heart, that's full of sorrowing.   

38.  
My Parents have forsook me long ago,  
Detesting the vile course that I have led.  
Brothers, and sisters neither will me know,  
My near alliance wish that I were dead.  
My friends that sometime were, from me are fled.  
My Parents, Brothers, Sisters, Kindred, Friends,  
My very name their modest ears offends.   

39  
All have forsaken me, to let me perish,  
And sink my soul into the Stygian deep.  
Denying any comfort me to cherish,  
But in sin's cradle suffering me to sleep,  
That thence I have no heart at all to peep.  
But snorting in a dead security,  
I want the sense of my impurity,   

40.  
Nor have I hoarded treasure for my issue,  
But braved it out in jewels, and in Gold,  
In rich Embroidered Silks, and cloth of Tissue.  
And when 'twas bought, it was not long unsold,  
I thought not how to live when I was old.  
But changed, and pawned, for to maintain my pride  
And for the present only did provide.   

41.  
For all the money that I have obtained,  
And golden fees by playing of the Whore,  
Unto myself no riches have I gained,  
But all is quite consumed, and I left poor,  
Only my wearing clothes, and nothing more.  
" Sin's golden gains I see long will not last,  
" Suddenly got, as suddenly do waste.   

42.  
For as a Mill that's set upon a river  
Purposely ' built t'indure both wind, and wether,  
By force of a strong current for to drive her,  
Receives all Corn to grind that is brought thither,  
And all the Country near is served with her.  
Some bringing to her, others sent abroad,  
And all of them deliver there their load.   

43.  
She shifts her work, and serves the turns of all,  
And every one pays tribute for her pain,  
Some giving single, and some double toll,  
Herself thereby not only doth maintain,  
And keep her in repair by such her gain;  
But to the Miller that doth keep the Mill,  
Supplies his wants, and doth relieve him still.   

44.  
The like did I, for by my commontrade,  
From every one that came I had a share.  
And by that custom a rich living made,  
And therewith kept myself in good repair.  
And so maintained my clothing, and my fare.  
And what beside I did lay up in store,  
My friends that kept me had it evermore.   

45.  
For many came themselves, and brought their fee,  
Whereby I had great traffic, and great gain:  
A nurse I had to fetch some home to me.  
They likewise would well pay me for my pain.  
If one sufficed not, I could send forth twain.  
And what I got from many one by one,  
I spent upon my secret friend alone.   

46.  
Him did I feed with money, and with diet:  
With all thing needful, that he wanted nothing.  
My Luxury maintained his beastly riot,  
Pawning my own to buy him change of clothing:  
To cure his wants, no filthy actions loathing.  
What e'er by sin I got, to him I sent it,  
And he no sooner had it, but he spent it.   

47.  
Thus did I always gain to keep me poor,  
Still living bad to make another ill;  
And to maintain a knave, I played the whore,  
And suffered want, that he might have his fill.  
Killing myself another for to kill.  
Sin in myself, sin fostered in another,  
A wicked issue of a wicked mother.   

48.  
Since then (my dearest friend) I did expose  
Myself to infamy, and foul excess,  
Yet thereby nothing got, but still did lose,  
And heap up sins, not feeling my distress,  
Till thou hast made me know my wretchedness.  
Lo I accuse, mislike, condole, repent,  
Myself, my fault, my state, my life misspent.   

49.  
Here, take my clothes, and sell them all away,  
They are not for my wearing any more,  
My Silks, and Satins change for simple say,  
Rich costly garments suit not with a Whore.  
A proud-swolne heart becometh not the poor.  
Those jewels that I have, and rings of gold,  
Receive them here, and let them all be sold.   

50.  
What shall I do with rich Tuftafaties,  
Wrought Velvets, Damasks, Grograms, and Plush,  
Set forth with Lace, and rare Embroideries?  
My Purples, and my Scarlets make me blush,  
My Musfes, and Fans, I do not weigh a rush.  
My fine Bonelaces, and my dainty Purls,  
My Needle-workes, my Bracelets, and my Curls.   

51.  
Take them sweet friend, and set them all to sale,  
My Earring, Pendents, and my chains of Pearls.  
My Rubies, Saphires, and my Diamonds all,  
They are for Ladies, and for wives of Earls.  
Not sit for Strumpets, and for light heeled girls.  
My dainty Linen, Cambrics, and my Lawns,  
Sell them away, and put them off for Pawns.   

52.  
Riste my Chests, my Boxes, and my Trunks,  
Seize all the goods within them, thou shalt find,  
Such things as those are far unmeete for Punks,  
They suit not any longer with my mind.  
Let them to better uses be assigned.  
Rich jewels, gorgeous clothes, and garments fine,  
Pit not a body so defiled as mine.   

73.  
Take them away, remove them from my sight,  
And put them off to any that will buy.  
Then to the poor distribute every mite:  
They do deserve it better far than I,  
To them I do bequeath it willingly.  
Riches unjustly got from other men,  
Distribute them to strangers back again.   

54.  
And laying all these costly robes aside,  
Procure for me some discontented black.  
A plain sad Gown my nakedness to hide,  
That their appear not lightness on my back.  
That gidly vanity may go to wrack.  
Or as a fitter habit for my sin,  
A frock of hair to cloth my carcase in.   

55.  
And let me henceforth take my leave of mirth,  
As the unfittest subject of my mind.  
Let not rejoicing in my heart have birth,  
Until a spiritual gladness I do find,  
And heavenly light of grace in me hath shined.  
Let sollies hatred, and sins discontent  
Add to my soul a ghostly merrimem.   

56.  
Help me oh help me to some holy book,  
To stir my heart up to devotion.  
Get me a Bible I therein may look,  
That God's good Spirit in me may have motion,  
And of his holy Word I may have notion.  
And by the apprehending of the Deity,  
Be stirred to the practice of true piety.   

57  
Bring me acquainted with some good divine,  
That may direct me in the path to heaven.  
And search this dull, and unsound heart of mine,  
Lest I let all things go at six, and seven.  
And backward fall, soured with dissembling Leaven.  
One that will well inform me in the right,  
And try me, lest I play the Hypocrite.   

58.  
Conduct me to the Temple of the Lord,  
Where I some powerful Minister may hear,  
That may unfold to me his sacred Word,  
And thunder out his threatenings to mine ear,  
And make his judgements unto me appear.  
And bringing me to see my wicked error.  
God's mercy may embrace me after terror.   

59  
Get me a lodging in some private place,  
Where I may harbour with some modest wife.  
That my acquaintance may not see my face,  
Where I may lead a quiet civil life,  
Void of all anger, infamy, and strife.  
That by contemning whatsoever is evil,  
I may avoid the allurements of the devil.   

60.  
Or else direct me to some Countriie grange,  
The City is too full of base temptation▪  
That I may both my heart, and habit change,  
And in a lonely private habitation,  
Pursue with constancy this alteration.  
And weyning of myself from worldly pleasure,  
By sudden leaving sin, grow good at leisure.   

61.  
Look to my steps, and let thy watchful eye,  
Have a regard unto my future course:  
I dare not trust myself, lest presently  
The power of sin do conquer me by force,  
And by backesliding make me worse, and worse.  
Let thy especial care for my souls good,  
Be still applying to me heavenly food.   

62.  
For though I now resolve with constant heart,  
Never to take that wicked course again,  
And that the sense of sin doth breed a smart,  
In my sad soul, now thinking to refrain  
From the black die, that will my conscience stain.  
Yet still I fear, and fear it most of all,  
Lest I again into those folly's fall.   

63.  
I know the devil hath a thousand baits,  
To catch me in the compass of his Net.  
I know he deals by counterfeits, and sleights,  
And for my soul, fair seeming shows doth set,  
Till me entangled in his snares he get.  
I know his art, and cunning policies,  
And that doth make me fear his fallacies.   

64.  
Thou hast begun to manifest thy love,  
In striving to reclaim me from my folly.  
Let it not die, but whilst I live, and move  
Pursue therein, and let thy care be wholly  
To guide me in the path of virtue solely.  
Help to confirm me in my weak desires,  
That my small sparks of zeal may grow to fires.   

65.  
Help me to pray to God, to grant me grace,  
To persevere in this my reformation,  
That I may now repent, whilst I have space,  
Craving his spirit of regeneration,  
And of my sins beginning retractation.  
A willing heart I have to turn to heaven,  
Pray for me then, that grace to me be given.   

66.  
And I will pray uncessantly that God  
Would pour into my heart his holy Spirit;  
That sin in me may have a period,  
And I his heavenly Kingdom may inherit.  
And so receive his mercy not my merit.  
Lord hear my prayer, cleanse me from my sin,  
Open my heart, that grace may enter in.   

67.  
This said, she held her tongue, and spoke no more,  
Wiping her eyes, and bending down her head,  
And sitting at my feet upon the store,  
Which with her tears she had bewatered.  
Then reaching forth her hand, to me she said,  
(Oh my sweet friend) on thee my comfort lies,  
Blessed be the time that e'er I saw thine eyes.   

68  
As by the hand thou raisest me from ground,  
(With that she rose, and looked in my face).  
And sounding of my heart that was unsound,  
Didst by thy means, assisted with God's grace,  
Awaken me, and let me know my case.  
So fall not back, but let thy constant love,  
Rouse up my thoughts to raise them up above.   

69.  
Speak, wilt thou tell me what thou dost intend,  
Thou knowst my purpose, let me now know thine.  
Wilt thou continue unto me a friend?  
Thou seem'st to tender this poor soul of mine,  
Dost thou unto my future good incline?  
Boldly go on, leave not the work undone,  
Finish the thing, thou hast so well begun.   

70.  
This said, she paused again, and stopped her voice,  
Earnestly looking when I would reply:  
Her sweet sad looks did make my heart rejoice,  
Seeing her sorrow was so heavenly,  
And from a heart void of all fallacy;  
And noting thus how her desire was bend.  
I made this answer, without compliment.   

71.  
I see Amanda, what I joy to see,  
And what I did desire I might behold.  
I hope thou dost not mean to flatter me,  
And seem to make that hot which is but cold.  
And so make Brass to shine like perfect Gold.  
I doubt not, but thy manners are refined,  
And being melted will be better coined.   

72  
I trust thy sorrow is a real sadness,  
By thy foul life, and mortal sins procured,  
And then that sorrow breeds in me such gladness,  
To think that grace is in that heart immured  
Which hath so many unto vice alured.  
That all the powers I have, with free consent  
Shall be applied to further thy intent.   

73.  
By a free gift (unmerited) from any,  
Had I received a thousand pounds in Gold,  
Titles of honour, privileges many,  
And faithful friends, as I am minute's old,  
With other blessings, more than may be told,  
They could not more rejoice this heart of mine,  
Then this long-wished conversion of thine.   

74.  
For I'll assure thee, I such pleasure take  
In this thy dolour for thy follies past;  
That since thy sin doth cause thy heart to ache,  
This bitter is so sweet unto my taste,  
That if thy sorrow with thy life doth last,  
And thou repentest of thy wickedness,  
As now to me thou seem'st to do no less.   

75.  
Here take my hand, and with my hand my heart,  
And what I say believe it to be true.  
These eyes of mine out of mine head shall start.  
The day that's past shall be begun anew,  
And things consumed shall come again to view.  
Before I fail unto my utmost power,  
To add unto thee comfort every hour.   

76,  
Take thou no thought for clothing, or for food.  
Nor any thing that may procure content.  
My care shall be so much to do thee good,  
Both for thy souls, and body's aliment:  
That thou shalt want nothing convenient.  
Reform thy life, conform thy will to mine,  
I will inform thee in the path divine.   

77.  
Such things as are not for thy wearing fit,  
Thy gorgeous clothes, thy jewels, and the rest  
Leave them to me, I will dispose of it,  
And change them for thy good, as I think best▪  
Unto thy rank thou shalt be neatly dressed.  
In civil manner, but for gay attire,  
It must not suit at all with thy desire.   

78.  
Thy goods disposed of, I will thee provide,  
Of all things fit for a reformed mind.  
A Bible, and some holy books beside,  
Wherein thou mayst a heavenly comfort find,  
I will procure thee, as thou hast enjoined,  
Set forms of prayer, for a contrite sinner,  
Thou shalt not want fit for a young beginner.   

79.  
I have a mother virtuously disposed,  
An ancient matron, pious, and devout:  
To whom I have this my intent disclosed,  
And what herein at first I went about,  
Whilst I of thy conversion was in doubt.  
She shall receive thee with the greatest care,  
Providing for thy lodging, and thy fare.   

80.  
I have a sister much about thy years,  
A hopeful maid, religious, and chaste,  
And such a one as the Almighty fears.  
That all uncivil actions doth distaste.  
And is with many spiritual blessings graced.  
She shall yield comforts to thee many a one,  
And be thy loving kind companion.   

81.  
If thou wilt hear, I'll read to thee each day,  
Precepts for prayer, rules for meditation.  
If thou wilt pray, I'll join with thee to pray.  
In private Votes, or public congregation,  
And lead thee in the path to thy salvation.  
And if thy pleasure thereunto inclines.  
I will acquaint thee, with profound Divines.   

82.  
I'll lead thee forth to Sermons every week,  
And unto common Service twice a day,  
The most approved Preachers I will seek.  
That through thy ear shall to thy heart convey  
Such heavenly comforts, that when thou dost pray▪  
Thou shalt be rapt with a divine delight,  
Of the Almighty's mercy, and his might.   

83.  
If that the City doth content thee best,  
Live in the City to thy hearts content,  
Or if the Country yield thee better rest,  
Unto the Countriey life I give consent.  
All places are alike for to repent.  
If that the heart desires th' Almighty's grace,  
God doth accept the person, not the place.   

84.  
Make thou thy peace with God, by thy contrission,  
I with thy friends will labour for thy peace.  
Appease Gods wrath by hearty true submission:  
I doubt not but thy Parent's wrath shall cease,  
And their fresh love shall mightily increase.  
That aged couple, all thy friends beside,  
Will joy, that in thy sins thou ha'dst not died.   

85.  
Be of good cheer, and walk along with me,  
This is no fitting place for thee to stay:  
My mother, sister, and myself for thee,  
Will make provision, as is fit straightway.  
We will all take thee to our charge this day.  
For nothing but thy soul do thou take thought,  
We will provide, thy body shall want nought.   

86.  
Tell me, quoth I, art thou well pleased with this?  
And dost thou freely thereunto assent?  
I am, quoth she, and think the greatest bliss  
Waits on me now, that e'er to me was sent:  
Thy pleasure I'll attend incontinent,  
Dispose of me as thou thinkst best to day,  
Unto thy will, I willingly obey.   

87.  
With that I called a Porter to the door,  
And bid him take her Boxes, and her Chest,  
Her Trunks, her Bed, her Goods, and all her store,  
And bring them to my house where they should rest.  
And to be ordered then, as I thought best.  
To which command of mine he did consent,  
And so conveyed them thence incontinent.   

88  
Then did I take Amanda by the hand,  
Whilst with my tongue I made her this reply:  
Since thou hast vowed to be at my command,  
Yielding thyself into my custody,  
Accepting of my offer courteously,  
Be of good courage, come along with me,  
I'll be thy safeguard, none shall injure thee.   

89.  
This said, we both together left the room,  
And I conducted her along the street,  
Until I brought her to my Mother's home,  
Whereas at door my Sister did her meet,  
And then my Mother did her kindly greet:  
And entertained her in most courteous wise,  
As either of them could in heart devise.   

90.  
Then did Amanda live, and spend her time,  
In holy duties, reading, and in prayer,  
With grief lamenting her forepassed crime,  
Till she was even brought unto the stair,  
(Through horror of her sin▪) of black despair.  
But of God's special grace, he did impart  
The joy of his good Spirit to her heart.   

91.  
For many good Divines did flock unto her,  
Applying godly comforts to her soul,  
And greatly striving their best good to do her,  
Taught her so well her follies to condole,  
And mortify her sins erewhile so foul,  
That they at length by daily information,  
Wrought in her a good hope of her salvation.   

92.  
Then with more comfort would she pray, and talk,  
Yet pensive still, of sin she would complain,  
Forth of the house she seldom times would walk,  
Unless it were to Church, and back again.  
If she were well, she would not thence abstain.  
Sermons, and Service she did oft frequent,  
And to no place as Church, so gladly went.   

93.  
There would she listen with her best attention,  
And pray as earnestly as any prayed,  
Avoiding sin by diligent prevention,  
And works with faith to couple she assayed,  
Desires of pleasure were in her decayed.  
The only path in which she strived to trace,  
Was to repent for sin, and pray for grace.   

94.  
Oh how she loathed the very name of whore,  
And all that led a wicked wanton life,  
Their sinful courses she did much deplore.  
The unmarried wench, the widow, and the wife,  
As she knew many in those actions rise.  
So she endeavoured moving them by letter,  
For to reclaim them, and to make them better.   

95.  
No roaring youngster came within her sight,  
Nor lustful Prodigal did see her face.  
Her secret friend, that was her sole delight,  
Was now forsaken, and quite out of grace:  
Whereas she lay, he must not know the place.  
Nor he, nor any now must look upon her,  
That had before attempted her dishonour.   

96.  
Thus did she lead her life unto her death,  
Dying to sin, and living unto grace,  
To goodness wholly she did her bequeath:  
She took no pleasure in her comely face,  
Nor any evil motion did embrace.  
But spent her time in holy contemplation,  
To beat down sin, & shame the world's temptation   

97.  
Two years she lived in sound, and perfect health,  
The most reformed creature on the earth:  
She had not much, and yet desired no wealth,  
Humble she was, as one of meanest birth.  
And more inclined to sadness then to mirth.  
Vain prattling, and much talking she despises,  
Delighting most in pious exercises.   

98.  
She did no company at all admit,  
But modest virtuous, and of good report.  
To talk of Plays she would not hear of it,  
She took no joy in any kind of sport,  
Meetings at Taverns, now she cared not for't.  
She did not seek for to augment her store,  
And what she had to give, she gave the poor.   

99  
She did abandon every earthly pleasure,  
Delighting only in religious books.  
Her godly zeal did make the heavens her treasure,  
From thence alone she for her comfort looks,  
Her study was to shun the devil's hooks:  
And all her hopes on which she did depend,  
Was on Christ's merits, at her latter end.   

100  
After two years that she had lived thus,  
She fell through grief into a heckticke fever,  
The which at length did grow so dangerous,  
That of all hopes of health it did bereave her,  
And never left her, till her life did leave her.  
Weaker, and weaker still she pined away,  
And saw how nature in her did decay.   

101.  
She knew her thread of life was almost spun,  
And with great patience took her visitation.  
She did rejoice her life so near was done,  
Being acquainted long with tribulation.  
And now her heart with heavenly consolation  
Was so replenished, and with such delight,  
She would not longer live, if that she might.   

102.  
Her grief grew stronger still, as she grew weak,  
Hasting apace to bring her to her end.  
At length she did desire, with me to speak,  
Where at her bed I strait way did attend,  
Then reaching me her hand, she said, my friend,  
My only friend, thy love through heaven's grace,  
Hath-saved the sinful'st soul that ever was.   

103.  
The book thou sentest, that little Paper book,  
Wherein thou didst unmask my foul offence;  
Behold, and see what true effect it took,  
That book, I say did work in me the sense  
Of my own folly, and my impudence.  
I bless the time, for this thy blessed favour,  
And bless the Lord, that blessed thy good endeavour.   

104.  
And here my latest thanks to thee I give.  
And with these thanks of mine, this little Ring.  
My hour is come, I can no longer live,  
Wear't for my sake, although a worthless thing,  
I cannot recompense thy meriting.  
My tongue doth fail, go toll, the passing bell,  
A thousand times sweet friend farewell, farewell.   

105.  
This said, she drew her hand into the bed,  
The time approaching of her latest 〈◊〉  
Then turning up her eyes to heaven; she said,  
Lord to thy hands I do my spirit commend.  
Then to the wall her body did she bend.  
And with a feeble voice again she cried,  
jesus receive my soul, & so she did.   

106.  
And so she did, & so she died to live  
And living as she did, she sweetly died,  
Her death to her, a lasting life did give,  
Her life before her death was mortisied,  
And at her death, her life beatified.  
Death vanquished life, concluding of her pain,  
She lived, to die, and died to live again.   
FINIS.   

A Meditation upon Death.  
NOthing more wished than wealth, yet that must leave us  
Nothing more sweet than love, 
Nothing  that lasts not ever.  
Nothing more kind than friends, yet they'll deceive us.  
Nothing more fast than wedlock, yet they sever.  
The world must end, all things away must fly,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
More honours may be got, but they'll away.  
More beauty may be had, 
More  but 'twill not last.  
More wealth may be obtained, but 'twill decay.  
More joys may follow, but those soon are past.  
For long continuance 'tis in vain to try,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
Sure love must die though rooted in the heart.  
Sure 'tis, 
Sure  that all things earthly are unstable.  
Sure friends, are pure friends, yet such friends must part  
Sure 'tis, that all things here are variable.  
Nor two, nor one may scape, nor thou, nor I,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
Then let the rich, no longer covet wealth.  
Then let the proud, 
Then  veil his ambitious thought.  
Then let the sound not glory in his health.  
Then let all die, since all must come to nought.  
The elder sish, as well as younger fry,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
Death took away King Herod in his pride.  
Death spared not Hercules for all his strength. 
Death   
Death struck great Alexander, that he did.  
Death long spared Adam, yet he died at length.  
The beggar, and the King, the low, the high,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
For Sceptres, Crowns, Imperial Diadems,  
For all the beauties that on Earth do live, 
For   
For pleasures, treasures, jewels, costly gems,  
For all the glories that the world can give.  
She will not spare her dart, but still reply.  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
All from the highest to the low'st degree.  
All Nations, 
All  People, Kingdoms, Countries, Lands,  
All in the Earth, or Air, or Sea, that be,  
All, all must yield to her all conquering hands.  
She wounds them all, with an impartial eye,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
Must all then die, than all expect their death.  
Must ' all things vanish, 
Mu  Sun, and Moon, and Stars?  
Must every living creature yield his breath?  
Must all things end, our joys, delights, and cares?  
Yes all with an united voice do cry,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
Die let us then, but let us die in peace,  
Die to our sins, 
Dy.  that dying we may live:  
Die to the world, that grace may more increase:  
Die here to live with him that life doth give.  
Die we must needs, let wealth, and pleasure lie,  
Nothing more sure than death, for all must die.  
FINIS.