AN EPITOME OF THE WORLD'S WOE, Wherein is perspicuously discovered; the lamentable miseries of the World, in these tempestuous times, the infidelity of feigned friends, and the fickleness of deceitful fortune.  
Continued by way of Meditation and Resolution.  
By GEO. DICHANTE, Gent.  Ἄπαντε ἐν θαλάςςη κακοῦ πλέομην. 
All we (poor Mortals) wade against our will,  
In waves of woe, and Seas of surging ill.  
LONDON, Printed by Thomas Cotes, and Richard Cotes, 1630   

THE WOE OF THE WORLD.  

Heaven's high director, and Olympus King,  
Whose power doth guide, & govern every thing  
Whose blessed bounty doth extend to all,  
Whose wealth supplies each want in general.  
Supply my wants, Great God thou map of meekness,  
And let thy power be perfect in my weakness:  
Oh help me to divulge, in these weak times,  
The vainness, and vexation of these times.  
Inspire my Muse, she truly may explain,  
The woes that in this wicked world do reign:  
For at the Altar of thy holy Will,  
My Muse doth offer up her Incense still:  
And all the faculties remain in me  
I will address and consecrate to thee.  
'tis in thy power to rectify each wrong,  
Oh guide me then, and go with me along:  
Grant what I writ, within this tedious story  
May to all's good redound, and to thy Glory.   

Since that same season wherein I was borne,  
(By sin original) a wretch forlorn:  
These eyes and ears of mine have known (though young)  
Woes; cannot be expressed by pen, nor tongue.  
For I protest (yet many think not so)  
I have been witness to a world of Woe.  
near in my life as yet that I could tell;  
One entire day remained I perfect well.  
But various passions, still were represented,  
Sometimes well-pleased, straightway malcontented  
Sometimes fresh joy, did over joy my heart;  
Anon I was possessed with pangs of smart:  
And when some overflow of fickle Fate,  
Had filled my body's banks with bliss or State,  
The ebb of that within a little space,  
Hath left me in a worse, and weaker case:  
And seeing thus my joys to ebb and flow,  
With lofty Surges first, and then sink low.  
Leaving the topful banks of bliss all dry,  
Oh what a wicked world is here (thought I)  
Where nothing's firm, but all I here espy,  
Of sublunary Subjects, live to die.  
What mortal then, that with the eye of wit?  
Descends into the world, but sees that it,  
Containeth little that is good within,  
For 'tis a nurse of vice, a sink of sin:  
A Labyrinth of labour, gins, and guiles:  
A sack of sorrows, wickedness and wiles.  
And In myself though all these woes I see,  
〈…〉 s●●ll as me  
Each man a little world contains within,  
A true compendium of the great world's sin:  
Where Reason as the Princess highest sits,  
In the bedchamber of the Bodies wits,  
The Senses are Attendants on the Court,  
Without whose aid nought passes through the port.  
The supreme powers, as Memory and Will,  
They are the Peers, retaining good or ill:  
The Parts exterior, and intern Affections  
Are Commons that rely o'th' Peers protection.  
Then violent Passions that (there) will not cease  
Are base Disturbers of the Common peace.  
And as one Passion is another's door  
Wherein may enter more and more:  
So restless Woes continually make room,  
Whereby another Woe may likewise come;  
Which dumps and dolours do so terrify me,  
And sors my senses, that no joy comes nigh me:  
For the great griefs, that gaul me every day,  
Surpriz● my comfort, banish bliss away.  
I am no Stoic that no passions love,  
Whose minds at neither mirth nor sorrow move:  
These Stock conceits do truly represent,  
The overthrow of inward government.  
But as a Christian heart my God me gave,  
So I'●● take care to order all I have.   

Then tell, what mortal ever yet could say,  
His joy was constant st●ll a complete day:  
Yet true it is that many men have spent,  
〈…〉  
But constantly if it endured a day,  
And was not cracked by sorrow near away:  
That grief and joy so long hath kept a sunder,  
I will record it for a worldly wonder.  
No, no, the world is merely all but vain,  
And her best pleasures turn to bitter pain:  
For though joy tarry strangely for an hour,  
'tis soon consumed by care, and sorrow sour.  
Whence I extract (which every one says plain)  
That pleasure's period, is a pass to pain;  
That joy and gladness take their turns about,  
And when the one is in, the others out.  
So that in neither, there's a stable station,  
But when its sorrow's Term, it's joy's Vacation.  
The Poets fain, there was betwixt those two,  
A great dissension, and a deal to do;  
Which twixed themselves could not he pacified,  
But they must go to jupiter to tried,  
And he all means, and motions too did try,  
The variant to reduce to amity.  
But when he fee his pains had fruitless proved,  
And that their malice could not be removed:  
To venge himself, and curb these solmne sots,  
He bond them in, indissoluble knots;  
And chaned them fast, withal decreed so,  
These two inseparate for ere should go.  
Then 'tis no wonder that they do surprise  
Men in this manner with their miseries:  
For every man hath sure his turn of sorrow,  
f glad to day, he's sure of grief to morrow.  
So thus is mankind with their mischiefs crossed,  
One day pays dolour, that another lost:  
I never yet with any did remain,  
But ever he of something did complain.  
If Rich, then to augment his state and store,  
He would take care to scrape and gape for more;  
If poor and nipped with pinching penury,  
He then must care to ease his misery.  
When Solomon the Mirror of true wit,  
Had all experience man could have of it;  
And for his pleasure Orchards daily planted,  
Made fishponds, craved nought, but it was granted.  
Had men and women-seruants borne and breed,  
within his house, and there were nourished:  
Had stately buildings, costly gems and things,  
As presents sent from Emperors and Kings.  
Bdellium, Ophir gold, all kind of wood,  
Gold, Silver, Frankincense, and all was good:  
Nay to be brief, all solace he had sent,  
Can please the eye, or give the heart content;  
Yet did he deeply (loathing them) complain,  
And said, The world and all is vain.  
So let men give their hearts to glut in pleasures,  
To hoard up Riches, jewels, Gems, and treasures:  
Yet in the end with him they will complain,  
And truly say, The world and all is vain.  
But discontent and hunting still for more,  
Not satisfied with good enough before:  
Men fast pursue to be of all possessed,  
And till their race be run can never rest.  
Which woe endures and the furies fell,  
Makes us think earth to be a second hell.  
Then cannot this be mended? yes, in store,  
God hath laid up a Salve for every sore:  
And the best Medicine that I find is this  
If any in his Baine would look for bless:  
When woe and sorrow come, I do not care for't  
Because before it come I am prepared for't:  
And when 'tis come (for to digest the smart)  
I'll freely welcome woe with all my heart;  
But when it goes (its bitterness to quell  
I look for't more and bid but half, Farewell.  
So that in Mirth I maladies do fear;  
And in my care I know that comfort's near.   

Oh that my eyes could shed a sea of Tears  
For to lament our unlamented years;  
Or could but with my weak and weary strain  
Beat all these mischiefs into Mortals buaine:  
Then sure some viewing of its Misery  
Would cast all care aside, and learn to dye;  
Leave of all worldly love, make preparation,  
As here he had but one hours' habitation.  
I do not care (my Mind was never such)  
Whether I be endowed with little or much;  
If little, my account shall be but small,  
How I disposed of this little all:  
If much (no Avarice 'gainst me hath stood,  
But I may grant it to the needies good.   

And for my part I will confess that I,  
Am very young yet old enough to die.  
If that the destinies had decreed it so,  
I had been well content that gate to go:  
Then had I been secure from sinning more,  
And past the peril of the pikes before.  
But since it stands thus with his holy pleasure,  
That to repent, I have the times leisure:  
My Times, at all times like a careful man,  
I'll make the best use of it that I can.  
But as for Fortune and all worldly care,  
That daily on this world do make repair,  
I such an Antidote laid up in store,  
As that her horns shall never hurt me more:  
For Patience shall arm my body still,  
To bear the burden of her good or ill.  
My mind shall meditate on that always,  
That prudent Pompey used oft to say:  
My friends (quoth he) we have but little cause,  
To trust Fates flatter, and vain applause:  
For by experience I have proved it true,  
(My former state I know was known to you)  
How the Imperial Rule I once did gain,  
Before I looked for or ere wished the same;  
And on a sudden every one might see  
'twas snarcht away, and taken quite from me.  
When I a Mighty Monarch reigned in Rome,  
Secure (as then I dreamt) from Care to come;  
And climbing to attain the top of all,  
I was deposed, and caught this feat full fall.   

So Senecca (when banished from Rome,  
〈…〉  
Unto his mother Altine wrote a letter,  
That she might bear his banishment the better.  
(Mother said he) I ne'er gave credit to,  
Or trusted Fortunes slimme and subtle show  
Although 'twixt me and her did often grow,  
Great friendliness, 'twas filled with fraud I know.  
For when she did consent to aught I did,  
If any peace or praise in it lay hid:  
I knew she did not pity me at all,  
But raised me high, to take the greater fall.  
So by her liberality what's sent,  
Riches, or Honour, I account them lent.  
All promises that she doth proffer me,  
The pleasures, wealth, or what prosperity,  
I lay it by within my house by't self,  
Looking each hour to lose that lastlesse pelf.  
And it doth ne'er my mind at all affright,  
Whether she take't away by day or night:  
I'll ne'er lament nor wander still in woe,  
But as it came, I'll freely let it go.  
Whence this we see, the prudent and the wise.  
Will not presume still on good hap to rise:  
Nor all her fickleness esteem a hair,  
Because before a change they do prepare.  
Yet if I might elect I'd rather buy  
Her Amity, then woeful Enmity;  
And when I lost wherewith she did relieve me,  
Then let her take it, it shall never grieve me.  
Let her take all I have, burnt in the fire,  
And give it to some monster, or a man,  
Use all extremities she will or can;  
Yet shall not this, nay nor a further smart,  
Produce a sigh, or ever grieve my heart.   

We read that Philip Macedon likewise,  
When he heard tell of three great victories:  
Strait kneeled down with folded palms toth' skies  
And unto heaven lifting up his eyes  
Uttered these words; Oh cruel Fates (quoth he)  
And gracious, gods, after prosperity  
I humbly pray you you will be content  
To moderate my future chastisement:  
And let it not be a sad introduction.  
Of my great ruin, or my dire destruction:  
For I am certain, that such flows are vain,  
And after pleasure will ensue my pain.  
All which examples, truly should be noted  
And in our memories well writ and quoted:  
That midditating on them we may know,  
How little trust to fortune we do owe:  
How much we have to trust the flattering strife,  
And fawning happinesses of this life;  
For we not taking heed of after claps.  
Fall unawares in number of mishaps.  
Yea, if it fortune that some time we find,  
Pleasures, and great contentments to our mind:  
Then pain his penalty, for pleasure doubles,  
And us o'er whelmeth, in a gulf of troubles.  
So like right worldlings, thinking for to hold,  
Our 〈…〉  
In spite of Fortune and her nimble lets,  
We're trapped and toiled in misfortunes Nets:  
Such is our folly, when we having got,  
Some bavins blaze of bliss, or little lot:  
Our Wits by much presuming on that fate,  
Are captivated and drowned in self conceit.  
So we become (by running thus astray)  
(To froward Fortune, and ill hap) a pray.  
O traitorous world, which for a little space,  
Dost flatter fawn, and smile on us apace;  
And quickly in the twinkling of an eye,  
Bereaves us of our joys and dignity:  
Thou givest us occasion to be glad,  
And after makes us doleful, heavy, sad.  
Now thou advances, and extols us high,  
Then throws us down, and makes us lowly lie.  
But oh base world, how can we scape thy gins?  
Or living here extenuate our sins.  
For why, the more thou knows a man is glorious  
And by's aspiring seeks to be notorious;  
To fit his chaps for him thou dost provide,  
Riches, Honour, and many things beside:  
As Beauteous Women, I and dainty fare,  
That he may surfeit on them wtthout care.  
But after all these wished joys, and pleasures,  
Great dignities, and many precious Treasures;  
Even as a bate is for the Fishes set,  
So are we taken in vain pleasures net.  
But as for worldly and these tough Temptations)  
(Presented to us for our just probations)  
They make us thinkt, impossible ere Fate,  
Should Metamorphose such a settled State:  
Which hardens us in them to take delight.  
And practise nought but pleasure's day and night.   

Yet I would have one that's affectionate  
Unto the worldly pleasures, pomp, and state,  
Or love's it most, To tell me by his wit  
What recompenses, or what benefit  
After the world deceives them, they can reap;  
Nought but Laments, and for their lust to weep,  
I known great dolours, grief, and lamentations,  
In many houses, where's been exultations,  
And many joys before, in worldly state,  
That have their loss lamented too too late.  
But think, the world rewards us still with evil,  
And ruins good things like a demy-devill:  
'tis Virtue's Tyrant, enemy to peace,  
For base commotions never in't will cease:  
Errors maintainer, and a friend to wars,  
This Soldiers testify, when scourged with scars:  
A grave of ignorance, a field of folly,  
That shows us mirth, yet stored with melancholy,  
Cursed Cares Charibdes, and a dangerous deep,  
Wherein the godly many crosses reap:  
A very Scylla wherein our desires,  
Do also perish with vain lucre's fires.  
For the base vulgar makes no account of them,  
That merit well, or sprung of Noble Stem:  
But those that can support and maintain pleasures,  
And only wade in wealth and laodame treasures  
When these bereft of living and of state,  
Do curse their birthday, and the faith of fate.  
Yet still the base brood, cast a semblance sour,  
Upon good qualities, if they be poor:  
When they fond clues, his outside only see,  
And brave apparel, without honesty:  
But care not for all qualities a pin,  
Nor the sweet gifts that he retains within.  
When the best Clerks, did often on it vaunt,  
And banished Opulence to line in want:  
As Bias carried all his wealth about,  
And dogged Diogenes lay in's Tub without;  
Poor Irus, Codrus, and a many more,  
That sought things firm, and let the fickle go.  
For plain experience let these learned see,  
Want is the Mistress of Philosophy.  
Their skill and learning told them this for sure,  
That riches and preferment would not dure;  
But virtue's lustre lasteth during breath,  
And makes our name Immortal after death.  
This should be apprehended of the wise,  
Though they seem sordid in the vulgars eyes.  
Their judgements fallible, and comes not near,  
The true insight, but judge as things appear;  
When wisdom always doth of things take heed,  
Not as they seem, but as they be indeed.  
So still the noble strive for to surmount,  
The Pedants censure and the vulgars count.  
For when the brittle state of things they see,  
And wh●● s●●ll ●old 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
They cleave to that, which brings perpetual gain,  
And makes men without ruin long to reign;  
But not of riches, friends, or lands to boast,  
That long a gathering are, and soon are lost:  
Nor great ones loves, for like the Scythian flower,  
Their favours fade, or flourish in an hour.   

Did not Egyptian Ptolemy affect,  
Ewsenides with honour and respect:  
That what he spoke (though he proved but a Daw)  
It was reputed for a lasting law:  
Installed in offices, and finally,  
He waxed most opulent, and proud thereby;  
Rejoicing greatly in his happy fate,  
He boastingly one time said to his mate.  
The King no more can attribute to me,  
Then the sole rule of all his Monarchy:  
Who answered (Sir) be not deceived, think how  
The Fate that gav't, can take't again from you;  
And that would prove (to your eternal strife)  
The saddest day you ere had in your life.  
Short after Ptolemy did him espy,  
Talking with women very wantonly  
Whom he affected; Ptolomia anon,  
Caused all the women poison drink upon:  
Ber●ft Ewsenides of all's estate,  
And lastly hanged him on the Portall gate.  
So by Senerus, Plancina was promoted,  
Till in his too much dignity he doted:  
For checking of his Prince's eldest son,  
〈…〉  
Then Commodus his man Cleander loved,  
Whose love a long time, could not be removed,  
For he was wise, yet avarous and greedy,  
(And often times these prove but little speedy.)  
For when the Soldiers with a warrant came,  
To ask their pay, he did deny the same  
Though sealed with the Signet of the King.  
And when the Soldiers did relate the thing,  
For contradiction of the King's command,  
He hastily was hanged out of hand;  
His goods confiscate, and his noble name,  
Together with his life, did end in shame.   

Constantius to Hortensius had a favour,  
And dearly loved him for his good behaviour:  
As one, on whom relied his chief protection,  
All his affairs were done by his direction.  
Yet when the King received intelligence,  
He was the Auth●r of a foul offence  
Did touch his person; strait way for the deed,  
He was adjudged for to lose his head.  
Nay and a number I could mention here,  
Who in great love and estimation were:  
Yet for such trivial faults were done to death,  
And all their blessings blasted with their breath.  
Great Alexander in his angry mood,  
Slew Carterus, and basely shed his blood.   

Though Cincinnatus was Bittillons friend,  
Yet was Bittilion, Cincinnatus end:  
So in men's favours there's no constancy,  
For changes come i'th' ●●i●●ling of an eye  
And if from ancient Stories we descend,  
To modern acts, and mark the timeless end  
Of Favourites, here I truly might enfold,  
More precedents, than all this book can hold.  
These represent to our meditations,  
Lively illustrate, this world's alterations:  
And that there is no minute, hour, nor day,  
But Woe and Gladness, altar still their stay:  
For which sage Solon's speeches I commend,  
And say, No man is happy, till his end.   

Another grief to make my woe amends,  
Doth torture me, and that is faithless friends:  
Who when they see some poor sinister puff  
Of Fate, assault a friend; Oh! that's enough,  
And causes good they have, then to reject him,  
Leave him to help himself they'll not respect him.  
Some of this stamp I have, but sure not many,  
But of that crew I wish I had not any.  
For in a little trial, I have found,  
Their bounties backward, & their hearts hidebound,  
When friends affliction, puts them to the touch,  
Then little help, or heart is shown from such.  
Yet fare be it, our consanguinity,  
Should with unnatural affinity,  
Be cloyed thus, though some there be that's ill,  
Yet I have others, that prove honest still:  
And for their parts, thus much I'll boldly say,  
For no adversity they'll turn away.  
But for the first, all goodness doth forsake them,  
Whom God amend or 〈…〉  
For as their hearts are hardened to do ill,  
So are their hands to propagate their will;  
Their infamy and names I might have noted,  
And all their malice in the margin quoted:  
But for my present ease, I will forbear,  
And press them in another place then here.  
They are forewarned now, and I protest,  
Though they scape hanging yet they shall be pressed.   

For he indeed ought to be termed a friend,  
whose love and aid last firm unto the end:  
That willingly doth offer with his heart,  
Of a poor penny to his friend a part;  
And willingly supplies what he doth lack,  
Meat for his mouth, and clothing for his back:  
Doth succour him before he asketh aid,  
And's fixed to him when all others fade.  
For this is true (none dare I think deny it)  
To beg a thing of friendship is to buy it:  
And such as in men's miseries forsake them,  
They're monsters made of men, what can you make them.  
For while that happy fortune doth in sue  
Friends grow, then reckon them, you'll find enough.  
There's goodman get-all, and my neighbour jane,  
Must needs be sent for unto gracious Lane:  
She's very honest, and I mean to meet  
Her (as she promised me) in Gracious street:  
But lavished out, and you shall see this rag-taile,  
Where there no Goldfinch is, will prove a Wagtail  
Then goodman get-all, and long jane the jade,  
Will cur●e your poverty like mistress Blade.  
And they are jews that have a friend indeed  
Endued with virtues, though he be in need,  
And do restrain their hands, and then forsake him,  
When as their furtherance might mar or make him.  
For can a man, that truly is possessed,  
Of virtuous ornaments within his breast?  
Can he I say long want, or stand in need,  
Though for a time his hopes be buried?  
No, he'll be still relieved, each noble heart,  
(If friends unwilling prove) will soster Art.  
For as the sun when some obscuring cloud,  
Doth in her bosom all her splendour shroud:  
Though thus I say, he shrowded it from our sight,  
Yet can he not extenuate his light.  
So when a Wise man seems to suffer need,  
And cloudy want doth make his virtues dead  
For a small time; that broke and vanished quite,  
Then doth his splendour shine through's learned light:  
And a true friend will never during breath,  
Forsake his friend for fear of pain or death.  
Nay after death he will lament the end,  
Of such a loyal and a loving friend:  
And in the world there's not, nor cannot be,  
More perfect love (than this) and amity;  
That's, for a friend no perils to forsake,  
May for the furtherance of his matters make.  
This caused Plato often take his way,  
From learned Athens to Sicilia:  
And for no other end but look upon,  
His true and trusty lover Photion.  
For of a wiseman to enjoy the sight,  
The ways (though long) is short, the labour light.  
Tianeus (as some Historians say,  
Parted from Rome, passed through all Asia:  
Sailed over Nilus with undaunted boldness.  
Endured the blasts of Cancasus his coldness:  
Waded in cold through her congealed fountains,  
Suffered the heats of all the Riphean mountains;  
And to no other end. but to confer,  
With his Hyarchus the Philosopher.   

Agesilans' hearing that his friend,  
In remote Countries were i'th' prison penned,  
He set's affairs aside, and went his way,  
Longing to find where his beloved lay:  
Whom when he found, unto the King he went,  
And him saluted with this compliment.  
Redoubted Roy, a friend I have, and he  
Is here captived by your Royalty;  
Of his distressed case, some pity take,  
And if you please, to free him for my sake;  
Or give him honour, dignity, or pelf,  
I take the deed as done unto myself:  
And I assure you Oh most Royal King,  
You cannot chastise, nor do any thing  
Unto my friend, but if I hear't or see,  
I feel the torment too aswell as he.  
Thus did the noble man, great love descry,  
Unto his friend, though in adversity;  
And of all worldly pomp, riches, and pleasure,  
〈…〉  
As a true friend, to whom a man may show,  
All secrets, though none but himself doth know:  
He may recount to him his woes and griefs,  
And trustily rely on his reliefs.  
In brief, he may repose (without all doubt)  
To him his secrets both within and out:  
For he is sure to reap this for his gains,  
And be relieved in his woe and pains:  
Counselled in perils and adversities,  
And be rejoiced with in prosperities.  
But such a friend is rare, and hard to find,  
Wherefore to choose one of an honest mind  
We must be wary, his condition be,  
Godly and good, and joined with honesty.  
Not covetous, unpatient, or unjust,  
Thou mayst then be deceived in the trust:  
Seditious factious, nor that moveth strife,  
Presumptuous, nor faulty in his life.  
For if he be infected with those crimes,  
As many be now in these latter times;  
Reject him, trust him not, nor come not nigh him,  
And if he proffer love to thee deny him;  
For none will buy a horse, or count him trim,  
Unless he see him sound of wind and limb;  
Nor none will bargain for pure silk or cloth,  
But he'll first view, that it be free from Moth,  
Nor wine, until that he can truly tell;  
The colour's pure, and it will relish well.  
So none (that's wise) will proffer all his favour,  
To any if he know not his behaviour:  
But with Augustus always careful be,  
Whom thou admittest in thy amity.  
And when true trial, doth inform that he,  
Is every way complete for honesty:  
Then let thy heart on such a friend take hold,  
Reject him not for silver nor for gold.  
Fot if we will believe the Antique stories,  
Wherein's recorded, many Monarch's glories,  
We shall perceive, how friendship they reputed,  
And how sincerely for true friends they suited.  
As Alexander, Aristotle loved,  
King Cyrus, Chylon that so faithful proved:  
Great Ptolemy, Pithimon much affected,  
And with all reverence he him respected.  
Pyrrus, Satirus, August Simonides,  
Traiane, Plutarch, Scipio, Sophocles:  
Which men for friendship have been much esteemed  
And mirrors of good manners have been deemed:  
The world's true Worthies were they in their days,  
Wherein their service merited true praise.  
But oh! this iron age which we live in,  
True friends are sown thick but they come up thin.  
For in these days 'tis difficult to know,  
Whether a man by's words means well or woe.  
Some Parasite, rejected punks will praise,  
And term her the true Damsel of our days;  
Extol her to the height, and tell her how  
But she, there's none of any worth life's now:  
Insinuating with this base intent,  
To let her hear how he can compliment▪  
Or else with her he gladly would make friends,  
For's own commodity and proper ends:  
But step aside, he'll say she is a scab,  
And to his neighbour call her scume and drab.  
Thus idle heads, that so to sawn devise,  
Do circumvent such with a thousand lies:  
And make their promise very large and fair,  
But their performance is not worth a hair;  
But let the wise take heed. not to relieve them,  
And when they speak most fair, the les●e believe him  
Trust not fair language, many oaths not so,  
But hear them for a while, than let him go.   

Well now Woes tract, and Fickle faith I done,  
Wherein a slender course my Muse hath ron●e;  
Which some may blame me for, when 'tis well scanned,  
As too too young to take this task in hand:  
To which I answer now that even I,  
Though twenty years I hardly have passed by,  
(Yet Iue observed) sometime that forced tears  
Of woe as much as some of forty years.  
Therefore grave Seniors, and you froward blood.  
That grin at goodmen when they wish you good.  
Excuse my weakness, if you be not coy,  
To take instruction from a witless boy:  
Regard a while and let there grow no grief,  
That here I reckon other woes in brief.   

It is a woe when men of good deserts,  
Should vilipended be with mere upstarts:  
Because they want, and men that little know,  
〈…〉  
This is the world, a knave that will not lack,  
A precious outside, for his Asses back,  
Shall be esteemed, though the fool be mute,  
Yet shall he be commended for his suit.   

I grieve again when Pettifogger's be,  
So au'rous no conscience they will see,  
But with long Gowns, they keep their coxcombs warm,  
And sell their breath for many a poor man's harm;  
For bribes extol them to a high degree,  
Which makes them far so well and fat (we see.)  
But let some beggar a petition make,  
And pray him double, that for Christ his sake,  
With a poor penny he'll relieve his want;  
He'll tell him strait, that pennies now are scant,  
When he's more hoarded up then well he knows  
How, or to whom he shall the same dispose.  
They make poor Pedants oft to trudge in rags,  
When they can sit in silk, and fill their bags.  
By vain delays, demurs, and needless clauses,  
They have a trick to lengthen easy causes.  
Their conscience cares not, so they have their share,  
That makes them blessed, and many honest bare.  
It's a condition incident to all,  
That raise their fortunes by another's fall:  
And as i'th' Elephant we may descry,  
(Being guilty to his own deformity)  
Dare not look in the fountains clear and good,  
But looks for filthy channels mixed with mud.  
So of their conscience I may moralise,  
For 'bout their souls such base pollution lies  
They dare not look in them, for fear the elves,  
Grow desperate, perhaps and hang themselves.  
So have I seen a Patient when his wound,  
Hath been deep, wide, and rankled all around,  
Would not permit the Surgeon to see,  
Nor search his wound, so obstinate was he.  
I likewise seen a wasting prodigal,  
Hath run i'th' books so fare (by wasting all,  
That by no means he could abide to hear,  
The sable sum the Merchant made appear;  
When it hath been a proverb old and true,  
Oft reckoning makes long friends with me and you.  
But some near sum their reckonings up with God  
Nor fear the ruin of his wrathful rod,  
But run o'th' score so long, with large receipts,  
They will not hear nor hearken to their debts.  
When we should often sum our sins up all,  
And see whereto amounts the principal:  
Which while I live with care I will respect,  
And then I know, what goodness to expect.  
I'll fear no Audit then, nor hatch despair  
Of lawful payment, when I thus prepare.  
I wondered oft, and blushed for very shame,  
To read of mere Philosphers great aim,  
That had no other guide but only Nature,  
Yet in their manners were so ripe and mature.  
They Amity embraced, and were content,  
With fruits and herbs which mother Tellus sent:  
Not riotous, nor loved they luxury,  
None they oppressed with damned us●●●  
And when a heinous crime was ere committed,  
'Twas deeply punished, which no Fee remitted.  
Now to invent sins we're each day beginning,  
And crimes commit by custom of much sinning;  
Which to portray doth pass my skill and pen,  
Since there's as many vices now as men.  
But oh the blindness of us Christians now,  
That have the Gospel read and preached too;  
Yet suffer them by the dim candle light  
Of nature, to excel us; though the right  
We (fruitless) practice: but their lives so spent  
May to us livers be a precedent.   

The great deceits too of mechanic men,  
Which in their callings they use now and then:  
Would vex a Saint, when th'honest cannot have  
Their work dispatched truly for a knave.  
As Tailors that to make their pating large,  
Pulls of a share, and puts tooth conscience charge;  
Forth' last apparel that I had to make,  
A Tailor (that the task would undertake)  
Came to me with fair language and beseeches,  
And told me if pleased he'd make my breeches:  
I willingly assented bid him take them,  
And told the manner how I'd have him make them:  
These patched up (a Pox light on his nose,  
He'd stole at least three quarters from my hose;  
Which when I found, I did not as some do,  
To fall a scolding, No, he told me how,  
His workmanship did most men's works exceed,  
〈…〉  
So many of them, chiefly of that crew,  
Will not say God be with you, but adieu.  
At every oath they hear turns up their eye,  
Hates in religion true conformity;  
Leave the high street & through the corn make way  
To seek new methods both to prate and pray.  
This rout (for sooth) they are so holy bent,  
In presence they'll not swear but compliment,  
With congees, cringies, nay, they'll keep a stir,  
With truly yes, and verily (good Sir)  
Use ceremonies, make a show to pray,  
When'th world hath not more hypocrites than they:  
And prating thus they can possess an ass,  
Their honesty, all honesties surpass;  
For if a Novice work to such men put,  
Which he would have trimmed in the newest cut;  
He'll tell him he hath metaphysic skill,  
And swear to make them neatly, that he will.  
He's tractable enough, and then the clown,  
Swears he doth make the cheapest in the town;  
And says Sir understand this by your favour  
I ask but very little for my labour;  
Tho others can them larger fees allow,  
Nay stretch and steal a great deal more than due,  
We hate the humour and these sharking elves,  
That neither care for us nor for themselves;  
Which is disgrace to us and to them too,  
This I admire they do not shame to do:  
To use dissembling in an honest trade,  
But 'tis no matter yours shall be well made  
This is the fashion of that graceful youth  
That lies most, yet must make't (in tirely) truth:  
And such a monster well observed of Man,  
Who would not take him for a Pewter-can.  
He scorns to steal, but for the rips and stitches  
(Tho double paid) yet he must pinch the breeches:  
For to dissemble, he ' th' the exact Art,  
Seems holy headed, with a hollow heart;  
This they effect with many verilies,  
And under truth's pretences cloak most lies.  
Now if some Butcher take the same in snuff,  
And face my lines out with a counterbuff.  
Say they are weak, and he doth much dislike it,  
Then throwed aside, or with his purse strings strike it:  
Possess the Readers, that it is a toy,  
For 'twas composed by a stripling boy.  
Yet (Sirrah) contend not now with me to cloak your tricks,  
The proverb is, none but a galled horse kicks.  
I can revenge me, but the conquest's base,  
That is obtained in so vile a case,  
As for the honest workmen of this land,  
I gladly would have them to understand;  
That I with all obsequiousness respect them,  
And (being honest) hearty affect them;  
For though my cloth unto my grief was gone,  
I will not blame all, for the fault of one;  
Nor I divulge it, to eclipse his fame,  
That did the deed, for I'll obscure his name.   

The Tapsters get unconscionable gain,  
And for one penny often pick on twain:  
They cozen strangers with half nick and froth,  
(These sookes the City, and the Country both)  
Their empty halfe-fildings, and cose●ning pots,  
Make poor men pay whole money for their shots;  
And yet the rascal, cheats and cousins still,  
For he's a trick (observe him when you will)  
To fill the jug half full, bringed to the table,  
And pours a glass forth as't was commendable:  
For why, the villain certainly is loath,  
We should perceive the pot half filled with froth.  
Well, let them score, and scourge, and brag, and bawl  
One day will come, will make them pay for all:  
And though they think by smothering to conceal it,  
He sees that once will make their carcase feel it.   

The cosenning Broker is none of the least,  
That most deludes; this fellow in hels-chest  
Lays up his linen, cloth, wool, and lawn,  
Which he for little purchased at a pawn.  
They cousin Novices, and like base Rooks,  
Are happy when the honest's in their books;  
For by extorted rates, they are oppressed,  
And plagued by exacted interest:  
And as they take in others Line or Lawn,  
So to the devil they their souls do pawn:  
For if the law will but their crimes allow,  
They'll freely hazard soul and body too.  
But penalty reforms part of their evils,  
Which makes men live in peace in spite of devils.  
Their grand extortions, and their wounding bills,  
Summed up with fable 〈…〉  
They'll either live in misery to end it,  
Gr leave it to a thriftless heir will spend it.   

But as Mechannickes use this vile deceit,  
And study how to cozen, air, or late;  
Leave nought (for lucre) but it is attempted,  
Yet few professions are from hence exempted:  
For there's no calling under Sun I see,  
But 'tis accrued with some falsity.   

Our Clergy they whose living should be spent,  
Unto the Laymens' pious precedent,  
Are most corrupted with damned Simony,  
And ignorance is placed by bribery.  
This makes Sir john procure a living fat,  
That scarce knows what is latin for his hat,  
And like an Abbey-lubber gets the gains,  
When learnder men life's poor with greater pains.  
Such livings perish with their fat and honey,  
That are assigned only for See-mony:  
But if I were not placed by my Art,  
Let then who will show-money (take my part)  
For if that coin bear sway and good be gone,  
I'll rest me as I am, and near seek none.   

Then the lose living of the Temporal man,  
Both Papist, Protestant and Puritan,  
The Brownist and more I could reckon now,  
(Of upstart Sects) I'm sure near thirty two  
Are in as bad, or worse predicament,  
Riches, and Riots care, kills their content;  
No trust is in them, for their faith I say,  
With their small conscience th●● have chaste away.  
Nought now is practised, but deceit and strife,  
A man dare hardly trust his nearest wife;  
The Father not the son, nor Son the Father,  
Some or they'● trust their Sire, will hang him rather;  
The eldest Son, suits 'gainst his younger brother,  
And neither of them dare trust one another;  
Thus is all truth, good living led astray,  
Affections dead, and faith is fled away:  
For many now will promise swear and lie,  
To do a friend, a favour by and by;  
To flatter him in presence, speak him fair,  
And bid him make good cheer and take no care,  
For they will cure him of that careful case,  
And promise mountains too before his face;  
But turned aside, their special care grows slack,  
And then they'll wish him hanged behind his back.  
Oh faithless wretches in whose hollow breasts,  
No confidence, no truth, no honour rests.  
Alas is all your conscience gone and pity too,  
That makes it so hard to finde a parcel now.  
But if your lives did any faith afford,  
You'd choose to break your neck before your word.  
It is a woe when true gentility,  
Should crouch to upstarts crept from beggary:  
Suit with submission to the fools for grace,  
When such a one invested in a place,  
Is fare more haughty, and more prompt to scorn,  
Then Gentlemen that nobly were borne.  
The Ass will grow so curious, coy, and civil,  
And set on horseback he'll ride lik●●●●●ill  
But let them climb so, yet, beware a fall,  
They slip not back, and break their necks for all:  
For I have known some full as fortunate,  
That have been foiled with the premised fate.  
It is a woe when wise are under rules  
Of golden calves, and shallow brained fools;  
Will be commanded by a rusty slave,  
Fawn, flatter him, some kindness for to have;  
Do good or evil, that he would have done,  
Through wet, and dry, he'll either ride or run.  
But I admire that men of noble parts,  
Endued with many Sciences and Arts,  
So basely thus can crouch, unto a Knave,  
And be officious, though he money have;  
For such observance and obsequiousness,  
Make qualities contemned, loare loved the less.  
Were I the man, that should be tied unto  
One of these mushrooms, or I'll choose to do  
Such offices, or mark each puppy's beck,  
I'll first resolve (i'faith) to break my neck,  
Or to a scoundrel so obsequious be,  
As come to kiss her hand, or bend my knee;  
To honour her, or humour her conceit,  
With vain applauses from an empty pate:  
As many falsely do employ their pen,  
To make a monster, King of mortal men:  
And some lose living Lady to inherit,  
A Paragaves' true praise and proper merit.  
Out on such Asse-made-Epigrammatists,  
That fil● their phrases with such filthy fists▪  
And make some sordid show, makes soul most fair,  
Tells them of Castles (they deserve) i'th' air.  
Indeed if that one knew a nobleman,  
But these are rare as is the coale-blacke Swan)  
That harboured honesty, complete each way,  
And that no lies would either sooth or say;  
What is't? but for him I would undertake,  
Even wade the Sea (if need were) for his sake.  
And truly (Mistress) if we list to scan  
Upon your spouse, he's each way such a man  
As I have mentioned; but what man can tell,  
Where such another Mirror now doth dwell.  
Repleet with honesty, and good, and grace,  
That hath wits image pictured on his face:  
Free from all falsities and horrid crimes,  
Abandoning the baseness of these times:  
The guide of godliness, the Man of Men,  
Whose glories, had I but a golden pen,  
I would record, and sing the same in verse,  
That our successors might his worth rehearse.  
But while I live, my Muse and I will strive,  
To make his honesty his life survive;  
In spite of fortune and that fickle fame,  
No time, nor ruin shall out raze the same:  
And if my lines his true deserts can give,  
In spite of death, for ever he shall live.  
And so fare (Reader) under thy correction,  
Have I digressed to show the true affection,  
And services I own unto these two,  
Which till I die (God willing I will do▪  
Praying their happiness, may never whither,  
But they may love, and long time live together.   

And now my Muse being weary of this woe,  
By ripping ruins up, tossed too and fro;  
And seeing that no practice here is free,  
But in some part it tastes of misery:  
We'll for this time endeavour for to leave,  
Such things as mentioned further would but grieve.  
For had I iron voices, or brass tongues,  
Briareus hands, or large extended lungs,  
Or were the Sea all ink, the earth all quills,  
'Twere difficult to mention all the ills,  
This Microcosm includes: So I intent,  
to close my Phamphlet up, and here to end.   

Without end.  
If I herein have erred, I pray forgive,  
As proper 'tis for man to err as live.   
FINIS.