QVIPS VPON questions, OR, A clowns conceit on occasion offered. bewraying a morrallised metamorphoses of changes vpon interrogatories: showing a little wit, with a great deal of will; or in dead, more desirous to please in it, then to profit by it. clapped up by a clown of the town in this last restraint, having little else to do, to make a little use of his fickle Muse, and careless of carping. By Clunnyco de Curtanio snuff. Like as you list, red on and spare not, clowns judge like clowns, therefore I care not: Or thus, flout me, Ile floure thee; it is my profession, To iest at a leicester, in his transgression. Imprinted at London for W. Ferbrand, and are to be sold at the sign of the crown over against the maiden head near Yelehall. 1600. TO THE RIGHT WORTHY SIR timothy TRVNCHION: Alias BASTINADO, ever my partaking friend: Clunnico de Curtanio sendeth greeting; wishing his welfare, but not his meeting. RIght worthy( but not Right worshipful, whose birth or growth being in the open fields) I salute thy Crab-tree countenance with a low congeey, being stroke down with thy favour: whereas( kind sir) I sometime slept with thee in the fields, wanting a house ore my head; and that you then in kindness, because I was so kind, kindly to accept your kind company, because I was unkindly thrust out of my lodging; at that instant, you assured me to take my part in all dangers: I am now to make use of your valloure, to protect me from insicion, or in deed from dirrision, in which I am now to wade deeply: but if I scape Monday, which is omminus to me, I shall think myself happy: and though friday be for this year Childermas day, yet it is no such day of danger to me; then on Tuesday I rak my journey( to wait on the right honourable good Lord my master whom I serve) to Hackney. Guard me through the Spittle fields, I beseech ye, least some one in ambush endanger my brains with a Brickbat vnsight or unseen. sweet Sir timothy, kind sir timothy, tough sir timothy, use me with kindness, as you shall in the like command me hereafter: whose bark I will grace like Ginger, and carrouse it in Ale, and drink a full cup to thy courtesy, when I am returned to the city again. I shal be less fearful, being among my friends: yet like a Burgomaister walk from Stationers shop to Stationers shop, to see what entertainment my book hath; and who so disgrases it enviously, and not jesting at it gently, at the least baslinado them, that bobbadillo like as they censure, so with him they may receive reward. I confess mine own weakness, and will not justify my harebraind folly: but yet I think all men of my mind, gently to judge, not rashly to revile. Well, when my books are in Paules Church-yarde, if they pass through Paules I care not, for in Fleet-streete I haue friends that will take Lud-gate to defend me. What should I say? My trust is, that either my simplicity of love, or thy cruelty in cudgeling, will guard me from envious tongues, whose teeth are all black with rancour of their spite; and whose tongues are milk white with hart burning heat: God keep me from their biting; I had rather be strooken with a poisoned bullet: that were a death honourable, the other a life miserable. No more but this, say I am out of town and hear not their ribald mocks, and by that means excuse me from them, whose poisoned tongues will else abuse me. Thine ever with true endeavour, Clunnico snuff. VALE. To the Reader health and patience. REaders, Reuilers, or in deed what not? to you I appeal, either for a quick turn over, or a long looked for loving look. I need not twelve for a jury, I shall haue enough to condemn me: but haue a care ye deal justly, least my blood be laid to your charge. Glut with gazing, surfet with seeing, and relish with reading: It may be there are some preservatives, not poison, though harsh in disgesture. Well, go on, use me at your pleasure. Well fare words yet, though they wound, they kill not: a man may live after to requited his adversary, and reuenge his own quarrel. A man shal not be slain in hugger mugger pissing against a wall, but shall rather be warnd to defend; and then his death is less dangerous. I am tedious, my request is; use thy disgression, or thy discretion. He that must of force endure, is willing of force to be patient: but if your patience willingly endure vnforst, I shalbe the more beholding to you: otherwise, let Sir timothy reuenge it,( and so a thousand times making legs, I go still backward, till I am out of sight, hoping then to be out of mind:) I commit you to a bottle of Tower-hill water, with which having cleared your eye-sight, you may red with more regard: for, Legere et non intilegere, neclegere est. God a mercy Cato. Thine own snuff, that takes it in snuff, to be otherwise then well used. encouragement to the book. go on, fear none; go too and doubt not: Some fools make Rules, for the wise to flout at. But wise haue eyes, and wit with all, To judge right at first sight, if the worst fall. On then, right men, will rightly favor. Whose wit, judging it, will not wauor. But fools haue tools sharp in season, To wound and confounded without reason. Quips vpon Questions, OR, A clowns conceit on occasion offered. WHO began to live in the world? Adam was he, that first lived in the world, And eve was next: Who knows not this is true? But at the last he was from all grace hurled, And she for company, the like did rue. Was he the first? I, and was thus disgraced, Better for him, that he had been the last. Quip. Thou art a fool: Why? for reasoning so, But not the first, nor last, by many mo. Why barks that dog? ask him, and he will tell thee why he barks. Dogges can not speak, although they gape so loud: Enough to pose the wisest heads of clerks, To ask this reason, yet it is aloud. Dogges can make noise and babble in the street, But why, the wisest cannot think it meet. If a man run, strait Dogges begin to ball, I, Dogges at Dogges: is not this strange to see? No nothing strange, for Men are worst of all, Theyle brawl, and law, and never will agree: A Dogges wrath quickly ends, it hath no keeping: But Mens wrath lasteth both awake and sleeping. A Dogges skin serves for something when he's dead, A Mans for nothing: yet is Man the better. Nay tis not so, thy skin will stand in stead, Tis thick, tough, strong, and will appease thy debtor: For he that owes thee money, and thee fears, hath vowde to pull thy skin over thy ears. Thou that wilt make comparisons so odious, As twixt a Christian and a barking cur, I hold thy wit to be no whit commodious, But to be scrapt out like a parchment blurre: That loving Dogges, and senseless li●e as they, nought sits thee, but their barking in the way. Quip. One to offend in asking such a question, Th'other defend and choke in his digestion: Well reasond both too fools, and if you mark, Both wanting wit, better be Dogges, and bark. Who sleeps in the grass? A Man it seems. No, no, thou art not right, It is a Beast, they still sleep in the grass: perchance he wants a bed, and wakes all night, Making the day his night: yet heese an ass. Say worms or Cankers may offend him there, Indeed thats true, I did not think of that: Why then an ass a Beast is: he is here, T'approve my speeches true, that fables not. If he b'a beast, I know a number more, thyself was one before thou hadst a bed. Take m'as I am, not as I was before: For now I haue a pillow to my head. Hereafter, he may say so that here lies Till then, as I was, let him be a beast. cans, lets go drink, and bid this beast arise: beasts in beasts company do drink and feast. Quip. This man's a worse beast, having worldly pelf, That thinks all beasts, and would be none himself: Yet he's a more beast, that poor creatures scorns, Who having a beasts hart, God sand him haue beasts horns. Who's dead? A man is dead, that long before ere this, died twenty times, yet lived to die this day. Tis strange it should be so; yet so it is: But I will tell thee how, and if I may. Yes prithee do, for why, I long to know How men can die, yet live and see to go. He by his trade dies cloth: he is a Dier. A Iest, no otherwise I understand, And I can witness thee to be no her, For he dies all things that doth come to hand. But he that many times did die in iest, Now once for all, vouchsafes to die in earnest. Quip. To fools well met, t'resolue each others mind, Of that in which the wisest eye is blind. I quip them thus: He that before death dies, Shall with the blind man see, yet want his eyes. Two fools well met. Two fools well met, each pointed at the other, Laughing a good to see each others face: The one made vow to call his fellow brother, And to aclowledge him in every place. To lend him coin, though he had none himself: To teach him wit, when he himself had none. The other sot, like to this former elf, T'requite his kindness, vowed like love alone, When none had for to do the other good: Yet love will creep lightly wher't can not go. Seest thou this bide( quoth he) in yonder wood? I give thee her to roast. O wilt thou so? That meate I love, and I will not deny her. Take her( quoth he) and if thou canst come by her. Were not these fools, to promise what they had not? Where such want wit, t'were better their tongs gad not. Quip. True hast thou said, the first was nothing wise, No more the second was, let it fuffise: One that gives gold, the next that gives the bide, Three fools well met, for thou shalt be the third. Who wins most? He that doth little loose, hath little won: He that doth nothing loose when game is donne, He tis wins most say I: for heer's the jest, He wins content, because he lost the least. again, he that much ventures, much is like to lose: But he that nought ventures, nothing from him goes. So that he wins most evermore say I, That ventures least, and lives contentedly. Quip. If it be so, what can he loose or win That nothing hath? Why, nothing's lost therein. Thou hadst no wit at all, then by my will, A fool being ever, so continue still. Whats unfit. me thinks it is unfit that women scoulde. True, so me thinks; and yet they will not leave. me thinks tis strange that Summer should be could, And yet the season often doth deceive. How unfit things are, seeming to agree, That every man in reason ought to see. me thinks tis strange, water should make fire burn, When water quencheth fire evermore: In the Smiths forge tis so, whose hand doth turn, Both heat and could, to furnish out his store. How can this fit, when things vnsitting bee? How ere they fit, they fit yet and agree. The bellows blows out fire, yet makes fire blaze. Blow in hot Pottage and they willbe could. When thy nails frieze, blow with thy breath apace And they will heat again, thou mayst be bold. Things seeming unfit, fitteth to be done: God gives, man uses, since the world begun. Quip A wonder how, me thinks it is unfit, To see an Iron Gridiron turn a Spit. No, no, me thinks that it is more unfit, To see a blockhead ass haue any wit. Where is Ginking gone? Ginking jumped, and Ginking leaped, Ginking thumped, and Ginking reaped. sow he did not, as tis known: Why? then a reaped none of his own? Then Ginking weeps, and Ginking mourns, That what he sweeps, he back returns. Ginking learn to use thy own, And do not barn what others mowne: For if thou do, learn this of me, Ginking must a beggar bee. But tis not strange, let it suffice, Ginking near was otherwise. When every bide her feather takes, Then Ginkings hart with sorrow aches Now tell me where is Ginking gone? To give to every man his own. poor Ginking thou hast made wise hand, To sow and reap an others land: Trust to thyself, Ginking be wise, Men love themselves, affection dies. Quip. Though Ginking be a fool, learn this of me, The world says there be more then he: Under this Ginking perceive then, That most do toil for other men: Are not all Ginkings then I pray the judge, When one man doth become an others drudge. Who sleeps there? A Man sleeps here, who when he doth awake, Hath a greeud conscience, and his hart doth ache: Sorrow is his delight; God give him ioy, That love exileth to receive annoy. sighs are his comfort, and he folds his arms, Strooking his beard, desiring still to die, Still calls on death, to end his worldly harms, Defying life, as cause of misery. He dreams on death: how sweet his torment is, How lovingly death kills his worldly hart: And since sweet death thou canst but work my miss, Come death I charge thee, end this earthly smart. At last one waking him, and he starts sore, Aloude he cries, out death I do deny thee: The men by, that beleeud he would before, Choose rather death, then death so soon to fly thee. Now there opinions are, that all men dream, And in their sleep desire, what when they wake, They more detest; then what they do esteem, Tis to no purpose any count to make. Come( says this sleepy man) lets drink some wine, dreams are but fancies, death is far enough: What in my sleep I wished, I see this time, Is far from purchase, and God speed the plough. Quip fancies in sleep, are pleasing when we wake, Such is the ioy in folly, that we take: But time will come, when some so sound shall sleep, As neither dreams nor fancies rule can keep: So shall this man, whose dreams such pleasure take, One day he'l soundly sleep and never wake. Who's the fool now? Ile tell thee who: mark well, for this is true, It was my friend, that I must tell thee off: And when thou hearst me, say Who's the fool now? For such a iest is worthy of a scoff. Many seem wise as long they had used schools, When in the end God knows most seem but fools My friend was pleasant, drinking all the day, With huftie tuftie, let us all be merry, Forgetting how the time did pass away: Such is mans folly, making himself wearrie. But now attend, and I will tell the rest, How my friends folly he could scarce digest. When he was beaten with a Brewers washing bittle, Rr had in dead almost quiter burst his thumb, Or had beheld the divell, where he did tipple, Or( the old word) was drunk, mark what did come. Thus it fell out, as he himself did say, He to the curtain went, to see a Play. His friends went with him, and as wise as he, Yet wiser as it chaunst, for he went reeling: A tottering world it was God wot to see My friend disguisde thus without sense or feeling. Here a fell down, and up again God wot, Backward and forward staggring like a sot. A soberer man then he, or girl or boy, I know hot who; for he himself not knows, Begins to look into this goodly toy, And to teach him wit, this deed at pleasure shows. Into his pocket dives, and being alone, purse, hat, cloak, from my drunken friend was gone. But here's the Iest: my friend being rifled so, strait had the wit to miss what he had lost, When all his wit kept not what he left so, But he was welcome to his tardy cost. Then up he starts, his loss so much did fear him, He looks, but all in vain, no one was near him. He sighed, he grond, and said he was vndunne, And with a heavy hart through drink yet greeud, Mazde with his loss, he doth begin to run, Home through the street as one from death repreeud▪ I am spoiled and robd says he, my clothes are gone. But all in vain was all his too late mone. His friends and I enquired of his loss, He told the manner how he drunk and slept: We rather smilde, then mourned at his cross, Asking if he did want yeeres this t'haue kept? No, I was old enough( quoth he) to do it, But was not wise enough to look unto it. He that first drinks away his mother wit, And after ●●nders in the open air, To lo●●●●●●out with wisdom is unfit: For w●●●●●●●cast is in a drunkards care. W●●●●ce too late I rue my unkind loss, My ●●t's again restored by my cross. My ●●●●●es were with me when to drink I went, My ●riendes did leave me when I slept alone: My friends were with me when I money spent, But when this ill chance chanced, then were gone, Is there such trust in friends, then here I vow, They near shall ask again, Who's the fool now? Quip. A goodly Iest to iest at, Is it not? That one should loose what he so hardly got: Patience a plaster that may cure this sore, But patience will ne'er help him to it more. He plays the fool. True it is, he plays the fool indeed; But in the Play he plays it as he must: Yet when the Play is ended, then his speed Is better then the pleasure of thy trust: For he shall haue what thou that time hast spent, Playing the fool, thy folly to content. He plays the Wise man then, and not the fool, That wisely for his living so can do: So doth the Carpenter with his sharp tool, Cut his own finger oft, yet lives by't to. He is a fool to cut his limb say I, But not so, with his tool to live thereby, Then tis his case that makes him seem a fool, It is in dead, for it is antic made: Thus men wax wise when they do go to school, Then for our sport we thank the tailors trade, And him within the case the most of all, That seems wise foolish, who a fool you call. meet him abroad, and he is wise, me thinks, In courtesy, behaviour, talk, or going, Of garment: eke when he with any drinks, Then are men wise, their money so bestowing. To learn by him one time, a fool to seem, And twenty times for once, in good esteem. Say I should meet him, and not know his name, What should I say, Yonder goes such a fool? I, fools will say so; but the wise will aim At better thoughts: whom reason still doth rule. Yonder's the merry man, it joys me much, To see him civil, when his part is such. Quip. A merry man is often thought vnwise, Yet mirth in modesty's loud of the wise: Then say, should he for a fool go? When he's a more fool that accounts him so. Many men descant on an others wit, When they haue less themselves in doing it. A Poet Pawnde. What did he pawn? his clothes or else his wit? Somewhat he pawnde, his need to satisfy, But what it was, in troth I do not know it: Or whether he pawned or no, I can not justify. Then how canst thou say thus, when tis not so, hark to the reason I aledge or show. Writing these Embles on an idle time, Within my window where my house doth stand: Looking about, and studying for a rhyme, I might behold a Poet weakly man'd. His son I guess it was a little Boy, But what long circumstance requires this toy. Into a Brokers house they went together, Both empty handed I might see right well: Because I knew them both, I noted either. Yet will not name this man of whom I tell. Empty they went in, and when they came out, A bundle they brought forth, well wrapped about. I asked the question, and it was a gadge, Newly redeemd: but what it was I know not He pawned, but what a pawned I am not of age To tell to any, and the pawn I saw not: What ere it was, I hold it far unfit, To say the Poets bundle was his wit. Quip. No matter what it was, the dead is past, He was not first that pawned, nor is the last: Had it been his wives wit, thus had you disgraced her, But a faire pawn did never shane his master. What wished he? I know not what he wished, but I am sure, He had his wish, his hartes wish to ptocure, And yet he went without his hartes desire. How can this be but thou must be a liar? What is a wish? Why wind, wanting his will. To this I yield, and yet am simplo still. He wanted what he would, wishing to haue His honesty, being lost playing the knave: And wishing without purchase, still I find, His wish was nothing, but an idle wind. This wish he had, it was his own before. Nay there you err, therefore say so no more: His wish being wind, because it was in vain, His wind being spent, never returned again. Therefore leave chat, agree with me in this, His wind was waste, he never had his wish. Nay though with wishes he was an ingroser, Yet in the end he did give ore a loser: Because he spent his wind on such a toy, He lost more by it then he did enjoy. Quip. True, but Ile haue my wish presently. He that wished so, I do wish heartily, That as he was a fool to want his will, So he may nothing loase, but be so still. Wht's near her? Her smock is near her. I thats true indeed, Of outward things, it is her nearest weed. Nothing is nearer( I think) then her smock. Yes, her sknn's nearer, that it is by cock. That is a weed to, to keep out the weather. Then nothing's nearer, we conclude together. Quip. Yes one thing's nearer then her smock or skin, Of which I speak not, but will keep it in. Why looks he angry? One asks me why that man doth look so sad? As if fell anger had possessed his hart. Content thyself, What thinkest thou I am mad, To censure by the look, and tell the smart? No, wiser men then I may censure wrong: For what he ails, cannot be told with tongue. But this I know, he curses and he swears, He vexeth inwardly, but none knows why: He grates his teeth, and round about he stars, Muttering to himself as men pass by. Some fear him, and do shun him as they pass, Others do hold him for a harebraind ass. Some sorts of men there are as nought can please, Others there be which any thing will like: To the first doth belong but little ease, The last will sooner take a blow then strike. Is not this strange? common men are so curious, Like which of these is he, that seems so furious? Like to the first, whom nothing will content, He storms at all, spurning the harmless earth: foams like a Bore, and never is content, Carping at quiet, hating honest mirth. So end thy question: there is no one lives, That tells his grief, or ease unto it gives. Quip. As he is careless of all people still, So men are fearles of his froward will: But for to quiet this distempered elf, The next way is, to let him please himself. Or as the proverb is, no man to mind him, But turn the buckle of his Belt behind him. Whats a clock? One asks me whats a clock, thinking indeed, That I am jack of clock-house, and can tell: He is a jack to think so, or to feed His humour, as the clapper doth the bell. I haue a Hand, but not a Dioll, I, Right it poyntes not, and tongues may lye. Then by the shadow mark, or by the day, And tell me then for certain whats a clock: But that is far more then a number may, For all haue shadows, but no one that strocke. How should they know the striking of a bell, When those that nothing know, can nothing tell. go to the Church and see, then tell me more. How should that be, that bidding seemeth odd? When he doth hardly enter in the door, According to his duty, to serve God. Nay like enough, therefore be ruled by me, Wilt thou know whats a clock? then go and see. Quip. Worthy of commendations is this elf, Who sent to see, bids him go look himself: How vain it is then, to ask what's a clock? Of one who for an answer, lends a mock. Are you there with your bears? One takes my pen and writes this question, As if I were a Beare-ward by profession. O no, such jests are ill in their disiestion: God knows, and all the world knows his transgression, Were I a Beare-ward, I would learn to bite, Because he set this Emblem in my sight. Or knowing I am faulty in such crime, Hath given this bitter pill for me to taste, To give me warning 'gainst some other time, That I should mend my doings in all hast: Tis taken so, and therefore Ile grow wise, friends warn like friends, and let it ●o suffice. Or telling me of bears, bewrays his anger, For dreaming of them, tells of wrath indeed: Tis so, and I will think of it no longer, When I next see him, Ile make his brains bleed: And with like question nearly in affiance, Tell him but this, that I haue seen the Lions. Quip. Tis good to do so much, for hark thee brother, One doubtful qustion doth expel an other: At that he'l muse more then thou didst but now, For Lions and bears frights wit from both of you. Who is happy? Who is happy? mary he that is rich. O y'are disceiued, it is nothing so: You would be that way blessed. Sir y'are a witch, You know my thoughts I, and I know thy woe. When thou art known rich, thou mayst well be bold Thy friends will cut thy throat to haue thy gold. Then who is happy, let me hear of you, The strong man, mean you him? No he is weak, Strength is a blessing I can well allow. But not a happy blessing? Good sir speak. He that hath strong arms, legs, and limbs, Is like a bubble that in water swims. What, is the wise man happy? I, some ways. It should be so, for which men practise schools: Yet it fall●● out with many now a dayes, That over much wit makes a number fools. Then fare well wit, because Ile not abuse thee. Come not at me, I know not how to use thee. He that lives well, and dies well, I say still. But who is that? Nay when I know Ile tell thee: Then I am not the near, I want my will. True, and thou must but hearken what I will thee. No man shall answer one an others part, But each man for himself shall: O my hart! Quip. What, startst thou back for fear?& dost thou quake I see thou knowst no answer what to make. Who comes yonder? Ile tell thee who: but prithee mark him well. See how he stars about, as one despairing, And of his sorrows I will something tell. Sometimes he strikes his breast as one ill faring. Wan, woe, and pale he looks, as wanting life. Greeud like a kind man, that entombs his wise. Hath he loss at sea by ship? O no not so. Or on the land by fire? Tis not so well. Well do you term it, to attain such woe? No trust me, I do think nought is more ill. That loss God sends, and who so leaves it, As job did, shall with job, ten fold receive it. What ails he then? Now list and I will show him. This man despairs, is mad, and vexed with grief, Yet as thou thinkest not so unfortunate, beshrow him: Not robd by sea or land, by fire or thief, But yonder comes the ass that nere was wise, For he has lost his money all at dice. Quip At dice in dead? a fool of fools say I, That lives with pain, and doth in pleasure die: This be his guilt, mocked still of every neighbour. For doing that which quitteth not his labour. What haue I lost? I cannot tell for certain, yet Ile guess. You had a thousand things that I haue seen. Now I mean that of late I did possess. Of late I know not, what was lately seen? You had a faire Wife? nay I haue her still, And all such things I use at wit and will. But I haue lost that nere shal be recald, No gold can regain what I careless lost. What is it money? No, or is forestald Your office? over bought by Knights o'th post? But these are nothing to my loss of late, By'll lucke I haue lost one ear off from my pate. Quip. God give you ioy good sir, of such a cross, It seems by you it was a willing loss: If it be so, and you ioy in your crosses, God sand such fools ever to haue such losses. How shall I find it? Ile tell thee how to find that ear again. Children in shooting when they loose an Arrow In high grown or deep grass, omit no pain, But with their bows end rak and search it narrow. And when they bootless seek and find it not, After some sorrow, this amendes is got. An other shaft they shoot that direct way, As whilom they the first shot, and be plain, twenty to one, as I haue heard some say, The former Arrow may be found again. So as you lost the first ear, gentle brother, Venture the second ear, to find the tother. Nay soft and faire, to do that I am loth, So I may happen for to lose them both. Quip. Better lost then found, who will beweepe them, fools having ears, yet do want wit to keep them. Who dyes soonest? Not he that's sickest, for the sick may live. And outlive him that now is perfect well. Nor he that's wounded when the Surgins give Potions or plasters, that can grief expel: Who then dies soonest? Faith I cannot tell, For no man hath a charter of his life: Simplest of all men, hark and note me well, The wife or husband, he or else his wise, All is uncertain, oft hath this been told, As soon the young sheep death, as the old: But no one die, so soon vpon the earth; As such who do possess the shortest bre●th: Quip. indeed thats so, but if thou wilt prevail, When thy friend's dying, blow wind in his tail▪ Yet to no reason's this, that doth in ●eason lurk, Because that then thou goest wrong way to work▪ Wrong way or right, twill near out of my mind, As much prevails before, as blowde behind. What wished shee? A widow wished: hark and Ile tell thee what. choice of a thousand things. What things I pray? Content thyself man, and imagine that, think what she wished, and hit it if thou may. What, was she rich? I so a number say, Tis hard to jump with thee in what she would, For women often wish not what they should. She wished a Husband that was rich like her. That wealth to wealth were joined: was it not so? Although in hart she could hit nothing near. Then she wished wit, to govern it? Fie no. Then she wished health, t'enjoy it? Yet ye go. far from her meaning: yet you came so near, As you will hit it by and by I fear. Othen I haue it: Women covet honner. Honour is glorious; yet you want her mind. Now fortune, yield her wish to light vpon her, For I am senseless in her wish, and blind. I can not think her thought, how shee's inclined: So wild are women in their thoughts and deeds, As no wise man knows where their humour breeds. Now I will answer thee what wish she craude, Not gold( she had enough) nor wit to keep it: For when some thought she spent, she nearly ●aude, And covetously together would she sweepest: Let them alone, too well can women heapest. All wishes set a apart her eye being pleased, Her wish is granted, and her hart is eazde. Quip. Her eye to please is endless, not to do, Whose scope, no power can compass thereunto: Well, let her wish, but nere relicude thereby, Whose bellies sooner pleased, then is her eye. Who covets glory? He that is nobly born, covets no glory, Because his birth affords his mindes desire. The beggar hangs the head, and still is sorry, Gaping with open mouth, and would aspire: But oft it proves, he that builds on supposes, As the saying is: all covets, and all loses. Who swims in silks? The beggar, who is proud. The beggar too. And who is lofty minded? Why still the beggar, he would be aloud To be in glory: but his thoughts are blinded. Yes, he will haue his will, or all to wrack, heel starve his belly, but hele cloth his back. Who's this that comes? He is a Gentleman. No, y'are deceived, a gentle beggar rather. So brave he is, that none discern him can: Yet this is he that once denied his father. So proud he is, that seeking glory still, knows not his friends, no nor himself scarce will. Quip. Well, let him still be subject to this curse, A proud hart ietteth with a beggars purse: No Gentleman, although he iett so brave, But rather be he tearmde a gentle knave. What is shee? What is that Woman: Sir she was a maid. O, but she is not now. How happens this? Yes sir she is, but therewith ill apayde: maid is she, no maid by one deed amiss. In deed, one deed which lately for she did, From maids estate I must her needs forbid. Is she a Wife? neither, not so blessed, That honour last leap year escaped her too. What, is sh'a widow, late by death distressed? O no, nor that way wrongde: I know not how, Onely thus much I say, and talk no more, Nor maid, wife, widow, but a common whore. Quip O beauty thou art wronged thus every hour, Fro which this loues, thou'lt vanish like a flower: And since tis so, this then became her thrall, Correction serves to quittance her for all. What ails that damsel? What, is she sick? no she is lusty and well: Yet some thing is amiss, or I am mad. True sir, but what's amiss thats strange to tell. None but herself knows why she is so sad. Yet men may guess. True sir,& when th'haue done, They'll be as wise as when they first begun. A Iewrie, howe! for we will know her grief, twelve women comes and calls her state in question. What is she pinde says one, wanting relief? Her fat flesh tells her to haue good digestion. For, less I be deceiude, this maid is shee, That eats more at one meal, then some at three. What, is she sullen? No she laughs and smiles, And that bewrays her mind is onely quiet. What, has she wrencht her foot with leaping stiles? No, she was nere so nimbly fraught with riot. Yet let me tell you, she hath stepped amiss: Then gently judge her sorrow what it is. Quip. And is it so in deed: this be her quip, give her her due, and let her feel the whip. What is light? feathers are light who lightly in the wind, wanders with nimble flying in the air. cork to is light, whose lightness many find To be so light as it hath no compare: But many things are light, yet none so much As Women kind, who haue a slipprie touch. What can be lighter then a sillie maid, That is vnlightned of her maidenhead? Was it so heavy? she was ouer-waide. It was so heavy, yet its lightly fled. It lightly went: but wishes are in vain, Nor light nor heavy will it come again. Is a good name light, that its lightly lost? It should seem so for wear it otherwise, The burden would be carried with less cost: But lightness is not thought on in our eyes. Our clothes we wear are light, because we use them But heavy in the Winter, to refuse them. Imagine then all seasons are alike, And that there is no Winter, but all Summer: When for our ease we walk this stroke we strike. You maid too heavy a burden hath undone her: And therefore in hot Summer, to shun heat, She goes so light of body, loth to sweat. That woman having names enough to use, Will not be laden with too great a weight: A good name is intolerable: choose A lighter carriage, and an easiar freight, Rather then be a heavy honest woman more, For lightness, be esteemed an arrant whore. And let not men be heavy laden th●●● But to be lightly clothde: sie, tis too 〈◇〉 To load their backs with burdens dangerous, To be orecloyde: what, do you think men mad? No, rather let all men refuse no pain. Till they haue eazde their burdens in Long-lane. Quip. I'low thy iudgement, for they that do so, I must confess in Summer lightly go, But in the Winter of their time to come, That lightness will turn heavy unto some: This be their quip, wherewith none can dispense, Lightly live, but die with heavy conscience. where's Tarleton? One asks where Tarleton is, yet knows he's dead. fool, says the other, who can tell thee that? ass, quoth the first, I can: bow down thy head, Lend but an ear and listen. Sir, to what? Ist come to Sir, quoth he, even how twas fool, One ass can with an other bear much rule. Well, ass or fool, the second says, go on: I say he's dead. I true, and so say I. And yet a lives too, though some say he's gon. Till you approve this, I must say you lye. lye, quoth the first, the stab with that must go, I do not say you lye, I say I must say so. A Collier after Tarletons death did talk, And said, he heard some say that he was dead: A simplo man that knew not Cheese from Chaulke, Yet simplo men must toil in wise mens stead. unto the Play he came to see him there, When all was done, still was he not the nere. He calls a loud, and said that he would see him, For well he knew it was but rumourd prate: The people laughed a good, and wished to free him, Because of further mirth from this debate. The Collier said, the squint of Tarletons eye, Was a sure mark that he should never die. Within the Play past, was his picture used, Which when the fellow saw, he laughed aloud: A ha, quoth he, I knew we were abused, That he was kept away from all this crowd. The simplo man was quiet, and departed, And having seen his Picture, was glad hearted. So with thyself, it seems, that knows he's dead, And yet desires to know where Tarleton is: I say he lives, yet you say no: your head Will never think, ne yet beleeue half this. Go too, he's gone, and in his bodies stead, His name will live long after he is dead. So, with the Collier I must think he lives, When but his name remaines in memory: What credite can I yield to such repreeues, When at the most, tis but uncertainty. Now am I a fool in dead? so let that pass, Before I go, Ile quit thee with the ass. What, is his name Letters, and no more? Can Letters live, that breath not, nor haue life? No, no, his famed lives, who hath laid in store His acts and deeds: therefore conclude this strife, Else all that hear us, strive and breed this mutenie, Will bid us keep the collier fool for company. Well, to resolve this question, yet say I, That Tarletons name is hear, though he be gone. You say not, Whors his Body that did die? But, Where is Tarleton? Whers his name alone? His Name is here: tis true, I credite it. His Body's dead, few clowns will haue his wit. Quip. Though he be dead, despair not of thy wisdom, What wit thou hast not yet, in time may come: But thus we see, two Dogges strive for a bone, 'bout him that had wit, till themselves haue none. What is desire? desire, is but a motion of the mind That grows by folly, not increase of wit: If men were wise, they would not wish to find That, which unto their states is far unfit. The King is proud, and he would be a God, To shun the toil of earth: thats his abode. The poor man would be mighty: more fool he, For if it be a sorrow to be poor, To be molested night and day with glory, Would be a trouble and a terror more: So that desire, is but an inward motion, bread with disgrace, and nursed by lewd devotion. Quip. Desire no more then thou canst tolerate, Least like the ass, thy burden harm thy state: To desire much, and nothing to enjoy, e Is like an old mans beard, on a young boy: Ill seeming to the eye: then shun desire, Least thou best thought a fool, so to aspire. Who dyed first? Not he that first was born, I am sure of that. Who then I prithee? Faith I do not know. hearken to me, and I will tell thee what. What is it thou wilt tell me? prithee show Who first did die, good do, or else I haue wrong. Who ere dide first, I fear thou liu'st too long. cain slay his brother Abel, I do reed. The worse lucke his to die by his own brother. The better cause hast thou to take more heed: For thou art one, and I must be the other. What wilt thou kill me? Say I should do so, Twere but a friendly part, to kill my foe. How haue I wronged thee, let me know but this? How canst thou choose but wrong me with much spite, When all the world knows thou hast done amiss? For to thyself yet thou didst never right. Then I will right my own wrongs, foolish elf, When as I list, Ile quickly kill myself. Quip. True, is it so in deed, the more's my sorrow, Men can not say that they will live to morrow: But die they will to morrow or to night, Such hast some make to hell, the more the spite. Quip Then since tis so, and that you two agree, use your own willes, and hang both for me. Abel was able to endure that banging, And you are able both to endure a hanging. Whers the devill? One asks me where the devill is? Much I muse What makes this mad man so his name to use. It may be he would bargain with the spirit, For much he hath that some would feign inherit. If it be so, much good may do his hart, How ere he deals, thers few will take his part. I say he is, or else should be, in hell, True, he should be there: but I can tell he's now not there, he's otherways employed, He keeps his Christmas other where abroad. It may so be, I know not certainly: None knows, but you may be his secretary. If on the earth he be, Ile tell you where, In an usurers bag of money: Is he there? For money ill got, brings the devill and all. A number say so, though their skill be small. Yet you are wide, and know not his abode, In the city he is, some saw him where he road. he's got into a box of Womens paint, And there he lies, bathing himself so quaint, locked up as close as may be in her chest, All this is right, beleeue it they that list. Where pride is, thers the divell: all this is vain. Yet still you miss, then reckon once again. I am right glad I miss, and came not near him, It is my whole desire still to fear him: he's one that with whom I haue had no dealing, And therefore of his kindness haue small feeling O fool, I tell thee where he is: shun evil, For where God is not, there is sure the devill. Where is not God? I pray thee tell me that? Not here I fear, our mindes agree so pat, That meddling with the devill, who near was kind, It shows the follies of a wavering mind Beshrew thy hart, first that didst ask this doubt, For one bad question, drives two good thoughts out. Quip. fools talk like fools, while wise men sit Wisely to descant on an others wit: What need they meadle where th'haue nought to do, This shows their folly, and their weakness to: But now I see all reason set a part, The devill's not in hell, but in his hart. Why is he drunk? I know not why, unless I knew his mind, But many besides him is thus inclined. perchance for company he is disguisde, Or tis his nature to be thus suffisde: Or tasting good beer never found before, Against his will is drunk of his own score. It may be his weak brain can bear no drink: I am not of your mind, so well to think. Then knowing his own weakness, he should shun, Thus to be loathsome, as he has begun. How ere it is I know not, but these people, Are all brainde with a Brewers washing beetle. Quip. Company causeth Cuckoldes, most men say, But shall this proverb bear it so away. I, it must needs: for it is held least ieobardie, When men go to the devill for company. He eats much. True, he eats much, but drinketh ten times more. How know you that? I know it by his score. What, doth he pay his score? yes sure he doth. Then tis no matter, let him feed his tooth. But you say that he drinks more then he eats. I, so they say: the Brewer the more gets. Tush let us peace, in vain we spend our wind, Gluttons will feed,& drunkards drink them blind. Quip He that eats much and drinketh out of measure, May eat his clothes off, and drink hence his treasure Yet in the end count but what he doth get, drink till he dies, he drinks not out of debt. He sleeps too much. Those that sleep much, eat little, so I say. And some poor souls that haue no coin to buy meat feign themselves sick, and go to bed strait way, As though their queasy stomachs did deny meate. That when the Doctor comes to give a Potion, They drink the cup and all, with true devotion. Then says the Doctor, he will strait ways die, Because a greedy stomach tells no less: The hungry patient he is fed thereby, That being well, could never haue redress. If it be so, something my muse can tell, Better for poor be sick twice, then once well. Quip. He that for greediness, desireth ill, And joys in sickness to get succour still: Better say I, such hollow hartes be dead, Then live to rob the living of their bread. Do it, and dally not. If thou wilt do it, let it strait be done, In lingering is ill prospring many say: go through with that, which thou hast well begun, I, to do so is good, if a man may. With that is well begun, do it, but dally not, But that is ill begun, dally, but do it not You rhyme well in your reason, do ye not? If it be ill, Ile give it ore betime, Ile dally in my deed, and know it not, Because you mock me for one simplo rhyme. I see by this, in great things you will blame me, When in so slight a matter, you would shane me. I say again, do it and dally not. I say again, my fear bids me keep back. fool, wilt thou fear? who so doth, he prevails not. What more disgrace, then when a man grows slack. Should Souldiers when the foes are ten to one, fear and keep back, and let the fight alone. Shall children finding pings by chance in bread, give ore to eat for fear, so starve and die? Shall men in doubtful Law, keep back and dread, And let their actions slip, and lose thereby? I am commanded to serve God, and shall I not? Yes but I will, Ile do't and dally not. Quip. But men will say, theyle strange things do. When they will let't alone, and dally to. I owe a thousand pound vpon a band, At such a day tis due I understand: I should in conscience pay, and shall I not? Then pay it for me: do't and dally not. He washes clean. Thou art disceaude to say, he washes clean, I rather think that boy, he washes soul. weak is thy wit, thou knowst not what I mean, And thou dost rub like a false byast bowl. Then we must law I see, and fall at square, Men that agree not, ever be at jar. Why doth he wash? tell me but that I prithee? Because his face is foul, to wash it clean: He washes foul, then his foul face is dirty, And he will wash it faire: ist so ye mean? Well then, the more he washes, more is he Cleaner, then fouler, as each eye may see. again I tell thee that thou dost mistake. My wit is clean gone, for to answer thee, And know no way an answer for to make, When right or wrong thou houldst for verity. Shall we be friends still, be it foul or clean? I, to that end I speak, and so I mean. Quip. Well fare men still that such a quarrel ends, Who falling out with talk, will talk them friends: The foul, themselves haue washed over again, All the Tems water cannot wash so clean. What smells sweet? musk, civet, Amber, and a thousand things Long to rehearse, from which sweet odours springs: Flowers are sweet, and sweetest in my mind: For they are sweet by nature and by kind. Faire Women that in boosoms nosegayes wear, kiss but their lips, and say what sent they bear. Their breath perfume, their flowers sweetly smell, Both joined to her lips, do exceeding well. Quip. Tis sweet of all sweets: yet I needs must chide thee, Thou smelst so sweet, thers no man can abide thee. Why weares he Bootes? Why wears he Bootes and rides not, prithee tell? Three dayes before they ride, some men do so: But he hath neither Horse nor credite. Thats not well, And therefore will not ride: yet thus doth go. It is to mock the world, as many do: Many thinks they haue Horse and credite to. It may be that his shoes are put to mending, And wears his Bootes vpon necessity: So for to ride, he hath no such intending, But stays the cobblers leisure willingly. Nor so, nor so, this man so strangely goes, Wearing his Bootes, because he hath no Hose. Quip. Tis likely so, and now I see his drift, I guess by him, thou hast made such a shift. How ere it is, yet if the worst do fall, Better a bad shift made, then none at all. Why sweats he so? He puffs, and blows, and sweats, What has he done? What makes this young man hastily to run? It may be he hath stolen, and got some boot, And for to scape makes hast, I see in to't. Tis surely so, and time to run I ween, When as the gallows threatens him such teen●. No, y'are deceiude, he's true, and ever was, He scorns to steal from any in this place. Then in an other place it seems he will? Be not so jealous, you mistake me still. How is it then he sweats so, let me hear? O, he ran for some wager, I do fear. Neither infayth, and yet he made great hast, Such hast as few can make, but with much waste: He leaped three ditches, one hedge, and a wall, To win his will, whereby to scape them all: For shall I tell thee, he hath run his best, To save his body now from an arrest. Quip. Twas time to run indeed, and to use cunning, Else had he been laid up, for ever running: Yet sweats he not I telt thee, therefore peace, This honest man melts but his knaves grease. Why Iettes she so? Gillian doth Iett and brave it with the best, Although a beggar born, and oft distressed: Yet now a Seruant, and in some account, One poor yeeres wages, makes her thus surmount. A gallant Neckenger her neck to grace, No matter for her gown, or other place: Good foot, good leg: these two are chiefly fine. And she that gives her wages must decline. O Gillian, yet remember, Iett not so, maids must be under Mistresses, you know. Must you be fine? think but how things are deere. above fouer Nobles wages in one year. Quip. True, thats all one: do Gillian, go brave still, And it will bring thee soon up holborn hill. Who is that? Who do you mean, this Gallant that comes here? I, even the same: listen and I will show. This meacocke was a man, and but last year Fell he thus poor, thus wrapped in weeds of woe: And five yeeres since, he that should tell him this, Had had his poniard in his sides by lysse. For he had houses, and a mighty stock, lands in the country, and much coin at use: But riotous company that still did flock Both day and night to him, caused this abuse. Dice, wine, and women, won, drunk,& spent all, And now he lives a vasiall at each call. A by-word to the world, and thus he goes, sick with necessity, and pinde with want: Where he had plenty, jingling in his hose, Now poouertie in's pocket, maketh scant. And his poor belly that did surfet then, Feeding a number, now is fed by men. O grief exceeding, where did wealth exceed. O care abounding in abundance stead. O ill help of the holpen: now his need, Makes him in sorrow, for to beg his bread. O friends what mean you to leave wealth to such, Whose wit seems nothing, cloyde with over much. Quip Content yourselves, did parents know the spending, They would not leave so much, to such bad ending: But hope of doing well, makes them forego, What after their depart, their sons spend so: And tis enough for sons, that spend so bad, ( Me thinks) to say: suffizes once I had. Can that Boy red? Yes, he can red, and is a pretty Youth, And hath his latin tongue, and can do well. But he will not do well, for still his truth Is subject to a scandal, doing ill. O good gift ill bestowed, when such as he May do well and will not; but evil will be. writ he can, and cast account right well: Cipher he can too: and in dead what not? More then he should sometime, which I could tell▪ But hoping he will mend: no more of that. His reeding saved his life once: you know why. Me thinks it had been better he did die. Quip. No God forbid, the burnt child dreads the fire, Tis true, and once in danger, come no nyer: Least once too near, you chance at length to serve, When all your ready reeding will not serve. He had much wit. He had muth wit, else had he near been rich, For what he hath, he had it through the fire. He had much wit, and there are but few such, That with their wit can purchase their desire. A number live that wisely would be thought, When their wit failes them,& doth come to nought Houses he hath a number, and much land, His purse is stuffed, and he hath a full hand; But of his store what gives he to the needy? Nothing at all, in that he is not speedy. His purse is tide fast, and his mind is sparing, And for the poorer sort hath little caring. Had he much wit to get this worlds increase▪ And hath he no wit left rightly to use it? He hath no wit then now, and therefore peace, Such as haue Gods true blessing, and abuse it, Had better be still poor: for fellow credite me, He hath but little wit, and far less honesty. Quip. He that gets much and little gives, He seems a living man, but little lives, He that had wit himself to thrall, Better say I, h'had had no wit at all. He builds a great House. A man must of necessity go build, Not for a lacks a house, for one a had: Which house hath ever been extremely filled With goods and store, which me thinks was not bad. But though a while his little house had plenty, Yet now of late his little house was empty. think you his little House was not enough To hold his store, when it was seldom filled: Yes, what of that, he lays hand to his plough, And makes a vow he will a bigger build. A hundreth men with much a do doth labour, Hated and still despisde of every neighbour. Yet still goes forward this great work of worth, And now tis builded, though with care and cost. What will you say now, if to cross his mirth, His fortunes will not equal his high boast. Will they be strange, if he haue worse success, Then in his little House which did decrease. True, twill be strange in dead: well, let it pass, Hope well and haue well, that is so you know: But shall a trades man where so ill a was, remove his shop in hope to do well so? No rather in his first shop let him prove. To get good custom for his ware or love. Well, now tis up, faire, rich, and well maintained. God send it keep so, that is all I care, His welfare grieves not me, nor am I paind, That he shifts for the better: my despair Is onely this, while he for wealth is wooing, I fear his great House will haue little doing. Quip. talk what you know, yet it is richly stuffed, At which this jolly builder laughed and puffed: His harvest is but cutting, ear't be down, The wind may turn, 'tmay rain, and clouds may frown How ere the weather seem▪ care set a part, He will not crave thy help to pitch his cart. He begins well, but ends ill. In his beginning, all he did was well: For why, his labour sought still to excel: But ere the middle came, weariness took him, So that his Muse offended, quiter forsook him. So in the end, it must of force be ill, Although perchance the Author shewde goodwill: weakness of wit, was cause he did so bad, Not love of hart, for that was always had. love cannot labour, if the wit do want: But wit without love, may both sow and plant: Yet in the end, such witless love hath hope, To reap in harvest, but a sorry crop. Who would be weary in his doing well, But labour earnestly still to do well: Well doing hath an Ague hauntes him still, Which must b'out labourde with an earnest will. Pepper and Aqua-vitae will not serve, For so well doing may too sudden starve: Nor sleeping on a bed, or sweeting there: This Ague must be driven hence with a fear. Which fear in labour doth maintain goodwill: fear so, and labour so, and thou shalt still, Begin at first, and as thou dost begin, The middle and the end shall joy therein. Quip. All is as much to say, the Author fears, The Reader vows to haue him by the ears: Because beginning well, and ending ill, shows haughty thoughts, using but little skill. How ere it happens, my good will is such, As what I do, I do not think too much. The Conclusion. gentiles, whose gentleness in censuring, Is to take pleasure in your pitying: Craftes-men, whose craft in cleanly covering, Is to be crafty in your kindest cunning, To you I appeal: to whom in my appealling, I crave forgiveness, giuing this hard dealing. What can you more, but true contrition. Earnestly craude with true submission. What is amiss, it is your mind to pardon, Whose hartes no unkind deed can harden. This is my comfort makes me not despair, Your free love ever will abridge my care. Some one will say, wit wanting, men Are rash to speak, or writ with pen. Others excuse it, and will always say, desire to do well, makes a number stray. If to do well w● offend, then that offence Is to be pardond for the good pretence. So to conclude, no more but this, All things well taken, nought's amiss. FINIS. Imprinted at London by W. White for William Ferbrand. 1600.