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THE SECOND CENTURIE
To his worthy Ho: Patronesse, Catherine,
Thy splendent name, I doe not knowe right well,
Or blazed fame, in praise doth most excell;
But both unite, and both shall equall be,
Such is thy praise, sans partialitie.
On our vulgar Pie-Poets.
To the Readers.
An Epigram, I graunt is common grown,
Squisd out of Coblers, Tinkers, base of Trade;
(Whereby of yore the learned well was knowne,
Whose warbling songs was not by Coopers made.)
Such sordid stuffe we should cast of in hast,
And will Sr Sutor not to passe his Last.a
a Ne Sutor ult. a crepidam
To the learned Divine Mr Francis Sydney.
Some of thy name doe brave Trill Pallas Lance;
And thou most grave her Lawrell dost advance.
Epig. 4. On the Mercilesse Niggard,
To his deere Cosin, Edm: Basset.
The Base we see do commonly admire,
And high esteeme the Baslings of this Earth:
As Silver, Gold, Brasse, Yron, Lead, and Wire,
So that if famine fals, or pining Dearth,
Scarse will they spare, yea to themselves one crum,
Much lesse to Others, to their Doores which come.
To his lo: friend Mr M. Hopkins.
With dolefull sighes right well may we compare,
The Levits living pard on either side;
By greedy Patron thence which culs his share,
And Dunstus dumbe, in learning little tride:
Unto the Cheese, which Banbury doth yeeld,
Which looks most poor, on both sides cleanly peeld.
The Naturalized Dutch-man.
To his kinde Comrade, and Lo: Cosin Mr Willi-
We say, one fault marres somes good qualities;
But Contrary in the right Flemming borne,
One Good mends all his superfluities
Of bad conditions, to be ere forlorne:
His Bibbing, Rashnes, Mercenary fight;
But worthie praise, for aserving God aright.
a A pure Protestant.
On the worldlings Avarice.
To his lo: friend Mr Jo: Roberts, a laborious
preacher of Gods word.
The faithfull Abram for his Heritage
Did rest content with promise of a Land:
Whereto the faithlesse Bastards of our Age,
Words nought availe without performance-Band.
Yet see the diffrence twixt the Sonnes, and Sire,
He Heaven gate, base Earth they sole Desire.
To his lo: friend Jo: G.
Like Nero, many do enbowell deepe
Their Mother Earth, for White and yellow Mine:
And others do into Her concaves creepe
Like Plutos swart, darke coles to digge that shine.
But thou art farre more Naturall then They,
Which dost but, Rase thy Mothers face of Clay.
To one, declining under the yoke of Affliction.
What tho thy cofers be not stuffed hard
With Cæsars crosses, all of beaten gold:
And all the crosses of the Popes be bard.
Thy house; yet faint not, but be ever bold.
For thou hast had those crosses, that exceede
Farre these; which be Christs crosses, best in deed.
To his lo: friend Mr Math. Bennet.
Thou boastest proud, that thou dost rule as aQueene,
Thou art mistake, tis rather like a bQuene.
a Apoc. 18.7 b. Apoc. 18.9
On Sir Phill: Sidneys Arcadia.
Thy workes are worthy praise, and why I pray?
Because that none can these dispraise, I say.
To his lo: friend Mr M. Hop: for the loane of Dod,
and Cleaver on the Decalogue.
Dod with his Cleaver cleaves the stonie rocke
Of our hard harts through their laborious paine:
And plaines the way most plaine for Christ his flock,
That leads ore hils to the celestiall plaine.
These paire of friends with thankes I send againe,
Though two in Name, in Nature yet not twaine.
On the monstrous sin of Drunkennesse
That astoicall sage did drunkennesse prescribe
A salve most sure unto a quiet minde;
Which spuing potion, most of every Tribe,
Now takes, which workes most bravely, as we finde.
It causeth vomits, doth phlebotomize,
And more, the dumbe doth caule to Rhetorize.
a Sen. de Tranquil anim.
To the hopefull, and courteous Courtier,
young Sr Edw. Lewis.
The Court, thy Name may better, I confesse:
But not thy Nature, lesse I misse to gesse.
Wormshead. To his approved good fr. T. Rog.
A Rocke there is, that Wormshead has to name,
Within whose Concaves, fish, and fowle do breed;
A wonder strange, which merits blazing fame,
That stones, the selfe same Rocke, and eke indeed
At the same time, the feathered bird, the fish
Should feed, and stanch their appetites at wish.
Christ, and Apollo.
Both, sores of soule and bodie Christ doth cure,
Which cannot Synthius, which you say is sure
A God; and aGod, they say, can all effect,
But certs, I thinke, your God has this defect.
a Mat. 19. 26.
On our curious questionists.
To his lo. fr. Har. Johnes.
Too many are of curious Questionists,
That proud demands what God himselfe did frame,
Before a framd the World wherein consists
All Cretures that both Savage be, and tame.
Which cannot yet their Pater noster say,
Unlesse perhaps in Latine cleane astray.
To his lo. fr. Mr W. Awbrey, an ingenious Anagra-
mmatist, late turned a Minister.
If that the Censure of the Gabalists
Be true, which saith there lies in each mans name,
By the inversion of Hieroglyphists,
His fatall fortunes, or his blazed fame.
Which in thy name thou didst, I thinke, out finde,
When to that sacred coat thou gavst thy minde.
Pengwin, the eight wonder of the World.
To his Cousen Rees Griffith,
The universe, as we may reade, containes
But only seaven wonders, strange and rare;
The eight, to make the number evn, remaines,
Which, Disticke-wise, herein I will declare.
This is a Bird, that Pengwin has to name,
Which never flew, and yet was never tame.
To the courteous Gent. M. Arth. Mansell.
As thou art Arthur excellent in Name,
In Nature too, I wish thee eke the same.
The Ile of the Crosse.
I gesse, aColumbus gave that fitting name
To that same Clime, which he calls Crucis Ile;
Because there Cannibals without all shame,
Doe eate mens flesh, which they to them beguile.
Which first they fix unto a Crux to feede,
Like to an Oxe, being fat they cause to bleede.
a Ex lib Munst. Cosm.
On curious Damætas.
To his Cousen H. Tho. studious
in the Bible.
Th ignorant in this our curious Age,
Or little lesse, some Asse of shallow reach,
Will seeme to prate in mystries deepe, and sage;
The greatest Clearkes which vex, that write, or preach
And if you tell him, adoe this thou shalt live,
Tis nought, unlesse unto the depth you dive.
a Mat. 10
Jesus College in Oxford, speaking to
All things, athey say, doe wish a perfect end,
I being unperfect, doe eke wish the same,
Thy Royall hand my ragged wals can mend,
And perfect that what Priscious ene began.
An easier taske, to joine foure corner stones
In me, then lincke in one foure Nations.
a Arist 1. Eth
Mors, Sceptra ligonibus æquat.
Alluding to the death of the most renowned
H. Fredericke, Prince of Wales.
O fatall death, can none escape thy Dart?
O gastly Ghost, must all obey thy Hest?
Must Princes, as the beggar feele thy smart?
Must great ones die, sans mercy, as the least?
Henry was yong, therefore thou mightst him spare;
Henry was sage, then shouldst his life prolong:
Henry was warlike, touch him how couldst dare?
Henry was learned, death thou hast us wrong.
Mavors farewell, and learned Mercury,
Since Henry left too soone our company. 10
To the most famous, and Heroike Ladie
Mary, L. Wroth.
Thy worthy husband Ladifies thee Wroth,
Pray be not so with my poore pen, to place
Fore R the O; then justly Lady Worth
I might thee stile, worth what? hie honours Grace.
Those Iles were wont to be cald fortunate,
Have now their names Canaries, for the Curres
That breed therein (a Metamorphosd state,
And strange) which thinks her blest for beastly Burres.
But Brittaines Ile should certaine more be blest,
If with mad dogs she were the lesser prest.
Th unfortunate denominates his name
And fortunate also, from fortune blind:
In Polycrates, and Ulysses fame,
Her constancy unconstantly we finde.
Th one she ever crossd by Sea and land,
Th other blest with her unblisfull hand.
Hispana, in Hispanos.
Hispana Ile, has int a wonder rare,
Which Serpents be without all poison strong;
And do not hurt (as astories do declare)
Th Inhabitants, which do dwell them among;
Which should teach those that conquerd first the Ile,
To shun to kill, through venoms poisned guile.
a Ex Munst. Cosm.
On Terhernes Sepulture.
Terherne thou liest enterd within the grave,
Of a blind Monke, in those daies compted wise,
And thou a foole; a Sepulture most brave,
Which doth the idiot, and the Sage comprise.
Yet, thou a foole to greater Blisse maist rise,
Then the blind Monke, that was esteemed wise.
On the feminine Supremacy.
I often heard, but never read till now,
That Women-kinde the Codpeeces did weare;
But in those Iles, the men to women bow,
Which do their names of amale, and female beare.
I should therefore the woman judge to be
The vessell strongst, but bPaul denies it.
a Ex lib. Navig Aug. b 1. Cor. 7. 3.
To the right worshipfull and most courteous knight,
Sir Lewis Mansell, of his ho: mariage.
The Porcupine, with launces sharpe, and keene,
Doth now not seeke to pearce the Fawchion faire:
Nor is the Fawchion gainst the Griffon seene
To fly, but joies as friends, a Royall paire.
What is the cause of this their league? thy alove,
Which doth the birds, thats strange, to union move.
On Cottulus the unconstant Professor.
Unconstant Cottulus, which primly wast,
Preciscian-like, most curious of thy life:
But now that faction thou hast overpast,
And turnd a Papist, seeds-man ful of strife.
I wonder, what thou thirdly wilt Professe,
Camelion-like, a Newter, as I gesse.
To his Antiquious Academian friend
Mr William Je.
The Swan, they say, doth sing before he die;
But thine, I wis, did mourne most dolefully.
On the beloved Gossips, Læna, and Larga.
Læ: Why wilt not Larga, Marry Mr Steere?
A proper man, & wise, no Meacocks Gul:
La: I tell thee why, I hate a castred Pheere,
And rather chose my Suiter, Maister Bull.
The Picture of a Paramour.
Most pretty Love, of all our Loves, which lovest
Never to feed on one sole dainty dish;
But many more dost taste, and often provest,
Through sweat of Body, and a lovely kisse.
Thou ever lovst variety of cates,
Which honest Vesta, and Mæchaon hates.
To the gastly Ghost of Terherne.
Some are, which have grown famous by their lore,
By dint of sword, and eke by Prudencie;
But thou (Terherne) renowned wast of yore,
For a pure foole, and natrall foolerie.
But heres the difference twixt your brinted fame.
Theirs, for their wit, and thine, of folly, came.
Of the knights of St Denis Bathe.
I wonder why men did thee nominate
Coed Franke, in Antique Brittains copious Tongue;
Unlesse thou gotst it through the French-mans fate,
The gallian griefe, which blasted thee along.
If it be so, let fleshmen learne by thee
To shun the Pox which burns the very tree.
Of the lamentable Deaths, of H.3. and H.4. the
French kings, murthered by a brase
If aPatriarches twaine, in Holy Writ be namd
bBrethren in evill for revenging wrong;
Then may those Brase of Friars well be blamd,
(Which burns sans Mercy, mongst the Hellish throng)
For doubtlesse they were brethren in ill,
Which tratrously France Royall blood did Spill.
a Gen 49.5. b Gen 34.5
To his Sickly friend.
Store is no sore, the Proverbe verifies;
Which thou findst false, in store of Malladies.
To Reverend vida, the filching Preacher.
Gods zeale, (most zealous vida,) Prelate grave,
Did eate thee up, while that the borrowed oyle
Of others Lampes, did furnish thee most brave,
With Budget Lore, to keepe a preaching coile.
What meanes thy silence? Sure the oile is out,
And being thrust from Moyses chaire, art Mute.
To plaine Jo: the versificator.
What kinde of Poems thine, I thee besech?
No wittie one, therefore a witlesse speech.
To Battus, the Catechiser.
Magister Battus of the A.B.C.
I do commend thy conscience for to teach
Thy Punies Raw, without reward, or fee;
Thwilt serve to catechise, but ill to preach.
Whereas thou dost thy pupils teach for nought,
Right well thou maist, thy Lore deservs not ought.
On Mistresse Wag-taile.
Thy gadding head, my pretty Mysa sweet,
Did cause thy taile to be most wagging still;
Herein we see both head, and taile do meet
Thy lust nere satiate seeking to fulfill.
Twas not thy Head that did thy Taile enflame,
But twas thy Taile, that did thy Head defame.
Lex Talionis, on Rot, the Tyrant.
Proud cruell Rot, which now dost rot in grave,
That ere wast wont to tread on poore mens necks,
And force the harmeles Gull to be a Slave,
Unto thy Threts, and eke commanding checks.
These all requite thee now with Talios Law,
And on thy Head doe trample without Awe.
The Cacademons Epitaph.
Heere Batcocke lies, a Cocke too Bad by kinde,
Which ever wakt his Prentises to play
At Cardes, whereto he had a zelous minde,
For them he bore in steed of Bookes to pray.
Which being dead, a paire of Cards was found
Under his head; to play with under ground.
Thou Socrates the wisest Sage foretold,
That was on earth, while that on earth thou brethst
Wast not so wise yet, for to choose that Scold,
To be thy wife; thou wisedome herein leavst.
Unlesse it were thy patience, for to trie,
If so, our dayes yeelds thee many a fry.
To his honest kinde friend Mr Edw: Andrewes,
of the Epithit, Honest.
Honest, a word, I sweare an Adjective,
For now a daies, it little stands in steed:
But he that to the Depth of Crafts can dive,
He is the Wiseman that doth now exceed.
An Anothomie for Husbandrie.
Paterne for Husbands, Choake thou art of right,
Which dost not choake thy good seed with the Thornes
Of worldly care, to be a Miser hight,
Thy lands brings better fruit, then wild Acornes.
This shining candle of thy husbandrie,
Under a Bushell doth not hidden lie.
To the worthie and famous Earle of Not-
ingham, high Admirall of
Great number doe on the firme land beare sway,
These thou excellst, thou makst the Sea obay.
The Flushing fray.
To his Cousen, Leiftenant Ie. Watkins.
The Flemmings fight is reasonable, yea;
Being areasonlesse, heill but or sticke, or snee.
Omnium rerum vicissitudo est.
Ma. Whats thy name? Messenger? for what I pray?
Me. Tis Master kind, for your deere love, I say.
Ma. Tush, I doe hate, detest thy lawlesse bed,
Me. You may helpe that, if you doe me but wed.
Ma. Fie tis not fit for females, for to sue;
Me. Tut, lets conjoine, it is the fashion new.
Amicus certus in re incerta cernitur.
To trustie M. Gage.
Thou faithful Gage, that wast a gage indeed.
For loyaltie, and eke for service true,
(Unto that famous aPrince by God decreed
To Quell the Pope, Religion pure to shew)
In her distresse; which fewe of thine owne name,
To thy pure faith, themselves doe wholly frame.
a Queene Elizabeth
To faire facd Margaret.
What odds twixt Margarit, a precious pearle,
And Margaret, a sweet and peerelesse Girle.
No odds I see, for we must buy the one,
And Gratis thee, I thinke, possesse shall none.
The voluble wheele of Fortune.
To the interne friend Mounsier Hie,
and Mr. Low.
Lo. Thou climst the wheele of fortune, Mounsier Hie
And gapst for glorie, and preferment great;
Hie. True Mr Low, and thou as fast dost flie,
And lowe descendst from fortunes highest seat
Despaire not yet, if fortune, afortune be,
Shee may thy name appropriate unto me.
To the worthy Gent. M. Rawley Bussie, in volving the
earthly Globe, & tossing of the Tenis ball, most expert.
Thy solace is, to volve the Orbicke ball
Of this round earth, and eke the Tenis Pile;
Th one in sporting, which we pastime call,
Th other, when thy fluent Muse dost file.
To Mistris Lightfoot.
I Chauncd, as once I travaild to oretake
One Mistris Quick, being foundred, making mone:
I askd, what did her pace so halting make,
I did my foot, quoth she, hurt gainst a stone.
Tis nothing so, said I, kind Mistrisse Quicke,
Your griefe I take, came rather of a pricke.
Vincit qui patitur.
To his lo. fr. Rich. Gibons, a Teacher.
If any wish his patience for to try,
Let him, but practise sole thy Ministrie.
To his fragile firtree staffe.
The Proverbe ses, tis better for to bow
Then for to breake, a note of gentlenesse;
But thou, my prop, dost scorne to stoope so lowe
As bend, a signe, sest thou of basefulnesse.
But breake wilt rather (my most brittle Tree)
Yet doe not so, I prethee, under me.
On Stephen, the bloody Persecutor.
Good Gardiners doe use for to supplant
Their bad grown weeds, their fruitfull hearbes to save;
But, Gardner thou, the aflowre of Troynovant,
Didst thinke to weed, and burie in her grave.
To heavens Reapers, far unlike wast thou,
To weed the wheat, and let the aEver grow.
a Mat. 13 28.
To the worthy Knight, Sr Ro. Wroth, of
his house calld Durance.
Thy Durance keeps in durance none, I heare,
Lesse be to pertake of thy abounteous cheere.
a A famous housekeeper.
On our Popish Fugitives.
They say, orefasting doth procure a paine,
(Virtigo hight) the turning of the head:
Which true we find in malecontents most plaine,
When of preferments long they haue not sped.
And aArrius-like, which mist his Bishopprick,
Thill change their faith, and shewe a Popish tricke.
a Ex Euseb.
Mother Bs Translation.
Good en, most antique, zelous mother B,
This salutation well befits your age:
For while you live, a vestall you decree
To be, and shun the toies of Pupillage.
And as of old, on Beds you lovd to play:
So now on Beades you wholy like to pray.
To the carping Criticke.
Judge not so hard, that Poëts still doe lie,
For what they write, tis llowd by *Libertie.
On the Popes Holinesse.
The Romish Canons shamelesly aver,
Their holy Father, God, nor man to be;
What is he then? if that, I doe not erre,
His no Angell, of heavens Hierarchie.
Unlesse be aHim, that puts on every Hue
For to deceave, and this, I thinke, is true.
a 2. Cor. 11. 14.
To the Paracelsian Empericke.
If all the world were like to Socrates,
That never stood in need of Phisicks hand;
How then couldst live, if this thy art should cease,
Poore Jack, in this, or any other Land?
Wouldst thou then be, a grave Sr Iohn by skill?
So, sure more soules, then bodies wouldst thou kill.
Of H. I. King of England, whose invenomed
braine, being dead, killd his owne
What men alive, being sick, would oft fulfill,
Thou being adead didst thy Physitian kill.
a Ex lo Stowwe Chron.
To Mr. Monoculus, the Sagittarie.
What dire mishap befell you Mounsier Blinck?
That you have lost your most respected eie:
You tell me, tush, you shall the better winck
To hit the marke, and let the arrow flie.
Ist so? your shot, I gesse, will be farre wide,
When that you shut the other eie beside.
To Zantippa, the Scold.
What mary muffe, what maks thee sweet of hew
And sowre of speech, most bitter, waspish, bad?
I thinke, thou art a most detested shrew;
Or with the Ague, or burnt fever clad.
Which ever fils thy tongue most full of Gawle,
To all distastfull, but to ban, and brawle.
The Epitaph of his deerely beloved Schoole-
master, M. W. Edwards:
Here lies the picture of pure honestie.
Here lies, the fire of many a learned Sonne,
Here lies, the zeale of Christianitie,
Here lies, the Patron of Religion.
Here lies, that man, whose life was naught to none,
Here lies, that friend, whom young and old bemone.
To Rome, with her Romish brood.
Paule asaith, a Bishop should a husband be
Of one wife, for to live a sober life;
But the great Bishop, of the highst degree,
Will have his Bishops for to have no wife.
I wonder how from all he cuts this band?
Theyare either Eunuches, or play under hand.
a 1 Tim. 2. 3.
To Gill: the fingring Lawyer,
What maks thee, Gill, the perfect use to have,
As well of left, as of thy right hand faire?
Thou Galen-like wilt answer very grave,
Tis oremuch heat that doth from heart repaire.
I thinke not so, but thy poore Clients gold
Maks thee to be an Ambodexter bold.
A new forme of finding out Petigrees.
To Don Stolidus.
My upstart Gull, that wouldst right noble be
In Royall blood (thy labour quite is vaine
In volving bookes of old Antiquitie
For thy base line, not worth thereof the paine)
Badvisd by me, ope thou an old made Grave;
There thou thy first Genologie shalt have.
Tom of Christ Church in Oxford.
To our ceremonious Papists.
The clapping sound of Antichristian Bels,
They say, expels from them their airie Ghosts:
So, Tom thy sound which all thy mates excels,
Doth thine Oxonians cause to flie their Hoasts.
But if thy sound could sound as far as Spaine,
Their bodies Ghosts, I thinke, would them refraine.
God, and the Pope.
The sacred Scripture doth for truth record,a
That God is only of the living God,
And of the dead, he claimes to be no Lord;
But father Pope recalleth with a nod
They say the dead, from Purgatories griefe;
Thare dead in sinne, that makes this their beleefe.
a Mat. 22 32.
To glorious Mopsa, of her
Why Mistris Noll, dost thou Adulterate
(From others Royall lines, thy selfe to grace)
Their noble birth, and titles high of state?
That wast at first but poore, obscure and base.
If each should pluck from thy patcht Pedegree
His feathers of, right Æsops Jay mightst be.
On Cornutus, the Monster.
To his lo: friend Wil: Arne.
Of all wilde Birds, I loth the monstrous Batte,
Which is a bird, and eke a filthy beast;
But of tame birds, I do most deadly hate,
Thats man in shape, yet hath a Beast-like creast.
Which of these Monsters dost abhorre the more?
I thinke the tame, that with his Hornes doth Gore.
aQuævis terra alit artem.
To Boorish Petita.
The Latine aproverbe doth for truth relate,
That evry land doth Arts divine embrace:
Which every where most true I estimate,
But in Petita, mongst that Rusticke Race.
Which studies nought, but most the crooked Law;
And will effect no goodnes, but for Aw.
To his Cosin, Lieftenant William Watkins, of
Where Flushing stands, the walkers Ile, twas well
So namd, for int walkes many a Sentinell.
On Nic: Herberts Posie, (Lle y Kymero.)
To his worthy Son Mr Will: Herbert.
Thy (Lle y Kymero,) did well Sympathize,
(Right worthy Nichlas) with thy noble minde:
For where thou tookst, thou didst not temporize,
But all thy friends did a sure Friend thee find.
Thou wast not like the glosers of our Age,
Which disagree most from their Posies Sage.
To the right Reverend father, Jo: King, Bishop of
London, a most perswasive Preacher.
What tho thy hand doth not the Scepter sway,
Thy tongue doth cause full many to obey.
To his respective good friend Mr M. Cradocke.
The major part of our Tobacchonists,
Taks sole the shaddow of this smoakie weed:
But thou hereof contrary often whifts
The substance all of this prodigious Reed.
I grant the substance doth the shaddow passe
In all besides; save in this Indian Grasse.
A paire Royall of Clerkes.
To his friend Tho: Prichard.
Three sorts there be, which Clerks be calld by name,
The first of right is the superlative,
The Bible Clerke, that doth expound the same;
The next in Rancke is the Comparative,
The Pen and Inkorne Clerke; that bandeth men;
The third, the positive, that cries, Amen.
But prowd comparisons were odious farre,
Twixt these same Clerkes, for their Scholaritie;
Yet my brave Scribe will make no bones to jarre,
Yea with the best, in case of felonie. 10
But poore Ding-dong will not offend his sire,
For feare to loose his small collected hire.
Of the Ambitious.
To his cosen Jo: Vaughan of his fall from
Some fall, whose falling doth their Deaths procure,a
Thy fall was great, yet doth thy life remaine;
The ods is, they themselves to climbe inure,
And sithence, thou from climing dost refraine.
To Sir Humfrey the Recorder.
Thow Humfrey kepst a calender most streight
Of others faults, by Word, or Deed, ere sure;
But neere I thinke, most hatefull, carelesse weight,
Kepst true accompt of thine owne Crimes unpure.
I deeme thou couldst not, cause they did surmount
Theothers slips, which thou so high didst count.
To Morus, the Baulepate.
Good Mr More, what made your pate be bawle?
You say, you were borne under Venus starre,
Whose Constellation made your haire to fall,
And eke the credit of your crowne to marre.
But, as I cast, of this your great mishap,
You lulld were rather upon Venus lap.
Cupid, the blind God.
To his lo: friend Mr William Williams.
Why ist that Poets stile thee but a boy?
Since that thou art a thousand yeares of age;
No marvaile, for thy adotage love, thy joy,
With childish youth doth even equipage.
a Senes bis Pueri.
To Cæcus, the painefull Preacher, of our
Thou seest not, yet makest others see
Their hainous sinnes, through thy laborious paine:
When Linx-eid Drones, which ever idle be,
With taking paines do never one soule gaine.
Thy sight, their livings eke, I wish to thee,
So that thou wouldest then not idle be.
To his loving friend Jo: Spencer, skilfull in Arith
meticke, of Mounsier Mutilus.
Thy numbring art the plurall number loves,
And doth casheere the singular, as none:
But Mutilus, Grammarian-like stout proves
The singular; as Lapis, his sole stone.
On bibbing Belgicus.
To his cosin Jo: Watkins, Ensigne bearer.
Flemmingo useth after every whiffe,
His kind Comrade to take fast by the hand;
He ses, it is to shew his kindnesse rife,
But tis, I gesse, because he cannot stand.
On Del Lucifer.
To his friend Mr Edw. Robinson, Cler.
What tho Superbus from the Dunghill crept,
Thy holy function scornes with open throat;
Yet be content, forgive and eke forget,
Sith Christ himselfe did dignifie thy coat.
Yet suffer Cinicke, when that he is dead,
To Hearse him, where the Cuckoe first was bred.
The Imparative Moode.
To my Lady Myso.
I wonder greatly what thy Mood should be,
Indicative? no, that doth reason shew,
But thine is madd; nor Subjunctive I see,
That should depend sole on thy husband true.
But thine, sans doubt, is the Imperative,
Which makes thee dayly with thy Mate to strive.
To the ingenious Poet, Mr William Herbert
of his booke intituled the Prophesie
Thy Royall Prophesie doth blaze thy name,
So Poets must, if they will merit fame.
To the snarling censurer.
Reader, perhaps thou wilt my Muse dispraise
Of Barrennesse, which was a curse of yore;
It is not so, note thou her fathers daies,
A yongling, able to beget yet more.
If idle, vaine, thou deeme it, and unfit:
An idle vaine becomes a childish wit.
On Montanus, the Bibber.
To his loving friend Mr William Thomas.
Thy Nectar, Quondam, was but whiggin small,
Alias sowrewhay, how ist that nought but wine
Thy slippery palate now doth taste at all?
That nere was Prest in Boreas freezing clime.
No marvaile, for thy body is so bet
With cold, which thou dost seeke with Ale to Heat.
On Simon Magus, the Roman,
To his lo. fr. and familiar, M. J. Vaughan
God gratis gives his Grace most liberally,
But man will not without a Simons fee.
Which was the cause, as farre as I perceaue,
That caused thee sweet Oxford for to leaue.
On Luke-warme love.
To his lo. and approved good Cousen Mr
Love now adaies is neither hot, nor cold,
Th wilt aske me then, what ist? I say luke-warme;
Why then tis Bet, thou sest, then that of old,
O, no, this warme has int the greater harme.
Tempus edax rerum.
To the learned Historian, his lo. friend,
Mr. W. Meyricke.
Time doth in time, they say, all things devoure,
And eke forgets each learned Mercurie,
Save the Historian, only times fresh flowre,
Which never fads, much lesse doth ever die.
Fort cannot be, that time can blot his name,
Which doth of time Records most antique frame.
On Judeas, the Usurer.
To his loving Cosen John Stradling.
What makes that Beggars in thy neighbourhood,
Poore silly wretches, numberlesse to swarme?
Tis not, I weene, for thy devotion good;
But rather tis for thy purlonging harme.
Which sufferst none to thrive that lives at hand;
But beggerst all, by purchasing their land.
To the Readers of his Epigrams.
In the Popes tongue I list not to endite:
Cause of my rime all men should have the sight.
To the Printer, of Detractors.
The Captaine presse the Souldier to repell
The furious force of foemens cruell hand:
So dost thou Presse some papers, that excell,
Yet must they cankred tongues of men withstand.
A wonder tis, the tongue for the hand, right
Should warre; no force, tis but a womans fight.
The ende of the second Centurie.
Patere aut Abstine.
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