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And langh, and measure thighes, then squeake, | In this, and like, an itch of vanitie, spring, itch,
That scratching now's our best felicitie? Doe all the tricks of a saut lady bitch;
Well, let it goe. Yet this is better, then For t’ other pound of sweet-meats, be shall feele To lose the formes, and dignities of men, That payes, or what he will. The dame is steele: To flatter my good lord, and cry his bowle For these with her young companie she'll enter, Runs sweetly, as it had his lordship's soule: Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venter, Although perhaps it has, what's that to me, And comes by these degrees, the stile t' inherit That may stand by, and hold my peace? will be Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit: When I am hoarse, with praising his each cast, Nor is the title question’d with our proud,
Give me but that againe, that I must wast Great, brave, and fashion’d folke, these are allow'd: In sugar candide, or in butter'd beere, Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,
For the recovery of my voyce? No, there They 're growne commoditie upon exchange; Pardon his lordship. Flattry's growne so cheape He that will follow bat another's wife,
With him, for he is followed with that heape Is lov’d, though he let out his owne for life: That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud, The husband now's call'd churlish, or a poore As a poore single fatterer, without baud Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore; Is nothing, sach scarce meat and drinke he'le gire, Or use all arts, or haunt all companies
But he tbat's both, and slave to both, shall live, That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.
And be belov'd, while the whores last. O times ! The brother trades a sister; and the friend Friend, flie from hence; and let these kindled rimes Lives to the lord, but to the ladie's end.
Light thee from Hell on Earth: where flatterers, Lesse must not be thought on then mistresse: or
spies, If it be thought, kild like her embrions ; for, Informers, masters both of arts and lies, Whom no great mistresse hath as yet infam'd, Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers, that let blood A fellow of course letcberie is nam'd,
The life, and fame-vaynes (yet not understood The servant of the serving-woman in scorne, Of the poore sufferers) where the envious, proud, Ne're came to taste the plenteous mariage-borne. Ambitious, factious, superstitious, lowd
Thus they doe talke. And are these objects fit Boasters, and perjurd, with the infinite more For man to spend his money on? bis wit ? Prevaricators swarme: of which the store, His time? health? soule? will be for these goe throw (Because th' are every where amongst man-kind Those thousands on his back, shall after blow Spread through the world) is easier farre to find, His body to the Counters, or the Fleete?
Then once to number, or bring forth to hand, Is it for these that fine man meets the street Though thou wert muster-master of the land. Coach'd, or on foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day, Goe quit 'hem all. And take along with thee, To teach each suit, he has the ready way
Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, which shall be, Proin Hide-Parke to the stage, where at the last That thine be just, and honest, that thy deeds His deare and borrow'd bravery he mast cast ? Not wound thy conscience, when thy body bleeds; When not his combes, bis curling-irons, his glasse, That thou dost all things more for truth, then glory, Sweet bags, sweet powders, norsweet words will passe And never but for doing wrong be sory; For lesse securitie? 0 - for these
That by commanding first thy selfe, thou mak'st Is it that man pulls on himselfe disease?
Thy person fit for any charge thou tak’st; Surfet? and quarrell? drinkes the tother health? That fortune never make thee to complaine, Or by damnation voids it) or by stealth ?
But what she gives, thou dar'st give ber againe ; What farie of late is crept into our feasts? That whatsoever face thy fate puts on, What honour given to the drunkennest guests? Thou shrinke or start not, but be alwayes one; What reputation to beare one glasse more? That thou thinke nothing great, but what is good, When oft the bearer is borne out of dore ?
And from that thought strive to be understood. This hath our ill-us'd freedome, and soft peace So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame Brought on us, and will every houre increase; Still pretioas, with the odour of thy name. Our vices, doe not tarry in a place,
And last, blaspheme not; we did never heare But being in motion still (or rather in race) Man thought the valianter,'cause he durst sweare, Tilt one upon another, and now beare
No more, then we should thinke a lord had had This way, now that, as if their number were More honour in him, 'cause we'ave knowne him mad: More then themselves, or then our lives could take, These take, and now goe seeke thy peace in warre, But both fell prest under the load they make. Who falls for love of God, shall rise a starre.
I'le bid thee looke no more, but flee, flee friend,
EPITAPH ON MASTER PHILIP GRAY He that no more for age, cramps, palsies, can Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man
READER stay, To take the box up for him; and pursues
And if I bad no more to say,
But here doth lie till the last day,
It might thy patience richly pay:
What suretie of life have thou, and I.
You blush, but doe not: friends are either none, EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
(Though they may member bodyes) or but'one.
I'le therefore aske no more, but bid you love; They are not, sir, worst owers, that doe pay
And so, that either may example prove Debts when they can: good men may breake their Unto the other ; and live patternes, how day;
Others, in time, may love, as we doe now. And yet the noble nature never grudge,
Slip no occasion; as tiine stands not still, 'Tis then a crime, when the usurer is judge:
I know no beautie, nor no youth that will. And he is not in friendship. Nothing there
To use the present, then, is not abuse, Is done for gaine: if 't be, 't is not sincere.
You have a husband is the just excuse Nor should I at this time protested be,
Of all that can be done him; such a one But that some greater names have broke with me, As would make shift, to make himselfe alone And their words too, where I but breake my band :
That which we can; who both in you, his wife, I adde that (but) because I understand
His issue, and all circumstance of life That as the lesser breach : for he that takes
As in his place, because he would not varie,
Is constant to be extraordinarie.
A SATYRICALL SHRUB.
A woman's friendship! God, whom I trust in,
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty yeares, almost, to value it,
That ne're was knowne to last above a fit, Can beautie, that did prompt me first to write,
Or have the least of good, but what it must Now threaten, with those meanes she did invite: '
Put on for fashion, and take up on trust : Did her perfections call me on to gaze!
Knew I all this afore? bad I perceiv'd, Then like, then love; and now would they amaze! That their whole life was wickednesse, though wear'd Or was she gracious a-farre off? but neere
Of many colours; outward, fresh from spots, A terrour? or is all this but my feare?
But their whole inside full of ends, and knots ? That as the water makes things, put in 't, streight, Knew 1, that all their dialogues, and discourse, Crooked appeare; so that doth my conceipt:
Were such as I will now relate, or worse.
[Here, something is wanting.)
How penitent I am, or I should be.
And that pour'd out upon man-kind, can be ! Vaile their owne eyes, and would impartially Thinke but the sin of all her sex, 't is she ! Be brought by us to meet our destinie.
I could forgive her being proud! a whore ! If it be thus; come love, and fortune goe,
Perjur'd! and painted ! if she were no more, l'le lead you on; or if my fate will so,
But she is such, as she might, yet forestall That I must send one first, my choyce assignes, The Devill; and be the damning of us all. Love to my heart, and fortune to my lines.
LITTLE SHRUB GROWING BY, By those bright eyes, at whose immortall fires
Aske not to know this man. If Fame should speake Love lights his torches to inflame desires ;
His name in any mettall, it would breake. By that faire stand, your forehead, whence he bends Two letters were enough the plague to teare His double bow, and round his arrowes sends;
Out of his grave, and poyson every eare. By that tall grove, your baire, whose globy rings
A parcell of court-durt, a heape, and masse
Of putrid flesh alive! of blood, the sinke!
If hence thy silence be,
As 't is too just a cause;
Let this thought quicken thee,
Minds that are great and free, Though beautie be the marke of praise,
Should not on fortune pause, And yours of whom I sing be such
'Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause. As not the world can praise too much, Yet is 't your vertue now I raise.
What though the greedie frie
Be taken with false baytes A vertue, like allay, so gone
Of worded balladrie, Throughout your forme; as though that move,
And thinke it poësie? And draw, and conquer all men's love,
They die with their conceits, This subjects you to love of one.
And only pitious scorne upon their folly waites. Wherein you triumph yet: because
Then take in hand thy lyre, 'T is of your selfe, and that you use
Strike in thy proper straine, The noblest freedome, not to chuse
With Japhet's lyve, aspire Against or faith, or honour's lawes.
Sol's chariot for new fire,
To give the world againe: But who should lesse expect from you,
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jore's braine. In whom alone Love lives agen? By whom he is restor'd to men:
And since our daintie age And kept, and bred, and brought up true?
Cannot indure reproofe,
Make not thy selfe a page, His falling temples you have rear'd
To that strumpet the stage, The withered garlands tane away;
But sing high and aloofe,
[hoofe. His altars kept from the decay,
Safe from the wolve's black jaw, and the dull ass's That envie wish'd, and nature fear'd.
MIND OF THE FRONTISPICE TO A BOOKE.
And on them bürne so chaste a flame,
With so much loyaltie's expence,
As Love t'aquit such excellence Is gone himselfe into your name. And you are he: the deitie
To whom all lovers are design'd;
That would their better objects find: Among which faithfull troope am I. Who as an off-spring at your shrine,
Have sung this hymne, and here entreat
One sparke of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine. Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appeare, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t? adore in you What I, in her, am griev'd to want.
From death, and darke oblivion, near the same,
The mistresse of man's life, grave historie,
Doth vindicate it to eternitie.
Might be defrauded, nor the great securid,
When vice alike in time with vertue dur'd:
Of truth that searcheth the most secret springs,
Assisted by no strengths, but are ber owne,
By which, as proper titles, she is knowne, Time's witnesse, herald of antiquitie,
The light of truth, and life of memorie.
WHERE do'st thou carelesse lie
Buried in ease and sloth?
ODE TO IAMES EARLE OF DESMOND,
[both. WRIT IN QUEENE ELIZABETH'S TIME, SINCE LOST, That eats on wits, and arts, and quite destroyes them
Where art thon, Genius? I should use
Thy present aide: arise, Invention,
Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's Muse,
To towre with my intention Or droop they as disgrac't, [fac't? High, as his mind, that doth advance To see their seats and bowers by chattring pies de- Her upright head, above the reach of chance,
Or the times' envie :
High spirited friend,
Your fate hath found, That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar A gentler, and more agile hand, to tend straine.
The cure of that, which is but corporall,
And doubtfull dayes (which were nam'd criticall,) Rich beame of honour, shed your light
Have made their fairest flight, On these darke rymes; that my affection
And now are out of sight.
Wrapt in this paper lie,
You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,
Must now be rayn'd. Who would with judgement search, searching con- True valour doth her owne renowne command clude,
In one full action; nor have you now more (As prov'd in you)
To doe, then be a husband of that store. True noblesse. Palme growes straight, though Thinke but how deare you bought, bandled ne're so rude?
This same which you have caught,
"Tis wisdome, and that high, Nor thinke your selfe unfortunate,
For men to use their fortune reverently, If subject to the jealous errours
Even in youth. Of politique pretext, that wryes a state,
Sinke not beneath these terrours :
But whisper; O glad innocence
Hellen, did Homer never see
Thy beauties, yet could write of thee?
Did Sappho, on her seven-tongu'd lute,
So speake (as yet it is not mute)
Of Phaon's forme? or doth the boy,
Lie drawne to life, in his soft verse,
As he whom Maro did rehearse : Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating ;
Was Lesbia sung by learn'd Catollas? Pyracmon's boure will come to give them ease,
Or Delia's graces by 'Tibullus? Though but while mettal's heating:
Doth Cynthia, in Propertius' song And, after all the Ætnean ire,
Shine more, then she the stars among?
Is Horace his each love so high
Rap't from the Earth, as not to die?
With bright Lycoris, Gallus' choice,
Whose fame hath an eternall voice.
Or hath Corynna, by the naine
Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame
Of Cæsar's daughter, and the line
Which all the world then styld devinc ? wit.
Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd
Equall with her? or Ronsart prais'd But to your selfe, most loyall lord,
His new Cassandra 'bove the old, (Whose beart in that bright sphere flames clearest, Which all the fate of Troy foretold ? Though many gems be in your bosome stor'd,
Hath our great Sidney, Stella set, Unknowne which is the dearest)
Where never star shone brighter yet? If I auspitionsly devine,
Or Constable's ambrosiack Muse
Have all these done (and yet I misse
The swan, that so relish'd Pancharis)
Where men may see whom I doe sing,
Though I, in working of my song,
Come short of all this learned throng, As farre from all revolt, as you are now from for- Yet sure my tunes will be the best, tune.
So much my subject drownes the rest.
Scarce the hill againe doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,
Phoebus to his crowne againe; TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WORTH,
And the Muses to their braine ;
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumbe, Vulgar languages that want
Words, and sweetnesse, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rime hath so abused,
He that first invented thee, His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
May his joynts tormented bee, His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
Cramp'd for ever; But then his mother's sweets you so apply,
Still may syllabes jarre with time, Her joyes, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
Still may reason warre with rime,
That in rearing such a schoole
Was the founder,
Rime the rack of finest wits,
But false weight.
WILLIAM LORD BURLEIGH,
Wresting words, from their true calling ;
To the ground.
They were bound!
Soone as lazie thou werţ knowne,
And was banish'd
And wit vanish'd
Le thou wouldst know the vertues of mankind
Pegasus did flie away,
All light failed!