An Englishman in none, a foole in all :
SATIRE I.

Many in one, and one in severall.

Then men were men; but now the greater part
Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold, Beasts are in life, and women are in heart.
When world and time were young, that now are old, Good Saturne selfe, that homely emperour,
(When quiet Saturne sway'd the mace of lead, In proudest pompe was not so clad of yore,
And pride was yet unborne, and yet unbred.) As is the under-groome of the ostlerie,
Time was, that while the autumne fall did last, Husbanding it in work-day yeomanrie.
Our hungrie sires gap'd for the falling mast Lo! the long date of those expired dayes,

of the Dodoniad oakes. Which the inspired Merlin's word fore-sayes; Could no unhusked akorne leave the tree,

When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings,
But there was challenge made whose it might be. Then one confusion another brings:
And if some nice and liquorous appetite

Then farewell fairest age, the world's best dayes,
Desir'd more daintie dish of rare delite,

Thriving in ill, as it in age decayes.
They scal'd the stored crab with clasped knee,
Till they had sated their delicious eye:
Or search'd the hopefull thicks of hedgy-rowes,
For brierie berries, or bawes, or sourer sloes :

SATIRE II.
Or when they meant to fare the fin'st of all,
They lick’d oake-leaves besprint with hony fall. Great Osmond knowes not how he shall be known
As for the thrise three-angled beech nut-shell,

When once great Osmond shall be dead and gone:
Or chesnut's armed huske, and hid kernell,

Unlesse be reare up some rich monument,
No squire durst touch, the law would not afford, Ten furlongs nearer to the firmament.
Kept for the court, and for the king's owne board. Some stately tombe he builds, Egyptian wise,
Their royall plate was clay, or wood, or stone;

Rex regum written on the pyramis.
The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none. Whereas great Arthur lies in ruder oak,
Their onely cellar was the neighbour brooke:

That never felt none but the feller's stroke.
None did for better care, for better looke.

Small honour can be got with gaudie grave; Was then no plaining of the brewer's scape,

Nor it thy rotten name from death can save. Nor greedie vintner mixt the strained grape.

The fairer tombe, the fouler is thy name; The king's pavilion was the grassy green,

The greater pompe procuring greater shaine. Under safe shelter of the shadie treen.

Thy monument make thou thy living deeds; Under each, banke men layd their limbs along,

No other tomb than that true virtue needs.
Not wishing anie ease, not fearing wrong:

What! had he nought whereby he might be know tre
Clad with their owne, as they were made of old, But costly pilements of some curious stone ?
Not fearing shame, not feeling anie cold.

The matter Nature's, and the workınan's frame;
But when by Ceres huswifrie and paine,

His purse's cost : where then is Osmond's name? Men learn'd to burie the reviving graine,

Deserv’dst thou ill? well were thy name and thee, And father Janus taught the new found vine,

Wert thou inditched in great secrecie; Rise on the elme, with many a friendly twine:

Where as no passenger might curse thy dust, And base desire bade men to delven low,

Nor dogs sepulchrall sate their gnawing lust.
For needlesse mettals, then gan mischief grow.

Tbine ill deserts cannot be grav'd with thee,
Then farewell fayrest age, the world's best dayes; So long as on thy grave they ingraved be.
Thriving in ill as it in age decaies.
Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise,
And men grew greedie, discordous, and nice.
Now man, that erst haile-fellow was with beast,

SATIRE III.
Woxe on to weene himselfe a god at least.
No aerie fowl can take so high a flight,

The courteous citizen bade me to his feast,
Though she her daring wings in clouds have digbt; With hollow words, and overly request :
Nor fish can dive so deep in yielding sea,

“ Come, will ye dine with me this holyday ?»
Though Thetis selfe should sweare her safetie; I yeelded, though he hop'd I would say nay:
Nor fearfull beast can dig his cave so lowe, for had I mayden'd it, as many use;
As could he further than Earth's center go; Loath for to grant, but loather to refuse,
As that the ayre, the earth, or ocean,

“ Alacke, sir, I were loath ; another day,
Should shield them from the gorge of greedie man. I should but trouble you ;--pardon me, if you may
Hath utmost Inde ought better than his owne? No pardon should I need; for, to depart
Then utmost Inde is neare, and rife to gone. He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart.
O Nature ! was the world ordain'd for nought Two words for monie, Darbisbirian wise;
But fill man's maw, and feede man's idle thought ? | (That 's one too inanie) is a naughtie guise.
Thy grandsires words savour'd of thriftie leekes, Who looks for double biddings to a feast,
Or manly garlic; but thy furnace reekes

May dine at home for an importune guest.
Hot steams of wine; and can a-loofe descrie I went, then saw, and found the greate expense;
The drunken draughts of sweete autumnitie. The fare and fashions of our citizens.
They naked went; or clad in ruder hide,

Oh, Cleopátrical! what wanteth there
Or home-spun russet, void of forraine pride: For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheere?
But thou canst maske in garish gauderie,

Beefe, that erst Hercules held for finest fare;
To suite a foole's far-fetched liverie.

Porke for the fat Baotian, or the hare A French head joynd to necke Italian:

For Martial; fish for the Venetian; Thy thighs from Germanie, and brest from Spain : Goose-liver for the likorous Romane,

Th’ Athenian's goate ;, quaile, Iolan's cheere ; I lookt and laught, and much I mervailed,
The hen for Esculape, and the Parthian deere; To see so large a caus-way in his head.
Grapes for Arcesilas, figs for Plato's mouth, And me bethougbt, that when it first begon,
And chesnuts faire for Amarillis' tooth. [fore? | 'T was some shroad autumne that so bar'd the bone.
Hadst thou such cheere ? wert thou ever there be Is 't not sweete pride, when men their crownes must
Never - I thought so: nor come there no more.

shade,
Come there no more; for so meant all that cost : With that which jerks the hams of every jade,
Never hence take me for thy second host.

Or floor-strow'd locks from off the barber's sheares? For whom be meanes to make an often guest, But waxen crownes well gree with borrow'd haires. One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest.

SATIRE VI.
SATIRE IV.

WHEN Gullion dy'd (who knowes not Gullion?)

And his drie soule arriv'd at Acheron,
Were yesterday Palemon's natals kept,
That so his threshold is all freshly steept

He faire besought the feryman of Hell,
With new-shed blood ? Could he not sacrifice

That he might drinke to dead Pantagruel.

Charon was afraid test thirstie Gullion
Some sorry morkin that unbidden dies;

Would have drunke drie the river Acheron.
Or meager heifer, or some rotteu ewe;

Yet last consented for a little hyre,
But he must needs his posts with blood embrew,

And downe he dips his chops deep in the myre,
And on his way-doore fixe the horned head,
With flowers and with ribbands garnished ?

And drinkes, and drinkes, and swallowes in the

streeme,
Now shall the passenger deeme the man devout.
What boots it be so, but the world must know it? Untill the shallow shores all naked seeme.
O the fond boasting of vain-glorious man!

Yet still he drinkes, nor can the boatman's cries,
Does he the best, that may the best be seene?

Nor crabbed oares, nor prayers, make him rise.
Who ever gives a paire of velvet shooes

So long he drinkes, till the blacke caravell,
To th holy rood, or liberally allowes

Stands still fast gravell'd on the mud of Hell.
But a new rope to ring the curfew bell,

There stand they still, nor can go, nor retyre,
But he desires that his great deed may dwell,

Though greedie ghosts quicke passage did require.
Or graven in the chancel-window-glasse,

Yet stand they still, as though they lay at rode,

Till Gullion bis bladder would unlode,
Or in the lasting tombe of plated brasse ?
For he that doth so few deserving deeds,

They stand, and waite, and pray for that good houre; 'T were sure his best sue for such larger meeds.

Which, when it came, they sailed to the shore.
Who would inglorious live, inglorious die,

But never since dareth the ferryman,
And might eternize his name's memorie?

Once entertaine the ghost of Gullion.
And he that cannot brag of greater store,

Drinke on, drie soule, and pledge sir Gullion :
Must make his somewhat much, and little more.

Drinke to all healths, but drinke not to thine owne,
Nor can good Myson weare on his left hond,

Desunt nonnulla.
A signet ring of Bristol diamond,
But he must cut his glove to show his pride,
That his trim jewel might be better spy'd:
And that men mought some burgesse him repute,

SATIRE VII.
With sattin sleeves hath grac'd his sacke-cloth suit. Seest thou how gayly my yong maister goes,

Vaunting himselfe upon his rising toes ;
And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side;

And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide ?
SATIRE V.

'Tis Ruffio : trow'st thou where he din'd to day?

In sooth I saw him sit with duke Hamfray.
Fie on all courtesie, and unruly windes,

Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheere,
Two onely foes that faire disguisement findes. Keepes be for everie straggling cavaliere.
Strange curse! but fit for such a fickle age, An open house, haunted with greate resort;
When scalpes are subject to such vassalage. Long service mixt with musicall disport.
Late travaling along in London way,

Many faire yonker with a feather'd crest,
Mee met, as seem'd by his disguis'd array, Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest,
A lustie courtier, whose curled head

To fare so freely with so little cost,
With abron locks was fairely furnished.

Than stake his twelve-pence to a meaner host.
I bim saluted in our lavisb wise:

Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say
He answeres my untimely courtesies.

He touch't no meat of all this live-long day.
His bonnet vail'd, ere ever he could thinke, For sure me thought, yet that was but a guesse,
Th’ unruly winde blowes off his periwinke.

His eyes seeme sunke for verie hollownesse.
He lights and runs, and quickly hath him sped, But could he have (as I did it mistake)
To overtake his over-running head.

So little in his purse, so much upon his backe?
The sportfull winde, to mocke the headlesse man, So nothing in his maw ? yet seemeth by his belt,
Tosses apace his pitch'd Rogerian :

That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt.
And straight it to a deeper ditch hath blowne; Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip?
There must my yonker fetch his waxen crowne. Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip.
I lookt and laught, whiles in his raging minde, Yet for all that, how stifly struts he by,
He curst all courtesie, and unruly winde,

All trapped in the new-found braverie.

1

The nuns of new-won Cales his bonnet lent, Cease ere you gin, and ere ye live be dead;
In lieu of their so kind a conquerment.

And dye and live ere ever ye be borne;
What needed he fetch that from farthest Spaine, And be not bore ere ye be buried,
His grandame could have lent with lesser paine ? Then after live, sith you have dy'd beforne,
Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore, When I am dead and rotten in the dust
Yet faine would counted be a conquerour.

Then gin to live, and leave when others lust.
His haire, French like, stares on his frighted head,
One lock amazon-like disheveled,

For when I dye, shall envy dye with me,
As if he meant to weare a native cord,

And lie deep smother'd with my marble stone; If chaunce his fates should him that bane afford. Which while I live cannot be done to dye, All British bare upon the bristled skin,

Nor, if your life gin ere my life be done, Close notched is his beard both lip and chin ; Will hardly yield t' await my mourning hearse, His linnen collar labyrinthian set,

But for my dead corps change my living verse. Whose thousand double turnings never met: His sleeves half hid with elbow-pineonings, What shall the ashes of my senselesse ure As if he meant to flie with linnen wings.

Need to regard the raving world above?
But when I looke, and cast mine eyes below, Sith afterwards I never can returne,
What monster meets mine eyes in human show ? To feel the force of hatred or of love.
So slender waist with such an abbot's loyne, Oh! if my soul could see their posthume spight,
Did never sober Nature sure conjoyne.

Should it not joy and triumph in the sight?
Lik'st a strawne scare-crow in the new-sowne field,
Rear'd on some sticke, the tender corne to shield.
Or if that semblance suit not everie deale,

Whatever eye shalt finde this hateful scrole

After the date of my deare exequies, Like a broad shak-forke with a slender steel. ,

Ah, pity thou my plaining orphan's dole, Despised Nature suit them once aright,

That faine would see the Sunne before it dies. Their bodie to their coate, both now mis-dight.

It dy'd before, now let it live againe,
Their bodie to their clothes might shapen be,

Then let it dye, and bide some famous bane.
That nill their clothes shape to their bodie.
Meane while I wonder at so proud a backe,
Whiles th' empty guts lowd rumblen for long lacke:

Satis est potuisse videri.
The belly envieth the back's bright glee,
And murmurs at such inequality.
The backe appeares unto the partial eyne,

SATIRE I.
The plaintive belly pleads they bribed been;
And he, for want of better advocate,

Che baiar vuol, bai.
Doth to the ear his injury relate.
The back, insulting o'er the belly's need,

Who dares upbraid these open rhymes of mine
Says, “ Thou thy self, I others' eyes must feed.” With blindfold Aquines, or darke Venusine?
The maw, the guts, all inward parts complaine Or rough-hewn Teretismes, writ in th’antique vain
The back’s great pride, and their own secret paine. Like an old satire, and new Flaccian?
Ye witlesse gallants, i beshrew your hearts, Which who reads thrice, and rubs his rugged brow,
That sets such discord 'twixt agreeing parts, And deep intendeth every doubtful row,
Which never can be set at onement more,

Scoring the margent with his blazing stars, Until the maw's wide mouth be stopt with store.

And hundreth crooketh interlinears,

(Like to a merchant's debt-roll new defac'd, THE CONCLUSION.

When some crack'd manour cross'd his book at last) Thus have I writ in smoother cedar tree,

Should all iy rage the curse-beat page out rive,

And in each dust-heap bury me alive,
So gentle Satires, penn'd so easily.
Henceforth I write in crabbed oak-treé rynde,

Stamping like Bucephall, whose slackned raines Search they that mean the secret meaning find.

And bloody fetlocks fry with seven men's braines.

More cruel than the cravon satire's ghost,
* Hold out, ye guilty and ye galled hides,
And meet my far-fetch'd stripes with waiting sides. Or some more strait-lac'd juror of the rest,

That bound dead bones unto a burning post;
Impanneld of an Holyfax inquest :

Yet well bethought, stoops down and reads anew;
SATIRES.

The best lies low, and loathes the shallow view,

Quoth old Eudemon, when his gout-swolne fist
BOOK IV.

Gropes for his double ducates in his chist:
Then buckle close his carelesse lyds once more,

To pose the pore-blind snake of Epidaore.
THE AUTHOR'S CHARGE

That Lyncius may be match'd with Gaulard's sight,

That sees not Paris for the houses' height; TO HIS SECOND COLLECTION OF SATIRES, CALLED BITING

Or wily Cyppus, that can winke and snort

While his wife dallies on Mæcenas' skort: Yz lucklesse rhymes, whom not unkindly spight Yet when he hath my crabbed pamphlet read

Begot long since of truth and holy rage, As oftentimes as Philip hath been dead, Lye here in wombe of silence and still night, Bids all the furies haunt each peevish line Until the broils of next unquiet age:

That thus have rack'd their friendly reader's eyne; That which is others' grave shall be your wombe, Worse than the Logogryphes of later times, And that which bears you, your eternal tombe. Or hundreth riddles shak'd to sleevelesse rhymes

SATIRES.

Should I endure these curses and despight Whether his twilight-torch of love do call
While no man's eare should glow at what I write? To revels of uncleanly musicall,
Labeo is whipt, and laughs me in the face: Or midnight plays, or taverns of new wine,
Why? for I smite and hide the galled place. Hye ye, wbite aprons, to your landlord's signe;
Gird but the cynic's helmet on his head,

When all, save toothlesse age or infancy,
Cares he for Talus, or his flayle of lead ?

Are summon'd to the court of venery. Long as the crafty cuttle lieth sure

Who list excuse? when chaster dames can hire In the blacke cloud of his thicke vomiture, Some snoît-fair stripling to their apple-squire, Who list complaine of wronged faith or fame, Whom, staked up like to some stallion steed, When he may shift it to another's name?

They keep with eggs and oysters for the breed. Calvus can scratch his elbow and can smile, O Lucine barren Caia bath an heir, That thriftlesse Pontice bites his lip the while. After her husband's dozen years' despair. Yet I intended in that selfe device

And now the bribed midwife swears apace, To checke the churle for his knowne covetise. The bastard babe doth bear his father's face. Each points his straight fore-finger to his friend, But hath not Lelia pass'd her virgin years? Like the blind dial on the belfry end.

For modest shame (God wot!) or penal fears? Who turns it homeward, to say this is I,

He tells, a merchant tidings of a prize,
As bolder Socrates in the comedy?

That tells Cynedo of such novelties,
But single out, and say once plat and plaine Worth little less than landing of a whale,
That coy Matrona is a courtezan;

Or Gades' spoils, or a churl's funerale.
Orthou, false Cryspus, choak’dst thy wealthy guest Go bid the banes and point the bridal day,
Whiles he lay snoaring at his midnight rest, His broking bawd hath got a noble prey ;
And in thy dung-cart didst the carkasse shrine A vacant tenement, an honest dowre
And deepe intombe it in Port-esqueline.

Can fit his pander for her paramoure,
Proud Trebius lives, for all his princely gait, That he, base wretch, may clog his wit-old head,
On third-hand suits, and scrapings of the plate. And give him hansel of bis hymen-bed.
Titius knew not where to shroude his head

Ho! all ye females that would live unshent, Until he did a dying widow wed,

Fly from the reach of Cyned's regiment. Whiles she lay doating on her death's bed, If Trent be drawn to dregs and low refuse, And now hath purchas'd lands with one night's | Hence, ye hot lecher, to the steaming stewes. paine,

Tyber, the famons sink of Christendome, And on the morrow wooes and weds againe. Turn thou to Thames, and Thames run towards Now see I fire-flakes sparkle from his eyes,

Roine. Like a comet's tayle in th angry skies ;

Whatever damned streame but thine were meet His pouting cheeks puff up above his brow, To quench his lusting liver's boiling heat? Like a swolne toad touch'd with the spider's blow; Thy double draught may quench his dog-days rage His mouth shrinks side-ward like a scornful playse, with some stale Bacchis, or obsequious page, To take his tired ear's ingrateful place.

When writhen Lena makes her sale-set shows His ears bang laviug like a new lugg'd swine, Of wooden Venus with fair-limned brows; To take some counsel of his grieved eyne.

Or like him more some vailed matron's face, Now laugh I loud, and breake my splene to see Or trained prentice trading in the place. This pleasing pastime of my poesie;

The close adultresse, where her name is red, Much better than a Paris-garden beare,

Comes crawling from her husband's. lukewarm Or prating puppet on a theatre ;

bed, Or Mimoe's whistling to his tabouret,

Her carrion skin bedaub'd with odours sweet, Selling a laughter for a cold meal's meat.

Groping the postern with her bared feet. Go to then, ye my sacred Semonees,

Now play the satire whoso list for me, And please me more the more ye do displease. Valentine self, or some as chaste as he. Care we for all those bugs of idle feare?

In vaine she wisheth long Alkmæna's night, Por Tigels grinning on the theatre?

Cursing the hasty dawning of the light; Or scar-babe threatnings of the rascal crew? And with her cruel lady-star uprose Or wind-spent verdicts of each ale-knight's view? She seeks her third roust on her silent toes, Whatever breast doth freeze for such false dread, Besmeared all with loathsome smoake of lust, Beshrew his base white liver for his meed.

Like Acheron's steams, or smoldring sulphur dust. Fond were that pity, and that feare were sin, Yet all day sits she simpering in her mew To spare waste leaves that so deserved bin. Like some chaste dame, or shrined saint in shew; Those toothlesse toys that dropt out by mis-hap,

Whiles he lies wallowing with a westy-head Be but as lightning to a thunder-clap.

And palish carcase, on his brothel-bed,
Shall then that foul infamous Cyned's hide

Till his salt bowels boile with poisonous fire;
Laugh at the purple wales of others' side ? Right Hercules with his second Deianire.
Not if he were as near as, by report,

O Esculape ! how rife is physic made,
The stewes had wont be to th' tennis court: When each brasse-bason can professe the trade
He that, while thousands envy at his bed,

Of ridding pocky wretches from their paine, Neighs after bridals, and fresh maidenhead; And do the beastly cure for ten groats gaine? Whiles slavish Juno dares not look awry,

All these and more deserve some blood-drawn lines, To frowne at such imperious rivalry;

But my six cords beene of too loose a twine : Not though she sees her wedding jewels drest Stay till my beard shall sweep mine aged breast, To make new bracelets for a strumpet's wrest;

Then shall I seem an awful satyrist: Or like some strange disguised Messaline, While now my rhymes relish of the ferule still, Hires a night's lodging of his concubine ;

Some nose-wise pedant saith; whose deep-seen skill

T

2

VOL V.

Hath three times construed either Flaccus o'er, What broker's lousy wardrobe cannot reach
And thrice rehears'd them in his trivial floore. With tissued pains to pranck each peasant's breech?
So let them tax me for my hot blood's rage, Couldst thou but give the wall, the cap, the knee,
Rather than say I doated in my age.

To proud Sartorio that goes straddling by.
Wert not the needle pricked on his sleeve,
Doth by good hap the secret watch-word give?

But hear'st thou Lolio's sonne? gin not thy gaite
SATIRE II.

Until the evening owl or bloody bat:
Arcades ambo.

Never until the lamps of Paul's been light,

And niggard lanterns shade the moon-shine night ; Old driveling Lolio drudges all he can

Then when the guilty bankrupt, in bold dreade, To make his eldest sonne a gentleman.

From his close cabbin thrusts his shrinking heade, Who can despaire to see another thrive,

That hath been long in shady shelter pent,
By loan of twelve-pence to an oyster-wive? Imprisoned for feare of prisonment.
When a craz'd scaffold, and a rotten stage, May be some russet-coat parochian
Was all rich Nænius his heritage.

Shall call thee cousin, friend, or countryman,
Nought spendeth he for feare, nor spares for cost; And for thy hoped fist crossing the streete
And all he spends and spares besides is lost. Shall in his father's name his god-son greete.
Himself goes patched like some bare cottyer, Could never man work thee a worser shame
Lest he might ought the future stocke appeyre. Than once to minge thy father's odious name?
Let giddy Cosinius change his choice array,

Whose mention were alike to thee as lieve Like as the Turk his tents, thrice in a day,

As a catch-poll's fist unto a bankrupt's sleeve; And all to sun and air his suits unfold

Or an hos ego from old Petrarch's spright
From spightful moths, and frets, and hoary mold, Unto a plagiary sonnet-wright.
| Bearing his pawn-laid hands upon his backe There, soon as he can kiss his hand in gree,

As snailes their shells, or pedlers do their packe. And with good grace bow it below the knee,
Who cannot shine in tissues and pure gold

Or make a Spanish face with fawning cheere, That hath his lands and patrimony sold?

With th' iland congé like a cavalier, Lolio's side coat is rough pampilian

And shake his head, and cringe his neck and side, Gilded with drops that downe the bosome ran, Home bies he in his father's farm to bide. White carsey hose patched on either knee, The tenants wonder at their landlord's sonne, The very embleme of good husbandry,

And blesse them at so sudden coming on, And a knit night-cap made of coursest twine, More than who vies his pence to view soine trick With two long labels button'd to his chin; Of stranges Moroco's dumb arithmetick, So riles be mounted on the market-day,

Or the young elephant, or two-tayl'd steere, Upon a straw-stufft pannel all the way,

Or the rigg'd camell, or the fiddling frere. With a maund charg'd with houshold inerchandize, Nay then his Hodge shall leave the plough and waive, With eggs, or white-meate, from both dayries; And buy a booke, and go to schoole againe. And with that buys he roast for Sunday noone, Why mought not be as well as others done, Proud how be made that week's provision.

Rise from his fescue to his Littleton ? Else is be stall-fed on the worky-day,

Fools they may feed with words, and live by ayra With browne-bread crusts soften'd in sodden whey, That climb to honour by the pulpit's stayre: Or water-gruell, or those paups of meale

Sit seven years pining in an anchore's cheyre, That Maro makes his simule, and cybeale: To win some patched shreds of Minivere; Or once a weeke, perhaps for novelty,

And seven more plod at a patron's tayle Reez'd bacon soords shall feast his family; To get a gilded chapel's cheaper sayle. And weens this more than one egg cleft in twaine Old Lolio sees, and laugheth in his sleeve 'To feast some patrone and his chappelaine: At the great hope they and bis state do give. Or more than is some hungry gallant's dole, But that which glads and makes him proud'st of all, That in a dearth runs sneaking to an hole,

Is when the brabling neighbours on him call And leaves his man and dog to keepe his hall, Por counsel in some crabbed case of law, Lest the wild room should run fortb of the wall. Or some indentments, or some bond to draw: Good man! him list not spend his idle meales His neighbour's goose both grazed on his lea, In quinsing plovers, or in wining quailes;

What action mought be enter'd in the plea? Nor toot in cheap-side baskets earde and late So new-fall'n lands have made him in request, To set the first tooth in some novell cate.

That now he looks as lofty as the best. Let sweet-mouth'd Mercia bidwhat crowns she please And well done Lolio, like a thrifty sire, For half-red cherries, or greene garden pease, 'T were pity but thy sonne should prore a squire. Or the first artichoaks of all the yeare,

How I foresee in many ages past, To make so lavish cost for little cheare:

When Lolio's caytive name is quite defac'd, When Lolio feasteth in his revelling fit,

Thine heir, thine heir's heir, and his heir again, Some starved pullen scoures the rusted spit. From out the lines of careful Lolian, For else how should his sonne inaintained be Shall climb up to the chancell pewes on high, At inns of court or of the chancery:

And rule and raigne in their rich tenancy; There to learn law, and courtly carriage,

When perch'd aloft to perfect their estate To make amends for his mean parentage ;

They rack their rents unto a treble rate; Where he unknowne and ruffling as he can, And hedge in all the neighbour common lands, Goes currant each where for a gentleman?

And clodge their slavish tenants with commauds; While yet he rousteth at some uncouth signe, Whiles they, poor souls, with feeling sigh complainen Nor ever red his tenure's second line.

And wish old Lolio were alive againe,