FROM ROBERT HAYMAN's Quodlibets, 1628 A mad answer of a madman
One asked a madman if a wife he had. A wife? quoth he,-I never was so mad.
An epitaph on every well-meaning man undone by his kindness
My rich heart made me poor; comforting, sad; My helping, impotent; my goodness, bad.
Short epigrams relish both sweet and sour, Like fritters of sour apples and sweet flour.
To one of the elders of the sanctified parlor of Amsterdam
Though thou mayst call my merriments my folly, They are my pills to purge my melancholy. They would purge thine, too, wert not thou fool-holy.
Worse than naught
Thou art not worthy of a satire's quill; An epigram's too short to show thine ill.
Neat, quaint, nimble pulpit wits These nimble lads are fit for working-days- Their witty sermons may keep some from plays.
Reasons for the taking of tobacco Since most physicians drink tobacco still, And they of nature have th' exactest skill, Why should I think it for my body ill? And since most preachers of our nation Tobacco drink with moderation,
Why should I fear of profanation? Yet if that I take it intemperately, My soul and body may be hurt thereby.
FROM THOMAS BANCROFT'S Two Books of Epigrams and Epitaphs, 1639
A drunken brabbler
Who only in his cups will fight is like
A clock, that must be oiled well ere it strike.
As Martial's muse by Cæsar's ripening rays Was sometimes cherished, so thy happier days Joyed in the sunshine of thy royal James, Whose crown shed luster on thine epigrames; But I, remote from favor's fostering heat, O'er snowy hills my muse's passage beat, Where weeping rocks my harder fates lament And shuddering woods whisper my discontent. What wonder, then, my numbers, that have rolled Like streams of Tigris, run so slow and cold?
Thy muse's sugared dainties seem to us Like the famed apples of old Tantalus, For we, admiring, see and hear thy strains But none I see or hear those sweets attains.
Thou hast so used thy pen-or shook thy spear- That poets startle, nor thy wit come near.
Weapons in peace grow hungry, and will eat Themselves with rust; but war allows them meat.
JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD
The Introduction and Notes are at page 997 FROM The Holy Rood, 1609 [Although we do not all the good]
Although we do not all the good we love, But still, in love, desire to do the same; Nor leave the sins we hate, but hating move Our soul and body's powers their powers to tame; The good we do God takes as done aright, That we desire to do he takes as done; The sin we shun he will with grace requite, And not impute the sin we seek to shun.
But good desires produce no worser deeds, For God doth both together lightly give, Because he knows a righteous man must needs By faith, that works by love, forever live. Then to do nought but only in desire
Is love that burns, but burns like painted fire.
FROM Wit's Pilgrimage, [1605?] [Some blaze the precious beauties]
Some blaze the precious beauties of their loves By precious stones, and other some by flowers, Some by the planets and celestial powers, Or by what else their fancy best approves; Yet I by none of these will blazon mine, But only say her self herself is like, For those similitudes I much mislike That are much used, though they be divine. In saying she is like herself, I say She hath no like, for she is past compare. Then who aright commends this creature rare Must say, She is; and there of force must stay, Because by words she cannot be expressed; So say, She is, and wond'ring owe the rest.
So shoots a star as doth my mistress glide At midnight through my chamber, which she makes Bright as the sky when moon and stars are spied, Wherewith my sleeping eyes, amazed, wake. Which ope no sooner than herself she shuts Out of my sight, away so fast she flies; Which me in mind of my slack service puts, For which all night I wake, to plague mine eyes. Shoot, star, once more, and if I be thy mark Thou shalt hit me, for thee I'll meet withal. Let mine eyes once more see thee in the dark, Else they with ceaseless waking out will fall; And if again such time and place I lose To close with thee, let mine eyes never close.
FROM The Scourge of Folly, [c. 1611]
Of Fumosus the great tobacconist
Fumosus cannot eat a bit but he Must drink tobacco, so to drive it down.
Without tobacco then he cannot be; Yet drinks no ounce that costs him not a crown.
But his crown covers no empiring wit,- To blow away his crowns at every bit;
Yet when his crowns do fail, he pawns his cloak, Sith, like a chimney, he's kept sound by smoke.
To our English Terence, Mr. Will. Shakespeare Some say, good Will, (which I in sport do sing) Hadst thou not played some kingly parts in sport, Thou hadst been a companion for a king, And been a king among the meaner sort. Some others rail; but, rail as they think fit, Thou hast no railing, but a reigning, wit; And honesty thou sow'st, which they do reap, So to increase their stock-which they do keep.
FROM Wit's Bedlam, 1617
Of Maurus his Orpheus-like melody Maurus last morn at's mistress' window played An hunt's-up on his lute. But she, it's said, Threw stones at him; so he like Orpheus there Made stones come flying, his sweet notes to hear!
Of the small respect had of learned men in general
Caligula, envying the bright fames Of Homer, Virgil, and grave Livius, O'erthrew their statues, to o'erthrow their names. But would these times had none more barbarous!
For in this age Caligulas we find
That let them starve that shine in either kind.
JOHN TAYLOR
The Introduction and Notes are at page 997
FROM The Sculler, 1612
The way to make a Welshman thirst for bliss And say his prayers daily on his knees
Is to persuade him that most certain 'tis
The moon is made of nothing but green cheese, And he'll desire of God no greater boon But place in heaven to feed upon the moon.
Walking along the streets the other day, A ragged soldier crossed me on the way; And though my purse's lining was but scant, Yet somewhat I bestowed to ease his want. For which he kindly thanked me, with his heart, And took his leave, and friendly we did part. When straight mine eyes a horse and foot-cloth spied, Upon whose back in pompous state did ride One whom I thought was deputy to Jove; Yet not this soldier's wants could pity move, But with disdainful looks and terms of scorn Commands him travel whither he was born. 'Twill almost make a Puritan to swear To see an ass's horse a cloak to wear When Christians must go naked bare, and thin, Wanting apparel t' hide their mangled skin. Vain world, unto thy chaos turn again,
Since brutish beasts are more esteemed than men.
A few lines, to small purpose, against the scandalous aspersions that are either maliciously or ignorantly cast upon the poets and poems of these times
There doth a strange, and true, opinion run That poets write much worse than they have done, And how so poor their daily writings are, As though their best inventions were thread-bare; And how no new things from them now do spring, But all hath ref'rence from some other thing; And that their daily doings do reveal
How they from one another filch and steal, As if amongst them 'twere a statute made That they may freely use the thieving trade. And some there are that will not stick to say That many poets living at this day
Who have the Hebrew, Latin, Greek, at will,
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