Whose sentence charms it with a ryming spell ;
Touch not this coler, that melancholy,
This bit were drie and hote, that cold and dry;
Yet can I set my Gallios dieting,
A pestle of a larke or plouers wing,
And warne him not to cast his wanton eyne
On grosser bacon, or salt haberdine,
Or dried fliches of some smoked beeue,
Hang'd on a writhen wythe since Martins eue,
Or burnt larkes heeles, or rashers raw and greene,
Or melancholike liuer of an hen,
Which stout Vorano brags to make his feast,
And claps his hand on his braue ostrige-breast;
Then fals to praise the hardy Ianizar,
That sucks his horse side thirsting in the warre.
Lastly to seale vp all that he hath spoke,
Quaffes a whole tunnell of tabacco smoke.
If Martius in boystrous buffes be drest,
Branded with iron plates vpon his brest,
And poynted on the shoulders, for the nonce,
As new-come from the Belgian garrisons;
What shall thou need to enuie ought at that,
When as thou smellest like a Ciuet cat ;
When as thine oyled locks smooth platted fall,
Shining like varnisht pictures on a wall,
When a plum'd fanne may shade thy chalked face, 50
And lawny strips thy naked bosome grace.
If brabling Make-fray, at ech fayre and sise,
Picks quarrels for to show his valiantise,
Straight pressed for an hungry Swizzers pay,
To thrust his fist to ech part of the fray,
And piping hote, puffes toward the pointed plaine
With a broad Scot, or proking spit of Spayne,
Or hoyseth sayle vp to a forraine shore,
That he may liue a lawlesse conquerer.
If some such desperate Hakster shall deuise
To rouze thine hares-heart from her cowardise,
As idle children striuing to excell
In blowing bubles from an emptie shell;
Oh Hercules! how like to proue a man,
That all so rath thy warlike life began ?
Thy mother could thee for thy cradle set,
Her husband's rusty iron corselet ;
Whose iargling sound might rocke her babe to rest, That neuer plain'd of his vneasie nest;
There did he dreame of drery wars at hand,
And woke, and fought, and won, ere he could stand.
But who hath seene the lambs of Tarentine,
May gesse what Gallio his manners beene;
All soft as is the falling thistle-downe,
Soft as the fumie ball, or Morrians crowne;
Now, Gallio, gins thy youthly heat to raigne
In euery vigorous limme, and swelling vaine;
Time bids the raise thine hedstrong thoughts on hy
To valour and aduenterous chiualry;
Pawne thou no gloue for challenge of the deede, 80
Nor make thy Quintaine others armed head,
T'enrich the waiting herald with thy shame,
And make thy losse the scornfull scaffolds game.
Wars, God forfend, nay God defend from warre,
Soone are sonns spent, that not soone reared are.
Gallio may pull me roses ere they fall,
Or in his net entrap the tennis-ball;
Or tend his spar-hauke mantling in her mew,
Or yelping begles busy heeles persue,
Or watch a sinking corke vpon the shore,
Or halter finches through a priuie doore,
Or list he spend the time in sportfull game,
In daily courting of his louely dame,
Hange on her lips, melt in her wanton eye,
Dance in her hand, ioy in her iollity;
Here's little perill, and much lesser paine,
So timely Hymen doe the rest restraine.
Hy wanton Gallio, and wed betime,
Why should'st thou leese the pleasures of thy prime? Seest thou the rose-leaues fall vngathered?
Then hye thee wanton Gallio to wed;
Let ring and ferule meet vpon thine hand,
And Lucines girdle with her swathing-band ;
Hy thee, and giue the world yet one dwarfe more,
Such as it got when thou thy selfe wast bore.
Looke not for warning of thy bloomed chin,
Can neuer happines to soone begin ;
Virginius vow'd to keepe his mayden-head,
And eats chast lettuce, and drinkes poppy-seed,
And smels on camphyre fasting; and that done, 110 Long hath he liu❜d, chast as a vayled nunne,
Free as a new-absolued Damosell,
That Frier Cornelius shriued in his cell,
Till now he waxt a toothlesse bacheler;
He thaw's like Chaucers frostie Ianiuere,
And sets a months minde vpon smiling May,
And dyes his beard that did his age bewray;
Byting on annis-seede, and rose-marine,
Which might the fume of his rot lungs refine ;
Now he in Charons barge a bride doth seeke,
The maydens mocke, and call him withered leeke,
That with a greene tayle hath an hoary head,
And now he would, and now he cannot wed.
WOULD now that Matho were the Satyrist,
That some fat bribe might greaze him in the fist,
For which he need not braule at any barre,
Nor kisse the booke to be a periurer;
Who else would scorne his silence to haue sold,
And haue his tongue tyed with strings of gold?
Curius is dead, and buried long since,
And all that loued golden Abstinence:
Might he not well repine at his old fee,
Would he but spare to speak of vsurie?
Hirelings enow beside, can be so base,
Tho we should scorne ech bribing varlets brasse ;
Yet he and I could shun ech iealous head,
Sticking our thumbs close to our girdle-stead,
Tho were they manicled behind our backe,
Anothers fist can serue our fees to take;
Yet pursy Euclio chearly smiling prayde,
That my sharpe words might curtal their side trade;
For thousands beene in euery gouernall,
That liue by losse, and rise by others fall.
What euer sickly sheepe so secret dies,
But some foule rauen hath bespoke his eyes?
What else makes N. when his lands are spent,
Go shaking like a threedbare malecontent;
Whose band-lesse bonnet vailes his ore-grown chin, 25
And sullen rags bewray his morphew'd skin;
So ships he to the woluish westerne ile,
Among the sauage kernes in sad exile;
Or in the Turkish wars at Caesars pay,
To rub his life out till the latest day.
Another shifting gallant to forecast,
To gull his hostesse for a months repast,
With some gal'd trunck ballac'd with straw and stone Left for the paune of his prouision;
Had F. shop lyen fallow but from hence,
His doores close seal'd as in some pestilence,
Whiles his light heeles their fearfull flight can take.
To get some badge-lesse blew vpon his backe
Tocullio was a wealthie vsurer,
Such store of incomes had he euery yeare,
By bushels was he wont to meet his coyne,
As did the olde wife of Trimalcion.
Could he doe more that finds an idle roome,
For many hundreth thousands on a toombe?
Or who reares vp foure free-schooles in his
Of his old pillage, and damn'd surplusage?
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