Works

Cob clouts his shoes, and, as the story tells,
His thumb nails par'd afford him sparrables.

Cock calls his wife his Hen: when Cock goes to't,
Cock treads his Hen, but treads her underfoot.

Comely acts well; and when he speaks his part,
He doth it with the sweetest tones of art:
But when he sings a psalm, there's none can be
More curs'd for singing out of tune than he.

What is the reason Coone so dully smells?
His nose is over-cool'd with icicles.

Crab faces gowns with sundry furs; 'tis known
He keeps the fox fur for to face his own.

Craw cracks in sirrop; and does stinking say,
Who can hold that, my friends, that will away?

One silver spoon shines in the house of Croot;
Who cannot buy or steal a second to't.

Cuffe comes to church much: but he keeps his bed
Those Sundays only whenas briefs are read.
This makes Cuffe dull; and troubles him the most,
Because he cannot sleep i' th' church free cost.

Love, like a Gypsy, lately came,
And did me much importune
To see my hand, that by the same
He might foretell my fortune.

He saw my palm; and then, said he,
I tell thee, by this score here,...

Old wives have often told how they
Saw Cupid bitten by a flea;
And thereupon, in tears half drown'd,
He cried aloud: Help, help the wound!
He wept, he sobb'd, he call'd to some...

If wounds in clothes Cuts calls his rags, 'tis clear
His linings are the matter running there.

If felt and heard, unseen, thou dost me please;
If seen, thou lik'st me, Deb, in none of these.

No question but Doll's cheeks would soon roast dry,
Were they not basted by her either eye.

Doll, she so soon began the wanton trade,
She ne'er remembers that she was a maid.

Dundrige his issue hath; but is not styl'd,
For all his issue, father of one child.

Eeles winds and turns, and cheats and steals; yet Eeles
Driving these sharking trades, is out at heels.

When out of bed my love doth spring,
'Tis but as day a-kindling;
But when she's up and fully dress'd,
'Tis then broad day throughout the east.

Upon her cheeks she wept, and from those showers
Sprang up a sweet nativity of flowers.

We read how Faunus, he the shepherds' god,
His wife to death whipped with a myrtle rod.
The rod, perhaps, was better'd by the name;
But had it been of birch, the death's the same.

Why walks Nick Flimsey like a malcontent!
Is it because his money all is spent?
No, but because the dingthrift now is poor,
And knows not where i' th' world to borrow more.