Works

Apollo sings, his harp resounds: give room,
For now behold the golden pomp is come,
Thy pomp of plays which thousands come to see
With admiration both of them and thee....

After the rare arch-poet, Jonson, died,
The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride,
Together with the stage's glory, stood
Each like a poor and pitied widowhood....

Mease brags of pullets which he eats: but Mease
Ne'er yet set tooth in stump or rump of these.

Meg yesterday was troubled with a pose,
Which, this night harden'd, sodders up her nose.

Rare are thy cheeks, Susanna, which do show
Ripe cherries smiling, while that others blow.

Moon is a usurer, whose gain,
Seldom or never knows a wain,
Only Moon's conscience, we confess,
That ebbs from pity less and less.

Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's
Soft and soul-melting murmurings,
Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew
A Robin-red-breast; who at view,
Not seeing her at all to stir,...

Much-more provides and hoards up like an ant,
Yet Much-more still complains he is in want.
Let Much-more justly pay his tithes; then try
How both his meal and oil will multiply.

Mudge every morning to the postern comes,
His teeth all out, to rinse and wash his gums.

Should I not put on blacks, when each one here
Comes with his cypress and devotes a tear?
Should I not grieve, my Lawes, when every lute,
Viol, and voice is by thy loss struck mute?...

Nis he makes verses; but the lines he writes
Serve but for matter to make paper kites.

Wherever Nodes does in the summer come,
He prays his harvest may be well brought home.
What store of corn has careful Nodes, think you,
Whose field his foot is, and whose barn his shoe?

Nothing, thou elder brother even to shade,
That hadst a being ere the world was made,
And (well fixed) art alone of ending not afraid.
Ere time and place were, time and place were not,...

Broomsted a lameness got by cold and beer:
And to the bath went, to be cured there:
His feet were helped, and left his crutch behind;
But home returned, as he went forth, half blind.

What times of sweetness this fair day foreshows,
Whenas the Lily marries with the Rose!
What next is look'd for? but we all should see
To spring from thee a sweet posterity.

You say you're young; but when your teeth are told
To be but three, black-ey'd, we'll think you old.

Pagget, a schoolboy, got a sword, and then
He vow'd destruction both to birch and men:
Who would not think this younker fierce to fight?
Yet coming home, but somewhat late (last night),...

Parrat protests 'tis he, and only he
Can teach a man the art of memory:
Believe him not; for he forgot it quite,
Being drunk, who 'twas that can'd his ribs last night.

Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week,
And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek.
Six days he hollows so much breath away
That on the seventh he can nor preach or pray.

Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week,
And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek.
Six days he hollows so much breath away,
That on the seventh, he can nor preach or pray.