Works

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.

Go hence away, and in thy parting know
'Tis not my voice but Heaven's that bids thee go;
Spring hence thy faith, nor think it ill desert
I find in thee that makes me thus to part....

Paske, though his debt be due upon the day
Demands no money by a craving way;
For why, says he, all debts and their arrears
Have reference to the shoulders, not the ears.

Now Patrick with his footmanship has done,
His eyes and ears strive which should fastest run.

Paul's hands do give; what give they, bread or meat,
Or money? no, but only dew and sweat.
As stones and salt gloves use to give, even so
Paul's hands do give, nought else for ought we know.

Thou writes in prose how sweet all virgins be;
But there's not one, doth praise the smell of thee.

Long locks of late our zealot Peason wears,
Not for to hide his high and mighty ears;
No, but because he would not have it seen
That stubble stands where once large ears have been.

Brown bread Tom Penny eats, and must of right,
Because his stock will not hold out for white.

Soon did he Almighty Giver of all rest
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned....

Pievish doth boast that he's the very first
Of English poets, and 'tis thought the worst.