Works

My Lucia in the dew did go,
And prettily bedabbled so,
Her clothes held up, she showed withal
Her decent legs, clean, long, and small.
I follow'd after to descry
Part of the nak'd sincerity;...

Sound teeth has Lucy, pure as pearl, and small,
With mellow lips, and luscious therewithal.

Luggs, by the condemnation of the Bench,
Was lately whipt for lying with a wench.
Thus pains and pleasures turn by turn succeed:
He smarts at last who does not first take heed.

Lulls swears he is all heart; but you'll suppose
By his proboscis that he is all nose.

Lungs, as some say, ne'er sets him down to eat
But that his breath does fly-blow all the meat.

Lupes for the outside of his suit has paid;
But for his heart, he cannot have it made;
The reason is, his credit cannot get
The inward garbage for his clothes as yet.

In Den'shire Kersey Lusk, when he was dead,
Would shrouded be and therewith buried.
When his assigns asked him the reason why,
He said, because he got his wealth thereby.

For ropes of pearl, first Madam Ursly shows
A chain of corns picked from her ears and toes;
Then, next, to match Tradescant's curious shells,
Nails from her fingers mew'd she shows: what else?...

Maggot frequents those houses of good-cheer,
Talks most, eats most, of all the feeders there.
He raves through lean, he rages through the fat,
(What gets the master of the meal by that?)...

Man is composed here of a twofold part;
The first of nature, and the next of art;
Art presupposes nature; nature, she
Prepares the way for man's docility.

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?...