Here lies Jonson with the rest Of the poets: but the best. Reader, would'st thou more have known? Ask his story, not this stone. That will speak what this can't tell Of his glory. So farewell.
Blanch swears her husband's lovely; when a scald Has blear'd his eyes: besides, his head is bald Next, his wild ears, like leathern wings full spread, Flutter to fly, and bear away his head.
I have seen many maidens to have hair, Both for their comely need and some to spare; But Blanch has not so much upon her head As to bind up her chaps when she is dead.
Tom Blinks his nose is full of weals, and these Tom calls not pimples, but pimpleides; Sometimes, in mirth, he says each whelk's a spark, When drunk with beer, to light him home i' th' dark.
What made that mirth last night? the neighbours say, That Bran the baker did his breech beray: I rather think, though they may speak the worst, 'Twas to his batch, but leaven laid there first.
To cleanse his eyes, Tom Brock makes much ado, But not his mouth, the fouler of the two. A clammy rheum makes loathsome both his eyes: His mouth, worse furr'd with oaths and blasphemies.
Money thou ow'st me; prethee fix a day For payment promis'd, though thou never pay: Let it be Dooms-day; nay, take longer scope; Pay when th'art honest; let me have some hope.
Bungy does fast; looks pale; puts sackcloth on; Not out of conscience, or religion: Or that this younker keeps so strict a Lent, Fearing to break the king's commandement:...
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.
Sweet Bridget blush'd, and therewithal Fresh blossoms from her cheeks did fall. I thought at first 'twas but a dream, Till after I had handled them And smelt them, then they smelt to me...
Display thy breasts, my Julia - there let me Behold that circummortal purity, Between whose glories there my lips I'll lay, Ravish'd in that fair via lactea.