Skoles stinks so deadly, that his breeches loath His dampish buttocks furthermore to clothe; Cloy'd they are up with arse; but hope, one blast Will whirl about, and blow them thence at last.
Slouch he packs up, and goes to several fairs, And weekly markets for to sell his wares: Meantime that he from place to place does roam, His wife her own ware sells as fast at home.
Snare, ten i' th' hundred calls his wife; and why? She brings in much by carnal usury. He by extortion brings in three times more: Say, who's the worst, th' exactor or the whore?
Thou who wilt not love, do this, Learn of me what woman is. Something made of thread and thrum. A mere botch of all and some. Pieces, patches, ropes of hair; Inlaid garbage everywhere....
Spokes, when he sees a roasted pig, he swears Nothing he loves on't but the chaps and ears: But carve to him the fat flanks, and he shall Rid these, and those, and part by part eat all.
Spunge makes his boasts that he's the only man Can hold of beer and ale an ocean; Is this his glory? then his triumph's poor; I know the tun of Heidleberg holds more.
Spur jingles now, and swears by no mean oaths, He's double honour'd, since he's got gay clothes: Most like his suit, and all commend the trim; And thus they praise the sumpter, but not him:...
Strut, once a foreman of a shop we knew; But turn'd a ladies' usher now, 'tis true: Tell me, has Strut got e're a title more? No; he's but foreman, as he was before.
Never was day so over-sick with showers But that it had some intermitting hours; Never was night so tedious but it knew The last watch out, and saw the dawning too; Never was dungeon so obscurely deep...
Why do not all fresh maids appear To work love's sampler only here, Where spring-time smiles throughout the year? Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers,...
Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam...
Thrice happy roses, so much grac'd to have Within the bosom of my love your grave. Die when ye will, your sepulchre is known, Your grave her bosom is, the lawn the stone.
I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read, And lik'st the best. Still thou reply'st: The dead. I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be; Then sure thou'lt like or thou wilt envy me.