By which device and wise excesse,
You do your pennance in a dresse,

And none shall know, by what they see,
Which Lady's censur'd, which goes free.

161. Thus answered.

Blacke Cypresse vailes are shrouds of night,
White linnen railes are railes of light;
Which though we to our girdles weare,

Whave hands to keepe your armes off there;
Who makes our bands to be a cloake,
Makes John a Stiles of John an Oke:
We weare our linnen to our feet,
Yet need not make our band a sheet.
Your Clergie wears as long as wee,
Yet that implyes conformitie :
Be wise, recant what you have writ,
Lest you do pennance for your wit:
Love-charmes have power to weave a string
Shall tye you, as you ty'd your ring,
Thus by loves sharpe, but just decree
You may be censur'd, we go free.

162. Amicitia.

What's friendship? 'tis a treasure, 'tis a pleasure:

Bred 'twixt two worthy spirits,

by their merits:

'Tis two minds in one, meeting

never fleeting:

Two wils in one consenting,

each contenting,

One brest in two divided, yet not parted;
A double body, and yet single hearted;
Two bodies making one, through self election,
Two minds, yet having both but one affection.

163. To Sextus.

Sextus thy wife is faire, that's not amisse,
But she's a scould, tell me how lik'st thou this.

164. Vxor Fortior.

Will by the warre would seeme a domineerer, But Anne his wife hath beene the ancient-bearer.

165. On a lost Purse.

There was a man that lost his

purse,

And that was a shrewd disaster:

But was it ever knowne before,

That a purse should lose his master?

166. Fælix donec

While Turnus feasted, not a guest durst faile him, But being arested, not a guest durst baile him.

167. In Gallum.

Gallus hath beene this summer in Freezeland,
And now return'd, he speaks such war-like words,
As if I could their English understand,

I feare me they would cut my throat like swords.
He talkes of counter-scarpes and casamates,
Of parapets, curteynes, and palizadoes,

Of flankers, raveling, gabions he prates,
And of false brags, and salleys, and scabadoes:
But to requite such gulling termes as these,
With words of my profession I reply,
I tell of sourching, vouchers, counter-pleas,
Of Withernams essoynes, and champertine,
So neither of us understanding the other,
We part as wisely as we came together.

1

168. A Farrier Physitian.

A neate Physitian for a Farrier sends,
To dresse his horses, promising him amends:
No (quoth the Farrier) amends is made,
For nothing do we take of our owne trade.

Verbositus at words from Latine carv'd,

Du's snatch, as if his wits were hunger-starv'd: And well he du's; for sure so leane 'tis growne, That from anatomy 'tis hardly knowne.

It is so weake, as (truely) I protest,
Fine phrase rhetoricall 'twill not digest.

Hark wouldst be wise? by good words ill apply'd
The asse to be a foole by's own tongue's try'd;
Then if th'art wise, thy tongue hath thee bely'd.

All buildings are but monuments of death,

All clothes but winding sheets for our last knell,
All dainty fattings for the worms beneath,
All curious musique, but our passing bell;
Thus death is nobly waited on, for why?
All that we have is but deaths livery.

171. In Cupidinem.

Who grafts in blindnes may mistake his stock, Love hath no tree, but that whose bark is smock.

172. On a Picture.

This face here pictur'd time shall longer have,
Then life the substance of it, or the grave,
Yet as I change from this by death, I know,
I shall like death, the liker death I grow.

173. On the City Venice.

When in the Adriatick Neptune saw

How Venice stood, and gave the seas their law,

Boast thy Tarpeian towers, now Fove said he,
And Mars thy wals, if Tiber 'fore the sea
Thou dost prefer, view both the cities ods,

Thou'lt say that men built Rome, Venice, the gods.

174. To a Lady that every morning used to paint her face.

Preserve what nature gave you, nought's more base,
Then Belgian colour on a Roman face,

Much good time's lost, you rest your faces debtor,
And make it worse, striving to make it better.

175. On a Cuckold.

My friend did tax me seriously one morne,
That I would weare, yet could not winde a horne,
And I reply'd he perfect truth should find it,
Many did weare the horne that could not wind it,
Howe're of all that man may weare it best,
Who makes claime to it as his ancient crest.

176. On Taurus.

Ist true that Taurus late hath lost his wit?
How can that be, when never he had it?
I could beleeve it, had he fought a fray,
And so perhaps his fingers cut away.

177. On Man.

What shall I liken man to, man so proud,
And yet so miserable? to a cloud,.