May your horns multiply and grow as great
As that which does blow grace before your meat;
May varlets be your barbers now, and do
The same to you they have been done unto;
That's law and gospel too; may it prove true,
Then they shall do pump-justice upon you;
And when y' are shaved and powder'd you shall fall,
Thrown o'er the Bar, as they did o'er the wall,
Never to rise again, unless it be
To hold your hands up for your roguery;
And when you do so may they be no less
Sear'd by the hangman than your consciences.
May your gowns swarm until you can determine
The strife no more between yourselves and vermin
Than you have done between your clients' purses;
Now kneel and take the last and worst of curses--
May you be honest when it is too late;
That is, undone the only way you hate.
AN EPIGRAMMATIST
Is a poet of small wares, whose Muse is short-winded and quickly out of
breath. She flies like a goose, that is no sooner upon the wing but down
again. He was originally one of those authors that used to write upon
white walls, from whence his works, being collected and put together,
pass in the world like single money among those that deal in small
matters. His wit is like fire in a flint, that is nothing while it is
in, and nothing again as soon as it is out. He treats of all things and
persons that come in his way, but like one that draws in little, much
less than the life:--
His bus'ness is t' inveigh and flatter,
Like parcel parasite and satyr.
Pages:
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514