YOVTH KNOW THY SELFE.
Disce puer virtutem exme, verumque laborem,
Fortunam ex alijs.
LONDON, Printed by AVGVSTINE MATHEVVES and IOHN NORTON, and are to be sold at the great South doore of Pauls. 1624.
To the Reader.
REader (if that there will be any such,
These vncouth-ragged lines will grace so much)
I doe implore of thee this courtesie,
As that thou wilt not looke with Eagles eye.
For though like
Delphian Oracles I seeme,
My not-
Appollo's verses to esteeme;
Yet know, I thinke so great will be their fame,
As that I dare not set to them my name.
Then seeing that I am vnknowne of thee,
And that thou likewise art vnknowne of mee,
I can report of thee no thing that's bad,
Doe but the same of me, I shall be glad.
YOVTH KNOW THY SELFE
TO Schoole the weather-beaten wise, & fage,
To checke the little pretty innocent age,
Were but presumption, and too curious follie;
Since neither of these ages can be iolly.
Your hoary haires, like isicles which bee,
Strike admiration, and respect in mee.
You post vnto the layle, your graue, and so
Along to Heauens-Sessions house, to know
From the Coelestiall Iudge, the fatall doome
Of al your sins, done from your mothers wombe.
Expect your censure there; Ile not so much,
As how you come bald-pated, giue a touch:
Your frowning lookes, & wrinckles doe infuse
A smoothed brow vpon mine angry Muse.
Your frozen members, and infrigidated,
Cannot by
Venus starre be calculated.
[...]
But if amongst you some be children growne,
How for to know themselues it shall be showne.
You with your golden lookes, and siluer bands,
Like to the Dayses culled by your hands,
Your louing sports, and quarrell-breeding games,
The strictest-rigid'st
Cato neuer blames.
Your euer-blushing cheekes protend, yee feare
That all things which ye doe, offensiue are.
Ah! 'tis not you, that for my rage are fuell,
Your smiles, and bablings, make me not so cruell.
'Tis hee, or she that
Venus shrine adores,
That's in the teenes, and not come to the scores.
'Tis those that new, forth from the eg-shell came,
And are become stout cockes, & henns o'the game:
This is the blood-warme age, there springs from
The Salamander of concupiscence.
This is the Age that makes my spleene to swell hence
With laughter, and my gall to leaue her cell:
Which being vomited vp, about doth flye,
Bespurtling euery body that stands nigh.
This makes mine eyes, like Basiliskes for to pry
Vpon the obiect, till I make it dye.
Oh who hath such a foggie-clowdy braine,
That of all ages thinkes not this most vaine?
Or who is such an A-b-c-darian asse,
That finds not this all former times to passe?
Since Satan belch't out poyson first on earth,
Sin nere was practis'd with such ioy and mirth.
And some's so horrid, that I cannot tell,
Whether hee'l owne it, that inhabits Hell.
Be deafe yee tender eares, whilst I rehearse,
Things that would stain the purest meaning verse:
When Dildoes, Merkins, and sophistications,
With thousands of such lust-full variations,
Must de divulged by a mind that's bent,
To bid the good beware, the bad repent.
Goe on my Muse, thou need'st not dread disgrace,
Black is the only colour in thy face
Assume thy former spirit, I know thou durst
Say of all earthly creatures, man's the worst.
All haue obey'd their Maker but this man,
Who neuer fully did, nor neuer can.
Witnesse this last declining age, wherein
That is thought vertue, which before was sinne.
When as Venerious youngsters set on fire,
Dare to their neighbours silent bed aspire,
To drench their itching, and sulpherous flame,
Yet must the wronged beare away the shame.
Since Cuckolding, and head-horning plantation
Is deem'd and act of supererrogation.
But those that, like old cuckowes, rob mens nests;
An eating Scab their purest parts inuests.
Oh! that Adultery, fondlings should so hallow,
Which is the deepest sink, the soule doth swallow.
And those that make horns on mēs heads to dwel,
Should engins make, to tosse themselues to Hell.
The winged-chirping songsters of the ayre,
Vpon Saint
Valentines day, that vse to payre,
May teach these Roysters, if they cannot tarry,
The remedie is very speedy, Marry.
Giue to the Parson, and to toule the bell,
Hee'l soone dispatch yee, be yee impes of Hell.
And if one come the match to disanull,
Hee'l pull his dagger out, and breake his skull.
And if yee feare in Church to shew your face,
A barne-like thatched one, may be the place.
Such crimes as these doe make me not my selfe,
But like the spitefull-snaky-headed Elfe:
I pine through enuy, when I see, with ease
A ten in the hondred sweltering in grease:
A Fox-fur'd-clouted-pated fornicator,
That's to his Tenants wife Administrator:
Whom for to keepe a wife, the charge debar'd,
And that would slice his Father for his lard:
That euery day doth feare a plague, and dearth,
As some which doe
Sol's falling downe on earth.
Me thinkes there's wild-fire in my sparkling eies,
That makes the balls, like bullets, rend the skies:
When that an open-fisted-biggen'd Baby,
That worshippeth the name of Lord and Lady:
That
Forma Pauperis thinkes is his damnation,
And doth esteeme demurres, his best saluation:
Should haue such takings at Westminster Hall,
And yet his Wifes at home, surmount them all.
Why? sure my braines with madnesse is so full,
That it flies vp and downe, and cracks my skull:
To see a weeping Crocodile, when she yells
Lowder then Free Schooles, or ring of bells;
That sounds: whose necke seemes not to beare her head
That wrings her hands, howles out my husbands dead.
Yet scarce shal the Sea-god, which entertains
Phoebus, that all his fiery horses traines,
To visit
Neptune, in his Sea-sicke weedes;
Haue watered all the foamy sweating Steeds,
And giuen some fish vnto his frying Brother;
But more then monster-like, shee'l haue another.
For if you thinke the Serpent muttereth hisse,
You are deceiu;d, she treacherously cries kisse)
Let but her louer curse her, shee's content,
And thinks his curses are like blessings sent:
So they'd be Martyrs which ne're came toth' stake,
And God chastiseth, doth not Martyrs make.
She loues the wall, the highest seate at meetings,
She would be idoliz'd by poore mens greetings.
Her almes and charity is a three-penny dole,
By cheats, and cogges from carelesse purses stole:
Shee grudges this large portion, iust like those,
The hundreth grudg, whē God the tenth bestows.
She neuer weepes, but when her Mother's well,
She neuer laughs, but at her Fathers knell.
Drunkennesse is her portion, her purgation,
Is for her burning Ague Fornication:
She needs not the Phisitian's helping hand,
Who freely giues vnto his patients land.
Her conuersation is amongst wild beasts;
Shee euer blesseth founders of great feasts:
Shee'l purge her stupid pate with
Helebore,
That where she hath beene once, she may come more:
Stroke her Rhinoceros nose, shee'l neuer rest,
Till she sniuels out an Elephantine iest:
And shee'l engrose vp all the Table chat,
And laugh, till euery body laugh thereat.
She scornes inferiours, if an heyre she be,
By phauning sycophants deifi'd is she.
She e're malignes, because she flatterie hates:
Like those, who to renounce all Popish baites,
N'ere pure enough doe thinke themselues to bee,
Till they in euery thing doe disagree.
She hath sugar'd-hony-dropping complements,
Of venomous thoughts, the poysoned implemēts,
Shee'l kisse your hand, your picture, shoe-strings, cheekes,
She for bumbasting stuffe in Play-bookes seekes:
As that the red-rose, and the Lillie grow,
In your Angelicall face, thats white as snow:
And that your teeth are like two rowes of pearle,
You may be Concubine to any Earle:
Shee'l crouch with cap in hand, and pardon craue,
Shee'l be your seruant, varlet, vassall, slaue:
You may command her like your 3. pound Iacke,
And yet shee'l cut your throat behind your backe.
(These are the golden hookes, with which shee angles,
And the not-hyperbolicall wretch entangles)
Her Spanish spit doth make her raise much strife,
With which shee'l hood winck't tilt away her life:
Then may the little field-mouse sup the blood,
Of her who hacster-like-insulting stood.
She that doth weare a ribband for a feather,
And quarrels with the faire, and serene weather,
More bawdery hath her knauish-leatherne hide,
Then an old Mid-wife, or an vntusk't bride.
In Colledges, Inns of Court, she fornication
Abhorres, not with the coupled copulation:
To couple with the coupled's Fellow-like,
The law did neuer 'gainst this maxime strike.
Ambition mounts her, as the skipping backe,
The water-coffins which doe suffer wracke:
And makes her cogitations towre as high,
As the early-Sun-saluting Fidlers flye:
Then doth she thinke her selfe some potentate,
When she is begging at anothers gate.
If she hath trauelled, that she hath beene, where
Cambridge, and
Oxford neuer came, sheele sweare:
And that her Tongus are best (me thinks 'tis pitty,
She hangs not Parat-like out in the Citty)
Shee doth allure by her disheuel'd tresses,
For to intice she hath a thousand dresses.
Shee's so insatiate, that in euery roome,
She doth prouide a Lackey, Page, and Groome.
She hath her Monkies, Marmosets, & such toyes,
And much about the age of thirteene, boyes.
All her attendants naked come to waite,
Loue-powder and flat witchcraft is her baite.
Shee Lady-like frequents the Maskes at Court,
Where all the gallant hot-spurres doe resort:
And there shee sits, like women in Cheape-side,
Who for to sell their wares doe there abide.
She without Natures vsefull preparations,
Can satisfie her tickling instigations.
Cantharides, with Eringos, and such cates,
The fiery coales of burning heat inflates,
Vntill the flesh be ouer-roasted growne,
And all the liquor from the pot be flowne:
That so much moysture found can scarce be there,
As for to shed the least repentant teare.
Shee makes her mony flye in needlesse charge,
And for Tobacco her expence is large:
When as she taken hath the same so long,
That like an opened vault her breath is strong,
So that Tobacco now she might forsake,
And at one anothers mouth's she might it take.
She neither heat, nor coldnes can endure,
But in the house shee doth her selfe immure:
She striues not yet to keepe her selfe from Hell,
Where fire must frost, and frost must fire expell.
She vilifies Vniversities, and Schooles,
And wisdome gets by tearming others fooles.
To be aboue Gods
Aarons is her right,
If though her Grandsire clowne, her Sire was Knight.
Not in the Hall, she in the Kitchin gluts,
For finesse sake she wainescoteth her guts:
Till from the mincing mouth you may assume
In all your carued meate, her sweete perfume.
To carry her glasse to Church, if once she misse,
(And if it please her, she may carry this)
So many Tales she will relate in iest,
Till at the length shee'l sweare she did the best.
For to forsweare her selfe shee'l vse this art,
That shee, though not in tongue, hath God in heart:
So when the famish't Prophets doe foretell,
The wages of Church-broking shall be Hell,
Reply the cursed sacrilegious crew,
God bids all liue by him, as well as you.
(But know you damned catyfes, while they want
Their bodies food, your soules is very scant)
When as the fable Night doth ouer spread
Her duskye Canopy, on the drowzie head
Of drooping
Titan, then she takes her rest,
Vpon her dainty downy feathered nest.
And though she cannot but looke vp on high,
Yet she ne're begs for heauens most watchful eye.
Then dismall dreames her wādring sense affright,
Till she awakes, and seekes the mornings light:
But the sin-conscious darknesse she beholds,
And then her close-pent conscience she vnfolds:
But while she searcheth her sins Catalogue out,
Shee feares the Diuell musters round about.
And dreading his vice-scourging-yron rod,
Perhaps shee'l carelesly cry out, O God.
At last of other helpe she doth dispaire,
And therefore spends a Spirit-expelling prayer:
The trickling teares bedew her guilty bed,
She vowes shee'l new conditions firmely wed.
Now she will keepe her body chast as ice,
And not enthrall her selfe to torturing vice.
But when she see's the Mornes vermillion coate,
She quickly changeth this constrained note.
For when her sneaking stalking-horse appeares,
Shee'l say she dream't his death, & shed these teares.
Then to her former trade shee goes afresh,
To warme with feare, her long benummed flesh.
(But if betimes she doth not it forsake,
She may be scorth't in the euer-burning lake,)
The vsing of her owne she thinkes so fit,
That all her kindred may haue vse of it.
Shee'l make her Father pander, Mother bawd,
Husband door-keeper, Children to applaud.
(Thus all her sworne alliance is her guard;
And Lust's most-basely-captiuated ward:
So Lust the roote of all contagious euils,
Supplies the place of men-possessing Diuels)
Shee loues the meanes, but yet not procreation,
For to preuent it is her occupation.
If an abortiue birth she chance to haue,
She will expose it to a murthering slaue.
This sin my Muse to her last gaspe hath brought,
For 'tis so foule, that it hath stop't her throat.
FINIS.