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| Saying, Him whom I last left, all repute * |
| For his device, in handsoming a suit, |
| To Judge of lace, pink, panes, print, cut, and pleit, |
| Of all the Court to have the best conceit; |
| Our dull Commedians want him, let him goe; |
| Bnt, oh God strengthen thee, why stoop'st thou so? |
| Why. He hath travelled long; no, but to me |
| Which understood none, he doth seem to be |
| Perfect French, and Italian. I reply'd, |
| So is the Pox. He answer'd not, but spy'd |
| More men of sort, of parts and qualities, |
| At last his love he in window spies, |
| And like light dew exhal'd, he flings from me |
| Violently ravished to his lechery. |
| Many there were, he could command no more; |
| He quarrell'd, fought, bled; and turn'd out of door |
| Directly came to me, hanging the head, |
| And constantly a while must keep his bed. |
|
| Satyre II. |
|
| Sir; though (I thank God for it) I do hate |
| Perfectly all this Town, yet there's one state |
| In all ill things so excellently best, |
| That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest. |
| Though Poetry, indeed, be such a sin, |
| As, I think, that brings dearth, and Spaniards in: |
| Though like the Pestilence, and old fashion'd love, |
| Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove |
| Never, till it be starv'd out, yet their state |
| Is poor, disarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate: |
| One, (like a wretch, which at Barre judg'd as dead, |
| Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot read,
|
[CW: And] |