English

All in sattin Oteny will be suted,
Beaten sattin (as by chaunce he cals it);
Oteny sure will have the bastinado.

Kate can fancy only berdles husbands,
Thats the cause she shakes off ev'ry suter,
Thats the cause she lives so stale a virgin,
For, before her heart can heate her answer,
Her smooth youths she finds all hugely berded.

Lockly spits apace, the rhewme he cals it,
But no drop (though often urgd) he straineth
From his thirstie jawes; yet all the morning
And all day he spits, in ev'ry corner;
At his meales he spits, at ev'ry meeting;
At the barre he spits before the Fathers;
In the Court he spits before the Graces;
In the Church he spits, thus all prophaning
With that rude disease, that empty spitting:
Yet no cost he spares, he sees the Doctors,
Keepes a strickt diet, precisely useth
Drinks and bathes drying, yet all prevailes not.

Greatest in thy wars,
Greater in thy peace,
Dread Elizabeth ;
Our muse only Truth,
Figments cannot use,
Thy ritch name to deck
That it selfe adornes:
But should now this age
Let all poesye fayne,
Fayning poesye could
Nothing faine at all
Worthy halfe thy fame.

Raving warre, begot
In the thirstye sands
Of the Lybian Iles,
Wasts our emptye fields;
What the greedye rage
Of fell wintrye stormes
Could not turne to spoile,
Fierce Bellona now
Hath laid desolate,
Voyd of fruit, or hope.
Th' eger thriftye hinde,
Whose rude toyle reviv'd
Our skie-blasted earth,
Himselfe is but earth,
Left a skorne to fate
Through seditious armes:
And that soile, alive
Which he duly nurst,
Which him duly fed,
Dead his body feeds:
Yet not all the glebe

Goe, numbers, boldly passe, stay not for ayde
Of shifting rime, that easie flatterer
Whose witchcraft can the ruder eares beguile.
Let your smooth feete, enur'd to purer arte,
True measures tread. What if your pace be slow,
And hops not like the Grecian elegies?
It is yet gracefull, and well fits the state
Of words ill-breathed, and not shap't to runne.
Goe then, but slowly, till your steps be firme;
Tell them that pitty or perversely skorne
Poore English Poesie as the slave to rime,
You are those loftie numbers that revive

The Writer to his Booke.
Whether thus hasts my little booke so fast?
To Paules Churchyard. What? in those cels to stand,
With one leafe like a riders cloke put up
To catch a termer? or lye mustie there
With rimes a terme set out, or two before?
Some will redeeme me. Fewe. Yes, reade me too.
Fewer. Nay love me. Now thou dot'st, I see.
Will not our English Athens arte defend?
Perhaps. Will lofty courtly wits not ayme
Still at perfection? If I graunt? I flye.
Whether? To Pawles. Alas, poore Booke, I rue

Come a shore, come, merrie mates,
With your nimble heeles and pates:
Summon ev'ry man his Knight,
Enough honour'd is this night.
Now, let your Sea-borne Goddesse come,
Quench these lights, and make all dombe.
Some sleepe; others let her call:
And so Godnight to all, godnight to all.

Let us now sing of Loves delight,
For he alone is Lord to night.

Some friendship betweene man and man prefer,
But I th' affection betweene man and wife.

What good can be in life,
Whereof no fruites appeare?

Set is that Tree in ill houre,
That yeilds neither fruite nor flowre.

How can man Perpetuall be,
But in his owne Posteritie?
CHORUS.
That pleasure is of all most bountifull and kinde,

While dancing rests, fit place to musicke graunting,
Good spels the Fates shall breath, al envy daunting,
Kind eares with Joy enchaunting, chaunting.
CHORUS.
Io, Io Hymen .

Like lookes, like hearts, like loves are linck't together:
So must the Fates be pleas'd, so come they hether,
To make this Joy persever ever.
CHORUS.
Io, Io Hymen .

Love decks the spring, her buds to th' ayre exposing: