|
He cares not he. His ill words do no harm |
To him, he rushes in, as if arm, arm, |
He meant to cry; And though his face be as ill |
As theirs, which in old hangings whip Christ, still |
He strives to look worse, he keeps all in awe; |
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law. |
Tyr'd, now I leave this place, and but pleas'd so |
As men from gaols t' execution go, |
Go through the great chamber (why is it hung |
With the seven deadly sins?) being among |
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw |
Charing Cross for a bar, men that do know |
No token of worth, but Queens man, and fine |
Living, barrels of beef, and flagons of wine. |
I shook like a spied Spie. Preachers which are |
Seas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare, |
Drown the sins of this place, for, for me |
Which am but a scant brook, it enough shall be |
To wash the stains away: Although I yet |
(With Machabees modesty) the known merit |
Of my work lessen: yet some wise men shall, |
I hope, esteem my writs Canonical. |
|
Satyre. V. |
|
Thou shal not laugh in this leafe, Muse, nor they |
Whom any pity warms. He which did lay |
Rules to make Courtiers, he being understood |
May make good courtiers, but who courtiers good? |
Free's from the sting of jests all who in extreme |
Are wretched or wicked, of these two a theam |
Charity and liberty give me. What is he |
Who Officers rage, and Suitors misery
|
[CW: Can] |