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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]