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His linnen collar Labyrinthian-set,
Whose thousand double turnings never met:
His sleeves halfe hid with elbow-Pineonings,
As if he meant to flie with linnen wings.
But when I looke, and cast mine eyes below,
What monster meets mine eyes in human show!
So slender wast with such an abbot's loyne,
Did never sober nature sure conjoyne.
Lik’st a strawne scar-crow in the new-sowne field,
Reard on some sticke, the tender corne to shield.
Or if that semblance suite not everie deale“,
Like a broad shak-forke with a slender steale 43.
Despised nature suit them once aright,
Their bodie to their cote, both now mis-dight".
Their bodie to their clothes might shapen bee,
That nillas their clothes shape to their bodie.
Meane while I wonder at so proud a backe,
Whiles th' emptie guts loud rumblen for long lacke :
The bellie envieth the back's bright glee,
And murmurs at such inequalitie.
The backe appeales unto the partial eine,
The plaintive bellie pleads they bribed beene;
And he, for want of better advocate,
Doth to the eare his injurie relate.
The backe, insulting ore the bellie's need,
Says, Thou thy selfe, I others' eyes must feed.
The maw, the guts, all inward parts complaine
The back's great pride, and their own secret paine.
Ye witlesse gallants, I beshrew your harts,
That sets such discord twixt agreeing parts;
Which never can be set at onement more,
Untill the mawe's wide mouth be stopt with store.

THE CONCLUSION OF ALL.

Thus have I writ, in smoother cedar tree,
So gentle Satyrs, pend so easily:
Henceforth I write in crabbed oke-tree rinde,
Search they, that meane the secret meaning finde.
Hold out, ye guiltie and ye galled bides,
And meet my far-fetch'd stripes with waiting sides.

deale-part, division, circumstance. 4 Like a broad SHAK-POKKE with a slender steale. Qu. A fork to toss or shake hay &c. with? mis-dight-ill-dressed.

nill- will not.

VIRGIDEMIARUM.

THE THREE LAST BOOKES,

OF

BYTING SATYRES.

THE

AUTHOR'S CHARGE

TO HIS

SATYRES.

Ye luck-lesse rymes, whom not unkindly spighte
Begot long since of truth and holy rage,
Lye here in wombe of silence and still night,
Untill the broyles of next unquiet age:

That, which is others' grave, shal be your wombe;

And that, which beares you, your eternall toombe. Cease, ere ye gin; and, ere ye live, be dead; And dye and live, ere ever ye be borne : And be not bore, ere ye be buryed; Then after live, sith you have dy'd beforne'.

When I am dead and rotten in the dust,

Then gin to live, and leave when others lust,
For when I dye, shall Envie dye with mee
And lye deepe smother'd with my marble stone;
Which, while I live, cannot be done to dye ;
Nor, if your life gin ere my life be done,

Will hardly yelde t' awayt my mourning hearse,

But for my dead corps change my living verse.
What shall the ashes of my senselesse urne
Neede to regard the raving worlde above?
Sith afterwards I never can returne,
To feele the force of hatred or of love?

Oh! if my soule could see their post-hume spight,

Sbould it not joy and triumph in the sight?
Whatever eye shalt finde this hatefull scrole
After the date of my deare exequies,
Ah! pitty thou my playning orphane's dole,
That faine would see the sunne before it dyes.

It dy'de before : now let it live agane :
Then let it dye, and bide some famus bane.

Satis est potuisse videri.

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