No More Learning

If thou dislik'st the piece thou light'st on first,
Think that of all, that I have writ, the worst:
But if thou read'st my book unto the end,
And still do'st this and that verse, reprehend;
O perverse man! if all disgustful be,
The extreme scab take thee, and thine, for me.


41. THE VINE.

I dreamt this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphos'd to a vine;
Which crawling one and every way
Enthrall'd my dainty Lucia.
Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise;
Her belly, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nerv'lets were embrac'd;
About her head I writhing hung, }
And with rich clusters, hid among }
The leaves, her temples I behung: }
So that my Lucia seem'd to me
Young Bacchus ravish'd by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl,
And arms and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
All parts there made one prisoner.
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancy I awoke;
And found, ah me! this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine.


64. ONCE POOR, STILL PENURIOUS.

Goes the world now, it will with thee go hard:
The fattest hogs we grease the more with lard.
To him that has, there shall be added more;
Who is penurious, he shall still be poor.


99. UPON BLANCH.
Blanch swears her husband's lovely; when a scald
Has blear'd his eyes: besides, his head is bald
Next, his wild ears, like leathern wings full spread,
Flutter to fly, and bear away his head.


109. UPON CUFFE. EPIG.

Cuffe comes to church much: but he keeps his bed
Those Sundays only whenas briefs are read.
This makes Cuffe dull; and troubles him the most,
Because he cannot sleep i' th' church free cost.

_Briefs. _--Letters recommending the collection of alms.


110. UPON FONE A SCHOOLMASTER. EPIG.

Fone says, those mighty whiskers he does wear
Are twigs of birch, and willow, growing there:
If so, we'll think too, when he does condemn
Boys to the lash, that he does whip with them.


126. UPON SCOBBLE. EPIG.

Scobble for whoredom whips his wife; and cries
He'll slit her nose; but blubb'ring, she replies,
Good sir, make no more cuts i' th' outward skin,
One slit's enough to let adultry in.