Nevves from Graues-end sent to nobody.
         Dekker, Thomas, ca. 1572-1632.
      
       
         
           1604
        
      
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             Nevves from Graues-end sent to nobody.
             Dekker, Thomas, ca. 1572-1632.
          
           [48] p.
           
             Printed by T[homas] C[reede] for Thomas Archer, and are to be solde at the long Shop vnder S. Mildreds Church in the Poultry,
             London :
             1604.
          
           
             By Thomas Dekker.
             In verse.
             Printer's name from STC.
             Signatures: A-F⁴.
             The first leaf is blank.
             Running title reads: Newes from Graues-ende.
             Reproduction of a photostat of the original in the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Plague -- England -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
           Plague -- England -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           NEVVES
           from
           Graues-end
           :
           Sent
           to
           Nobody
           .
        
         
           Nec
           Quidquam
           nec
           Cuiquam
           .
        
         
         
           LONDON
           Printed
           by
           T.C.
           for
           Thomas
           Archer
           ,
           and
           are
           to
           be
           solde
           at
           the
           long
           Shop
           vnder
           S.
           Mildreds
           Church
           in
           the
           Poultry
           .
           1604
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           TEE
           EPISTLE
           Dedicatory
           .
        
         
           
             
               To
               Him
               ,
               that
               (
               in
               the
               despite
               and
               neuer-dying-dishonour
               of
               all
               empty
               sisted
               Mecaen-Asses
               )
               is
               the
               Gratious
               ,
               munificent
               ,
               and
               golden
               .
               Rewarder
               of
               Rimes
               :
               singular
               pay-maister
               of
               Songes
               and
               Sonnets
               :
               Vnsquint-eyde
               Surueyor
               of
               Heroicall
               Poems
               :
               Chiefe
               Rent-gatherer
               of
               Poets
               and
               Musitians
               :
               And
               the
               most
               valiant
               Confounder
               of
               their
               desperate
               debts
               .
               And
               to
               the
               comfort
               of
               all
               honest
               Christians
               )
               The
               now-onely-onely-Supper-maker
               to
               Enghles
               &
               Plaiers-Boyes
               ,
               Syr
            
             Nicolas
             Nemo
             ,
             alias
             Nobody
             .
          
        
         
           SHall
           I
           creepe
           (
           like
           a
           drownde
           Ratte
           )
           into
           thy
           warme
           bosome
           ,
           (
           my
           Benefique
           Patron
           !
           )
           with
           a
           piece
           of
           some
           olde
           mustie
           Sentence
           in
           my
           mouth
           ,
           stolne
           out
           of
           
             Lycosthenes
             Apothegmes
          
           ,
           and
           so
           accost
           thee
           ?
           Out
           vpon
           t
           !
           the
           fashion
           of
           such
           Dedications
           is
           more
           stale
           than
           kissing
           .
           No
           ,
           no
           ,
           suffer
           me
           (
           good
           Nobody
           )
           to
           diue
           (
           like
           a
           White-Friars
           Puncke
           )
           into
           thy
           familiar
           &
           solid
           acquaintance
           at
           the
           first
           dash
           :
           And
           in
           stead
           of
           Worshipfull
           Syr
           ,
           come
           vpon
           thee
           with
           honest
           Iew
           ,
           how
           doest
           ?
           Wonder
           not
           that
           out
           of
           the
           whole
           barrell
           of
           pickeld
           
           Pat●ons
           ,
           I
           haue
           onely
           made
           choice
           of
           thee
           ,
           for
           I
           loue
           none
           really
           ,
           but
           thee
           and
           my selfe
           ,
           for
           vs
           two
           do
           I
           only
           care
           ,
           and
           therefore
           I
           coniure
           thee
           ,
           let
           the
           payment
           of
           thine
           affection
           be
           reciprocall
           .
        
         
           They
           are
           Rimes
           that
           I
           have
           boyld
           in
           my
           leaden
           Inckpot
           ,
           for
           thine
           owne
           eating
           :
           And
           now
           (
           rarest
           Nobody
           )
           taste
           the
           reason
           why
           they
           are
           serued
           vp
           to
           thee
           (
           in
           the
           taile
           of
           the
           Plague
           )
           like
           Caveare
           ,
           or
           a
           dish
           of
           Anchoues
           after
           supper
           .
           Know
           then
           (
           Monnsier
           verse-gilder
           )
           that
           I
           haue
           failed
           (
           during
           this
           storme
           of
           the
           Pestilence
           )
           round
           about
           the
           vast
           Iland
           of
           the
           whole
           world
           ,
           which
           when
           I
           found
           to
           be
           made
           like
           a
           foote-ball
           ,
           the
           best
           thing
           in
           it
           ,
           being
           but
           a
           bladder
           of
           mans
           life
           ,
           (
           lost
           with
           a
           litle
           pricke
           )
           I
           tooke
           vp
           my
           foote
           and
           spurnd
           at
           it
           ,
           bicause
           I
           haue
           heard
           that
           none
           but
           fooles
           make
           account
           of
           the
           world
           .
           But
           mistake
           me
           not
           ,
           (
           thou
           Spur-royall
           of
           the
           Muses
           !
           )
           for
           it
           was
           neither
           in
           Sir
           
             Francis
             Drakes
          
           nor
           in
           Candishes
           voyage
           ,
           that
           I
           swom
           through
           so
           much
           salt-water
           :
           But
           onely
           with
           two
           honest
           Card-makers
           
             Peter
             Plamius
          
           and
           
             Gerard
             Mercator
          
           )
           who
           in
           their
           vniuersall
           Maps
           ,
           (
           as
           in
           a
           Barbers
           Looking-glasse
           ,
           where
           a
           nomber
           of
           most
           villanous
           vngodly
           faces
           are
           seene
           ,
           in
           a
           yeare
           ,
           and
           especially
           now
           at
           Christmas
           )
           did
           (
           like
           Country-fellowes
           ,
           that
           is
           to
           say
           very
           plainly
           )
           and
           in
           a
           shorter
           time
           ,
           than
           a
           Sculler
           can
           rowe
           from
           Queene-hyue
           to
           Wapping
           ,
           make
           a
           braue
           discouery
           vnto
           me
           ,
           as
           well
           of
           all
           the
           old
           raine-beaten
           ,
           as
           of
           the
           spicke
           and
           span
           new-found
           worlds
           ,
           with
           euery
           particular
           Kingdome
           ,
           Dukedome
           ,
           and
           Popedome
           in
           their
           liuely
           cullors
           ,
           so
           that
           I
           knew
           Constantinople
           as
           perfectly
           ,
           as
           Iobbin
           ,
           the
           Mault-mans
           horse
           of
           Enfield
           knowes
           the
           way
           to
           London
           :
           and
           could
           haue
           gone
           to
           the
           great
           Turkes
           Serraglio
           (
           where
           he
           keepes
           all
           his
           wenches
           )
           as
           tollerably
           and
           farre
           more
           welcome
           ,
           than
           if
           I
           had
           beene
           one
           of
           his
           Eunuches
           .
           
             Prester
             Iohn
          
           ,
           and
           the
           Sophy
           ,
           were
           neuer
           out
           of
           mine
           eye
           ,
           (
           yet
           my
           sight
           was
           not
           a
           pin
           the
           worse
           )
           .
           The
           Soldan
           of
           Egipt
           
           I
           had
           with
           a
           wet
           finger
           :
           from
           whence
           ,
           I
           trauailed
           as
           boldly
           to
           the
           Courts
           of
           all
           the
           Kings
           in
           Christendome
           ,
           as
           if
           I
           had
           bin
           an
           Embassadour
           )
           his
           pomp
           only
           excepted
           .
           )
        
         
           Strange
           fashions
           did
           I
           pick
           (
           like
           wormes
           )
           out
           of
           the
           fingers
           of
           euery
           Nation
           ,
           a
           number
           of
           phantastick
           Popin-Iayes
           and
           Apes
           (
           with
           faces
           like
           men
           )
           itching
           till
           they
           had
           got
           them
           .
           And
           (
           besides
           fashions
           )
           many
           wonder●
           wo●●hy
           to
           be
           hung
           vp
           (
           like
           Shields
           with
           senseles
           ,
           bald
           ,
           impraesaes
           )
           in
           the
           white
           paper-gallery
           of
           a
           large
           Chronicle
           .
           But
           this
           made
           me
           fret
           out
           worse
           than
           gumd
           Taffaty
           ,
           that
           neither
           in
           any
           one
           of
           those
           Kingdomes
           ,
           (
           no
           nor
           yet
           within
           the
           walls
           and
           water-works
           of
           mine
           own
           country
           )
           could
           I
           either
           find
           or
           heare
           ,
           (
           for
           I
           gaue
           a
           Crier
           a
           King-Harry-groate
           to
           make
           an
           oyes
           )
           no
           nor
           read
           of
           any
           man
           ,
           woman
           or
           child
           ,
           left
           so
           wel
           by
           their
           friends
           ,
           or
           that
           caryed
           such
           an
           honest
           mind
           to
           the
           Common-wealth
           of
           the
           Castalians
           ,
           as
           to
           keepe
           open-house
           for
           the
           seauen
           poore
           Liberall
           Sciences
           :
           nor
           once
           (
           which
           euen
           the
           rich
           cubs
           and
           fox-furd
           curmudgens
           do
           )
           make
           thē
           good
           cheere
           so
           much
           as
           at
           Christmas
           ,
           whē
           euery
           cobler
           has
           licence
           (
           vnder
           the
           broad
           Seale
           of
           Hospitality
           )
           to
           sit
           cheeke
           by
           iowle
           at
           the
           table
           of
           a
           very
           Aldermans
           deputy
           .
        
         
           What
           woodcocks
           then
           are
           these
           seauen
           wise
           maisters
           to
           answere
           to
           that
           worme-eaten
           name
           of
           Liberall
           ,
           seeing
           it
           has
           vndone
           them
           ?
           It
           's
           a
           name
           of
           the
           old
           fashion
           :
           It
           came
           vp
           with
           the
           old
           Religion
           ,
           and
           went
           down
           with
           the
           new
           .
           Liberality
           has
           bin
           a
           Gentleman
           of
           a
           good
           house
           ,
           and
           an
           ancient
           house
           ,
           but
           now
           that
           old
           house
           (
           like
           the
           Players
           old
           Hall
           at
           Dowgate
           )
           is
           falne
           to
           decay
           ,
           and
           to
           repaire
           it
           ,
           requires
           too
           much
           cost
           .
           My
           seauen
           lattin-sellers
           ,
           haue
           bin
           liberall
           so
           long
           to
           others
           ,
           that
           now
           they
           haue
           not
           a
           rag
           (
           or
           almost
           nothing
           but
           rags
           )
           left
           for
           themselues
           :
           Yea
           and
           into
           such
           pitifull
           predicaments
           are
           they
           fallen
           ,
           that
           most
           of
           our
           Gentry
           (
           besides
           the
           Punyes
           of
           Innes
           of
           Court
           and
           Chancery
           )
           takes
           them
           for
           the
           Seauen
           Deadly
           Sinnes
           ,
           and
           
           hate
           him
           worse
           than
           they
           hate
           whores
           .
           How
           much
           happier
           had
           it
           bin
           for
           them
           ,
           to
           haue
           changed
           their
           copies
           ,
           &
           trō
           Sciences
           bin
           bound
           to
           good
           Occupations
           ,
           cōsidering
           that
           one
           
           London-occupier
           (
           dealing
           vprightly
           with
           all
           men
           )
           puts
           vp
           more
           in
           a
           weeke
           ,
           than
           seuen
           Bachilers
           of
           Art
           (
           that
           euery
           day
           goe
           barely
           a
           wooing
           to
           them
           )
           do
           in
           a
           yeare
           .
        
         
           Hath
           not
           the
           Plague
           (
           incomparable
           Nobody
           :
           and
           therefore
           incomparable
           ,
           bicause
           with
           an
           
           Aeneas-like
           glory
           ,
           thou
           hast
           redeemed
           the
           golden-tree
           of
           Poesie
           ,
           euen
           out
           of
           the
           hellish
           scorne
           ,
           that
           this
           worlde
           (
           out
           of
           her
           Luciferan
           pride
           )
           hopes
           to
           dam
           it
           with
           )
           hath
           it
           not
           I
           say
           done
           all
           men
           knights
           seruice
           in
           working
           the
           downfal
           of
           our
           greatest
           &
           greediest
           beggers
           ?
           
             Dieite
             Io
             Paean
          
           ,
           You
           yong
           Sophisticall
           Fry
           of
           the
           Vniuersities
           !
           breake
           Priscians
           pate
           (
           if
           hee
           crosse
           you
           )
           for
           ioy
           :
           for
           had
           not
           the
           Plague
           stuck
           to
           you
           in
           this
           case
           ,
           fixe
           of
           your
           seuen
           Academicall
           sweet-hearts
           (
           if
           I
           saide
           all
           seuen
           I
           should
           not
           lye
           vpon
           them
           )
           had
           long
           ere
           this
           (
           but
           that
           some
           Doctors
           withstood
           it
           )
           bene
           begd
           ,
           (
           not
           for
           Wards
           ,
           yet
           some
           of
           them
           haue
           lodged
           I
           can
           tell
           you
           in
           the
           knights
           Warde
           )
           but
           for
           meere
           Stones
           ,
           and
           Chesters
           ,
           Fooles
           ,
           Fooles
           ,
           and
           Iesters
           ,
           because
           whereas
           some
           of
           their
           Chymicall
           &
           Alchymicall
           raw
           disciples
           haue
           learnt
           (
           at
           their
           hands
           )
           to
           distill
           gold
           and
           siluer
           out
           of
           very
           Tauerne-bushes
           ,
           old
           greazy
           knaues
           of
           Diamonds
           ,
           the
           dust
           of
           bowling
           Allyes
           ,
           yea
           &
           like
           
             Aesops
             Gallus
             Gallinaceus
          
           ,
           to
           scrape
           precious
           stones
           euen
           out
           of
           dung-hils
           ,
           yet
           they
           themselues
           (
           poore
           harletries
           )
           had
           neuer
           the
           grace
           ,
           nor
           the
           face
           ,
           to
           cary
           one
           peny
           in
           their
           own
           purses
           .
        
         
           But
           to
           speak
           truth
           (
           my
           noble
           curer
           of
           the
           poeticall
           madnesse
           for
           nothing
           )
           where
           should
           they
           haue
           it
           ?
           Let
           them
           be
           sent
           into
           the
           courts
           of
           Princes
           ,
           there
           they
           are
           so
           lordly
           ,
           that
           (
           vnles
           they
           were
           bigger
           &
           taller
           of
           their
           hands
           ,
           than
           so
           many
           of
           the
           Guard
           )
           euery
           one
           lookes
           ouer
           thē
           ,
           of
           it
           they
           giue
           him
           any
           thing
           ,
           it
           's
           nothing
           but
           good
           lookes
           .
           As
           for
           the
           Citie
           ,
           that
           's
           so
           full
           of
           Crafts-men
           ,
           there
           is
           no
           dealing
           with
           their
           
           misteries
           :
           the
           nine
           Muses
           stand
           in
           a
           brown
           study
           ,
           whē
           they
           come
           within
           their
           liberties
           ,
           like
           so
           many
           mad
           wenches
           takē
           in
           a
           watch
           &
           broght
           before
           a
           bench
           of
           Brown
           bils
           .
           
             O
             Ciues
             ,
             Ciues
             !
             quaerenda
             pecunia
             primum
             !
             Virtus
             post
             Nummos
             :
          
           First
           open
           your
           purses
           ,
           and
           then
           be
           vertuous
           ,
           part
           not
           with
           a
           peny
           :
           the
           rich
           mizers
           holde
           their
           owne
           by
           this
           Canon
           lawe
           .
           And
           for
           those
           (
           whom
           in
           English
           we
           call
           poore
           snakes
           )
           Alas
           !
           they
           are
           barde
           (
           by
           the
           Statute
           against
           Beggers
           )
           from
           giuing
           a
           dandiprat
           or
           a
           Bawbee
           .
           In
           the
           Campe
           there
           is
           nothing
           to
           be
           had
           but
           blowes
           and
           Prouant
           :
           for
           souldiers
           had
           neuer
           worse
           doings
           :
           My
           sweet
           Captain
           ,
           bestowes
           his
           pipe
           of
           rich
           Trynidado
           (
           taking
           the
           Muses
           for
           Irish
           Chimny-sweepers
           )
           and
           that
           's
           his
           Talent
           .
        
         
           Being
           in
           this
           melancholy
           contemplation
           ,
           and
           hauing
           wept
           a
           whole
           ynck-horne
           full
           of
           Verses
           in
           bewailing
           the
           miseries
           of
           the
           time
           ,
           on
           the
           suddaine
           I
           started
           vp
           :
           with
           my
           teeth
           bit
           my
           writings
           ,
           because
           I
           would
           eate
           my
           words
           :
           condemnd
           my
           pen-knife
           to
           the
           cutting
           of
           powder-beefe
           and
           brewes
           :
           my
           paper
           to
           the
           drying
           and
           inflaming
           of
           Tobacco
           :
           and
           my
           Retirements
           to
           a
           more
           Gentleman-like
           recreation
           ,
           viz.
           Duke
           Humphres
           walke
           in
           Powles
           :
           swearing
           fiue
           or
           sixe
           poeticall
           furious
           oathes
           ,
           that
           the
           Goose-quill
           should
           neuer
           more
           gull
           me
           ,
           to
           make
           me
           shoote
           paper-bullets
           into
           any
           Stationers
           shop
           ,
           or
           to
           serue
           vnder
           the
           weather-beaten
           colours
           of
           Apollo
           ,
           seeing
           his
           pay
           was
           no
           better
           .
           Yet
           remembring
           what
           a
           notable
           good
           fellow
           thou
           wert
           :
           the
           onely
           Atlas
           that
           supports
           the
           Olympian
           honour
           of
           learning
           :
           and
           (
           out
           of
           thy
           horne
           of
           Abundance
           )
           a
           continuall
           Benefactor
           to
           all
           Schollers
           (
           Thou
           matchlesse
           Nobody
           !
           )
           I
           set
           vp
           my
           rest
           ,
           and
           vowde
           to
           consecrate
           all
           my
           blotting-papers
           onely
           to
           thee
           :
           And
           not
           content
           to
           dignifie
           thee
           with
           that
           loue
           and
           honor
           of
           my selfe
           :
           I
           sommond
           all
           the
           Rymesters
           ,
           Play-patchers
           ,
           Iig-makers
           ,
           Ballad-mongers
           ,
           &
           Pamphlet-stitchers
           (
           being
           the
           yeomanry
           of
           the
           Company
           )
           together
           with
           all
           
           those
           whom
           Theocrytus
           calls
           the
           Muses
           Byrds
           (
           being
           the
           Maisters
           and
           head-Wardens
           )
           and
           before
           them
           all
           made
           an
           ●ncomiasticall
           Oration
           in
           praise
           of
           Nobody
           ,
           (
           scilicet
           your
           proper
           selfe
           )
           pronouncing
           them
           Asses
           ,
           and
           threatning
           to
           haue
           them
           prest
           to
           serue
           at
           sea
           in
           the
           ship
           of
           Fooles
           ,
           if
           euer
           hereafter
           ,
           they
           taught
           their
           lynes
           (
           like
           water-Spaniels
           )
           to
           
             fetch
             any
             thing
          
           that
           were
           throwne
           out
           for
           thē
           ,
           or
           to
           diue
           into
           the
           vnworthy
           commendations
           of
           
             Lucius
             Apuleius
          
           ,
           or
           any
           Golden-Asle
           of
           them
           all
           ,
           being
           for
           their
           paines
           clapt
           only
           on
           the
           shoulder
           ,
           and
           sent
           away
           dropping
           ,
           when
           as
           thy
           leatherne
           bagges
           stand
           more
           open
           than
           Seacoale
           sackes
           more
           bounteously
           to
           reward
           them
           .
        
         
           I
           had
           no
           sooner
           cut
           out
           thy
           vertues
           in
           these
           large
           cantles
           ,
           but
           all
           the
           Synagogue
           of
           Scribes
           gaue
           a
           Pla●dite
           ,
           crying
           out
           
             Viua
             voce
          
           ,
           with
           one
           loud
           throat
           ,
           that
           All
           their
           verses
           should
           henceforth
           haue
           more
           feete
           ,
           and
           take
           longer
           strides
           than
           if
           they
           went
           vpon
           stilttes
           ,
           onely
           to
           carry
           thy
           glorious
           praises
           ouer
           the
           earth
           :
           And
           that
           none
           (
           but
           Nobody
           )
           should
           licke
           the
           fat
           of
           their
           Inuentions
           :
           that
           Dukes
           ,
           Earles
           ,
           Lordes
           and
           Ladies
           ,
           should
           haue
           their
           Il-liberal
           names
           torn
           out
           of
           those
           bookes
           whose
           Authors
           they
           sent
           away
           with
           a
           Flea
           in
           their
           eare
           ,
           And
           the
           stile
           of
           Nobody
           in
           Capitall
           Romane
           Letters
           ,
           brauely
           Printed
           in
           their
           places
           .
        
         
           Herevpon
           crowding
           their
           heads
           together
           ,
           and
           amongst
           thēselues
           canuasing
           more
           &
           more
           thy
           inexplicable
           worth
           ,
           All
           of
           them
           (
           as
           inspirde
           )
           burst
           suddenly
           forth
           ,
           and
           sung
           extemporall
           Odes
           in
           thine
           honor
           ,
           &
           Palynodes
           in
           recanta
           iō
           of
           all
           former
           good
           opinions
           held
           of
           niggardly
           patrons
           :
           One
           of
           them
           magnifying
           thee
           ,
           for
           that
           in
           this
           pestiferous
           shipwrack
           of
           Londoners
           ,
           when
           the
           Pilot
           ,
           Boteswaines
           ,
           Maister
           and
           Maisters-mates
           ,
           with
           all
           the
           chiefe
           Mariners
           that
           had
           charge
           in
           this
           goodly
           Argozy
           of
           gouernment
           ,
           leapt
           from
           the
           sterne
           ,
           strooke
           all
           the
           sailes
           from
           the
           maine
           yard
           to
           the
           mizzen
           ;
           neuer
           lookt
           to
           the
           Compasse
           ,
           neuer
           fownded
           in
           places
           of
           danger
           ,
           nor
           so
           much
           as
           put
           out
           their
           Close-fights
           ,
           
           when
           they
           saw
           a
           most
           cruel
           man
           of
           warre
           pursue
           them
           ,
           but
           suffred
           all
           to
           sinke
           or
           swim
           ,
           crying
           out
           onely
           ,
           Put
           your
           trust
           in
           God
           my
           Bullies
           ,
           &
           not
           in
           vs
           ,
           whilst
           they
           either
           hid
           them selues
           vnder
           hatches
           ,
           or
           else
           scrambled
           to
           shoare
           in
           Cock-boats
           :
           yet
           thou
           (
           vndanted
           Nobody
           )
           then
           ,
           euen
           then
           ,
           didst
           stand
           stoutly
           to
           thy
           tackling
           ,
           step
           coragiously
           to
           the
           helme
           ,
           and
           manfully
           runne
           vp
           &
           downe
           ,
           encouraging
           those
           (
           with
           comfortable
           words
           )
           whose
           hearts
           laie
           coldly
           in
           their
           bellies
           .
           Another
           lifted
           thee
           vp
           aboue
           the
           third
           Heauen
           ,
           for
           playing
           the
           Constable
           part
           so
           rarely
           :
           And
           (
           not
           as
           your
           commō
           Constables
           ,
           charging
           poore
           sick
           wretches
           ,
           that
           had
           neither
           meate
           nor
           mony
           ,
           in
           the
           kings
           name
           to
           keepe
           their
           houses
           ,
           that
           's
           to
           say
           ,
           to
           famish
           &
           die
           :
           But
           discharging
           whole
           baskets
           full
           of
           victualls
           (
           like
           vollies
           of
           shot
           )
           in
           at
           their
           windowes
           :
           thou
           ,
           onely
           thou
           (
           most
           charitable
           Nobody
           ,
           madest
           them
           as
           fat
           as
           butter
           ,
           &
           preseruedst
           their
           liues
           .
           A
           third
           extold
           thy
           martiall
           discipline
           ,
           in
           appointing
           Ambushes
           of
           Surgeons
           and
           Apothecaries
           ,
           to
           lye
           close
           in
           euery
           ward
           ,
           of
           purpose
           to
           cut
           of
           any
           cōuoy
           that
           broght
           the
           plague
           succor
           .
           A
           fourth
           swore
           at
           the
           next
           Impressiō
           of
           the
           Chronicles
           ,
           to
           haue
           thy
           name
           ,
           with
           the
           yeare
           of
           our
           Lord
           &
           certain
           Hexameter
           verses
           under-neath
           )
           all
           in
           great
           goldē
           letters
           ,
           wherin
           thy
           Fame
           should
           be
           consecrated
           to
           eternall
           memory
           ,
           for
           carefully
           purchasing
           conuenient
           plots
           of
           ground
           ,
           onlie
           for
           Burialls
           (
           and
           those
           out
           of
           the
           Citie
           too
           ,
           as
           they
           did
           in
           Ierusalem
           )
           to
           the
           intent
           ,
           that
           threescore
           (
           contrary
           to
           an
           Act
           of
           common
           Councell
           against
           In-mates
           might
           not
           be
           pestred
           together
           ,
           in
           one
           litle
           hole
           ,
           where
           they
           lie
           and
           rot
           :
           but
           that
           a
           poore
           man
           might
           for
           his
           mony
           haue
           elbow-roome
           ,
           &
           not
           haue
           his
           guts
           thrust
           out
           to
           be
           eaten
           vp
           with
           paltry
           worms
           :
           least
           when
           in
           hot
           and
           drie
           Sommers
           (
           that
           are
           yet
           not
           dreamed
           on
           )
           those
           mustie
           bodies
           putrifying
           ,
           the
           inavoydable
           stench
           of
           their
           strong
           breath
           be
           smelt
           out
           by
           the
           Sun
           ,
           and
           then
           there
           's
           new
           worke
           for
           Clarkes
           and
           Sextons
           .
        
         
         
           Thus
           had
           euery
           one
           a
           flirt
           at
           thy
           praises
           :
           if
           thou
           hadst
           bene
           begde
           to
           haue
           plaid
           an
           Anatomy
           in
           Barber-surgions
           Hall
           ,
           thy
           good
           parts
           could
           not
           haue
           bene
           more
           curiosly
           ript
           vp
           :
           they
           diu'de
           into
           the
           very
           bowels
           of
           thy
           hartie
           commendations
           .
           So
           that
           I
           ,
           that
           (
           like
           a
           Match
           )
           scarce
           gaue
           fire
           before
           ,
           to
           the
           dankish
           powder
           of
           their
           apprehensions
           ,
           was
           now
           burnt
           vp
           my self
           ,
           in
           the
           flames
           of
           a
           more
           ardent
           affection
           towards
           thee
           ,
           kindled
           by
           them
           .
           For
           presently
           the
           court
           brake
           vp
           ,
           and
           (
           without
           a
           quarter-dinner
           )
           all
           parted
           :
           their
           heads
           being
           great
           with
           childe
           ,
           and
           aking
           very
           pittifully
           ,
           till
           they
           were
           deliuered
           of
           
             Hymnes
             ,
             Hexasticons
             ,
             Paeans
          
           ,
           and
           such
           other
           Panegyricall
           stuffe
           ,
           which
           euery
           one
           thought
           7.
           yeare
           till
           he
           had
           brought
           forth
           ,
           to
           testifie
           the
           loue
           that
           he
           bore
           to
           Nobody
           :
           In
           aduancement
           of
           whose
           honour
           (
           and
           this
           was
           sworne
           vpon
           a
           pen
           &
           ynck-horne
           in
           stead
           of
           a
           sword
           ,
           yet
           they
           al
           write
           
             Tam
             marti
             quàm
             mercurio
          
           ,
           but
           how
           lawfully
           let
           the
           Heralds
           haue
           an
           eye
           too
           t
           )
           they
           vowd
           &
           swore
           very
           terribly
           ,
           to
           sacrifice
           the
           very
           liues
           of
           their
           inuention
           ;
           And
           whē
           they
           wanted
           ynck
           (
           as
           many
           of
           them
           do
           wanting
           mony
           )
           or
           had
           no
           more
           (
           like
           a
           Chancery-man
           )
           but
           one
           pen
           in
           all
           the
           world
           ,
           parcell
           of
           their
           oath
           was
           ,
           to
           write
           with
           their
           blood
           and
           a
           broome-stick
           before
           they
           would
           sit
           idle
           .
        
         
           Accept
           therefore
           (
           for
           hansell-sake
           )
           these
           curtall
           Rymes
           of
           ours
           (
           thou
           Capon-feaster
           of
           schollers
           :
           )
           I
           call
           thē
           News
           frō
           Graues-end
           :
           Be
           it
           knowne
           vnto
           thy
           Non-residence
           ,
           that
           I
           come
           not
           neare
           that
           Graues-end
           (
           which
           takes
           his
           beginning
           in
           Kent
           )
           by
           twenty
           miles
           at
           least
           ;
           but
           the
           end
           of
           those
           Graues
           do
           I
           shoote
           at
           ,
           which
           were
           cast
           vp
           here
           in
           London
           ,
           to
           stand
           as
           land-marks
           for
           euery
           parish
           ,
           to
           teach
           them
           how
           far
           they
           were
           to
           goe
           :
           laying
           down
           (
           so
           wel
           as
           I
           can
           )
           the
           maner
           how
           death
           &
           his
           army
           of
           pestilent
           Archers
           ,
           entred
           the
           field
           ,
           and
           how
           euery
           arrow
           that
           they
           drew
           ,
           did
           almost
           cleaue
           a
           heart
           in
           sunder
           .
           Reade
           ouer
           but
           one
           leafe
           (
           deare
           Nobody
           )
           &
           thou
           purst
           vpō
           me
           an
           armor
           of
           proofe
           against
           the
           rankling
           teeth
           
           of
           those
           mad
           dogs
           (
           cald
           Booke-biters
           )
           that
           run
           barking
           vp
           and
           downe
           Powles
           Church-yard
           ,
           and
           bite
           the
           Muses
           by
           the
           shinnes
           Commend
           thou
           my
           labours
           ,
           and
           I
           will
           labour
           onely
           to
           commend
           thee
           :
           for
           thy
           humor
           being
           pleasd
           ,
           all
           the
           mewing
           Critists
           in
           the
           world
           shall
           not
           fright
           me
           .
           I
           know
           the
           Stationers
           will
           wish
           me
           and
           my
           papers
           burnt
           (
           like
           hereticks
           )
           at
           the
           Crosse
           ,
           if
           thou
           doest
           (
           now
           )
           but
           enter
           into
           their
           Shops
           by
           my
           meanes
           :
           It
           would
           fret
           their
           hearts
           to
           see
           thee
           at
           their
           Stalls
           reading
           my
           Newes
           .
           Yet
           therein
           they
           deale
           doubly
           ,
           and
           like
           notable
           dissemblers
           ,
           for
           all
           the
           time
           of
           this
           Plaguy
           Allarum
           ,
           they
           marcht
           only
           vnder
           thy
           cullors
           :
           desirde
           none
           but
           thy
           company
           ▪
           none
           but
           thy
           selle
           wert
           welcome
           to
           them
           :
           none
           but
           Nobody
           (
           as
           they
           all
           cride
           out
           the
           thine
           immortall
           commendatious
           )
           bought
           bookes
           of
           them
           :
           Nobody
           was
           their
           best
           ,
           and
           most
           bounteous
           customer
           .
           Fye
           on
           this
           hollow-hearted
           world
           !
           Do
           they
           shake
           thee
           off
           now
           ?
           Be
           wise
           ,
           and
           come
           not
           neere
           them
           by
           twelue-score
           at
           least
           ,
           so
           shalt
           thou
           not
           neede
           to
           care
           what
           disgraces
           they
           shoote
           at
           thee
           .
           But
           leauing
           them
           to
           their
           old
           tune
           ,
           of
           
             What
             new
             Bookes
             do
             you
             lack
             ?
          
           prick
           vp
           thine
           eares
           like
           a
           March-Hare
           (
           at
           the
           sudden
           cry
           of
           a
           kennell
           of
           hounds
           )
           and
           listen
           what
           newes
           the
           Post
           that
           's
           come
           from
           Winchester
           -
           Terme
           windes
           out
           of
           his
           horne
           .
        
         
           O
           that
           thou
           hadst
           taken
           a
           lease
           there
           (
           happy
           Nobody
           )
           but
           for
           one
           moneth
           ,
           the
           place
           had
           (
           for
           thy
           sake
           )
           bin
           well
           spoken
           of
           for
           euer
           .
           Many
           did
           heartily
           pray
           (
           especially
           Watermen
           ,
           and
           Players
           ,
           besides
           the
           Drawers
           ,
           Tapsters
           ,
           Butchers
           ,
           and
           Inholders
           ,
           with
           all
           the
           rest
           of
           the
           hungry
           Cominaltie
           of
           Westminster
           )
           for
           thy
           going
           thither
           .
           Ten
           thousand
           in
           London
           swore
           to
           feast
           their
           neighbors
           with
           nothing
           but
           plum-porredge
           ,
           and
           mince-pyes
           all
           Christmas
           ,
           (
           that
           now
           for
           anger
           will
           not
           bestow
           a
           crust
           on
           a
           begger
           )
           vpon
           condition
           that
           all
           the
           Iudges
           ,
           Sergeants
           ,
           Barristers
           ,
           and
           Atturnies
           ,
           had
           not
           set
           a
           foot
           out
           of
           dores
           ,
           but
           that
           thou
           only
           (
           in
           pomp
           )
           
           (
           sauing
           them
           that
           labour
           )
           hadst
           rode
           the
           iourney
           ,
           so
           greedily
           did
           they
           thirst
           after
           thy
           preferment
           .
           For
           hadst
           thou
           bin
           there
           ,
           those
           black-buckrom
           tragedies
           had
           neuer
           bin
           seene
           ,
           that
           there
           haue
           bin
           acted
           .
           Alas
           !
           its
           a
           beastly
           thing
           to
           report
           .
           But
           (
           truth
           must
           out
           )
           poore
           dumb
           Horses
           were
           made
           meere
           Iades
           ,
           being
           vsed
           to
           villanouslie
           ,
           that
           they
           durst
           neither
           weihy
           nor
           wag
           taile
           .
           And
           though
           the
           riders
           of
           them
           had
           growne
           neuer
           so
           chollerick
           ,
           and
           chaft
           till
           they
           foamd
           againe
           ,
           an
           Hostler
           to
           walke
           them
           was
           not
           to
           be
           had
           for
           loue
           or
           money
           .
           Neither
           could
           the
           Geldings
           (
           euen
           of
           Gentlemen
           )
           get
           leaue
           (
           for
           all
           they
           swet
           til
           they
           dropt
           again
           )
           to
           stand
           as
           they
           had
           wont
           at
           Rack
           &
           Manger
           .
           (
           no
           ,
           no
           ,
           t
           was
           enough
           for
           their
           maisters
           to
           haue
           that
           honor
           )
           but
           now
           (
           a-against
           all
           equitie
           )
           were
           they
           cald
           (
           when
           they
           little
           thought
           of
           any
           such
           matter
           )
           to
           a
           deere
           reckoning
           for
           all
           their
           old
           wilde-oates
           .
        
         
           A
           cōspiracy
           there
           was
           amōgst
           all
           the
           Inkeepers
           ,
           that
           
             Iack
             Straw
          
           (
           an
           ancient
           rebell
           )
           should
           choak
           al
           the
           horses
           :
           and
           the
           better
           to
           bring
           this
           to
           passe
           ,
           a
           bottle
           of
           hay
           was
           sold
           deerer
           then
           a
           bottle
           of
           wine
           at
           London
           .
           A
           trusse
           cost
           more
           ,
           then
           maister
           Maiors
           trusse
           of
           Forduch
           ,
           with
           the
           sleeues
           &
           belly-piece
           all
           of
           bare
           Sattin
           to
           boote
           :
           Which
           knauery
           being
           smelt
           out
           ,
           the
           horsemen
           grew
           pollitick
           ,
           &
           neuer
           sate
           downe
           to
           dinner
           ,
           but
           their
           Nags
           were
           still
           at
           their
           elbowes
           :
           so
           that
           it
           grew
           to
           be
           as
           ordinary
           a
           question
           ,
           to
           aske
           ,
           
             What
             shall
             I
             pay
             for
             a
             Chamber
             for
             my selfe
             and
             my
             Gelding
             all
             night
             ,
          
           (
           because
           they
           would
           not
           be
           Iaded
           any
           more
           )
           as
           in
           other
           countrey
           townes
           ,
           
             For
             my
             wife
             and
             my selfe
          
           ,
           for
           a
           beast
           and
           a
           man
           were
           entertained
           both
           alike
           ,
           and
           that
           in
           such
           wonderful
           sort
           ,
           that
           thei
           le
           speake
           of
           it
           ,
           
             In
             aeternam
             rei
             memoriam
          
           .
           For
           most
           of
           their
           roomes
           were
           fairely
           built
           (
           out
           of
           the
           ground
           ,
           but
           not
           out
           of
           the
           durt
           )
           like
           Irish
           Houels
           ,
           hung
           round
           about
           with
           cobweb-lawne
           very
           richly
           ,
           and
           furnished
           ,
           no
           Aldermans
           Parlor
           in
           London
           like
           them
           :
           for
           here
           's
           your
           bed
           ,
           there
           a
           
           stable
           ,
           and
           that
           a
           hogsty
           ,
           yet
           so
           artificially
           contriu'd
           ,
           that
           they
           stand
           all
           vnder
           one
           roofe
           ,
           to
           the
           amazement
           of
           all
           that
           behold
           them
           .
        
         
           But
           what
           a
           childishnes
           is
           it
           ,
           to
           get
           vp
           thus
           vpon
           their
           Hobby-horses
           ,
           let
           them
           bite
           a
           the
           bridle
           ,
           whilst
           we
           haue
           about
           with
           the
           men
           .
           As
           for
           the
           women
           ,
           they
           may
           laugh
           and
           lye
           downe
           ,
           it
           s
           a
           merry
           world
           with
           them
           ,
           but
           some-body
           payes
           for
           it
           .
           O
           Winchester
           !
           much
           mutton
           hast
           thou
           to
           answer
           for
           ,
           which
           thou
           hast
           made
           away
           (
           being
           sluttishly
           fryed
           out
           in
           steakes
           ,
           or
           in
           burnt
           Carbonadoes
           )
           thy
           maid-seruants
           best
           know
           how
           ,
           if
           they
           were
           cald
           to
           an
           account
           .
           It
           was
           happy
           for
           some
           ,
           that
           4.
           of
           the
           Returnes
           were
           cut
           off
           ,
           for
           if
           they
           had
           held
           together
           ,
           many
           a
           one
           had
           neuer
           returned
           from
           thence
           his
           owne
           man.
           Oh
           beware
           !
           your
           
           Winchester-Goose
           is
           tenne
           times
           more
           dangerous
           to
           surfet
           vpon
           ,
           than
           your
           
             S.
             Nicholas
          
           Shambles-Capon
           .
        
         
           You
           talke
           of
           a
           Plague
           in
           London
           ,
           &
           red
           Crosses
           set
           vpon
           dores
           ,
           but
           ten
           plagues
           cannot
           melt
           so
           many
           crosses
           of
           siluer
           out
           of
           Lawyers
           purses
           ,
           as
           the
           Winchesterians
           (
           with
           a
           hey-pas
           ,
           re-pas
           )
           iugled
           out
           of
           theirs
           to
           put
           into
           their
           owne
           .
           Patient
           they
           were
           I
           must
           needes
           confesse
           ,
           for
           they
           would
           pocket
           vp
           any
           thing
           ,
           came
           it
           neuer
           so
           wrongfully
           ,
           insomuch
           that
           very
           good
           substantiall
           householders
           haue
           oftentimes
           gone
           away
           with
           crackt
           crownes
           ,
           &
           neuer
           cōplaind
           of
           thē
           that
           gaue
           thē
           .
           If
           euer
           mony
           were
           currant
           (
           
             à
             currēdo
          
           ,
           of
           rūning
           away
           )
           now
           was
           the
           time
           ,
           it
           ran
           frō
           the
           poore
           clients
           to
           the
           Atturneys
           &
           Clarks
           of
           bands
           in
           small
           troopes
           (
           here
           10
           &
           there
           20
           )
           but
           when
           the
           Leaguers
           of
           Winchester
           cried
           Charge
           ,
           Charge
           ,
           the
           Lawyers
           paid
           for
           t
           ,
           they
           went
           to
           the
           pot
           full
           deerely
           ,
           &
           the
           townesmen
           still
           caryed
           away
           all
           the
           noble
           and
           royall
           victories
           .
           So
           that
           being
           puft
           vp
           with
           an
           opinion
           ,
           that
           the
           Siluer
           Age
           was
           crept
           into
           the
           world
           againe
           ,
           they
           denyed
           (
           in
           a
           manner
           )
           the
           Kings
           Coyne
           ,
           for
           a
           penny
           was
           no
           money
           with
           them
           .
           Whensoeuer
           there
           shall
           come
           forth
           a
           Prest
           
           for
           Souldiers
           ,
           thither
           let
           it
           be
           sent
           ,
           for
           by
           all
           the
           opinion
           of
           the
           best
           Captaines
           (
           that
           had
           a
           charge
           there
           ,
           and
           haue
           tryed
           them
           )
           the
           men
           of
           Winchester
           are
           the
           onely
           seruiceable
           men
           this
           day
           in
           England
           :
           the
           reason
           is
           ,
           they
           care
           no
           more
           to
           venture
           among
           small
           shots
           ,
           than
           to
           be
           at
           the
           discharging
           of
           so
           many
           Cannes
           of
           beere
           :
           Tush
           ,
           us
           their
           desire
           ,
           to
           see
           those
           that
           enter
           vpon
           them
           ,
           to
           come
           off
           soundly
           ,
           that
           when
           they
           are
           gone
           ,
           all
           the
           world
           may
           beare
           witnes
           they
           came
           to
           their
           cost
           .
        
         
           And
           being
           thus
           (
           night
           and
           day
           )
           imploid
           ,
           and
           continually
           entring
           into
           Action
           ,
           it
           makes
           them
           haue
           mightie
           stomacks
           ,
           so
           that
           they
           are
           able
           to
           soake
           and
           deuoure
           all
           that
           come
           in
           their
           way
           :
           A
           Rapier
           and
           a
           Cloake
           haue
           bin
           eaten
           vp
           at
           a
           Supper
           as
           cleane
           (
           and
           caryed
           away
           well
           too
           )
           as
           if
           they
           had
           bin
           but
           two
           Rabbet-suckers
           .
           A
           Nag
           serued
           but
           one
           Seruing-man
           to
           a
           breakefast
           ,
           whilst
           the
           Saddle
           and
           Bridle
           were
           brewd
           into
           a
           quart
           of
           strong
           Beere
           .
        
         
           This
           intollerable
           destroying
           of
           victuals
           being
           lookt
           into
           ,
           the
           Inhabitants
           laid
           their
           heads
           together
           ,
           and
           agreed
           among
           themselues
           (
           for
           the
           general
           good
           of
           the
           whole
           Towne
           )
           to
           make
           it
           a
           towne
           of
           Garrison
           .
           And
           seeing
           the
           desperate
           Termers
           ,
           that
           stroue
           in
           lawe
           together
           ,
           in
           such
           a
           pittifull
           pickle
           ,
           and
           euery
           day
           so
           durty
           ,
           that
           when
           they
           met
           their
           Councell
           ,
           they
           lookt
           like
           the
           black
           Guard
           ,
           fighting
           with
           the
           Innes
           of
           Court
           ,
           that
           therefore
           all
           the
           Householders
           should
           turne
           Turke
           ,
           and
           be
           victuallers
           to
           the
           Camp.
           By
           this
           meanes
           hauing
           the
           lawe
           in
           their
           owne
           hands
           ,
           they
           rulde
           the
           roast
           how
           they
           listed
           :
           insomuch
           ,
           that
           a
           common
           iugge
           of
           double
           Beere
           skornd
           to
           kisse
           the
           lips
           of
           a
           Knight
           vnder
           a
           groate
           .
           Sixe
           howres
           sleepe
           could
           not
           be
           bought
           vnder
           fiue
           shillings
           .
           Yea
           in
           some
           places
           a
           nights
           lodging
           was
           dearer
           than
           the
           hire
           of
           a
           Curtizan
           in
           Venice
           twice
           so
           long
           .
           And
           (
           hauing
           learnd
           the
           tricks
           of
           
           London-Sextons
           )
           there
           they
           laid
           foure
           or
           fiue
           in
           a
           bed
           ,
           as
           here
           ,
           those
           other
           
           knaues
           of
           Spades
           thrust
           nine
           and
           tenne
           into
           one
           graue
           .
           Beds
           keeping
           such
           a
           iustling
           of
           one
           another
           in
           euery
           roome
           ,
           that
           in
           the
           day
           time
           the
           lodgings
           lookt
           like
           so
           many
           Vpholsters
           Shops
           ,
           and
           in
           the
           night
           time
           like
           the
           Sauoy
           ,
           or
           
             S.
             Thomas
          
           Hospitall
           .
           At
           which
           ,
           if
           any
           guest
           did
           but
           once
           bite
           his
           lip
           ,
           or
           grumble
           ,
           he
           was
           cashierd
           the
           company
           for
           a
           mutinous
           fellow
           ,
           the
           place
           was
           not
           for
           him
           ,
           let
           him
           trudge
           .
           A
           number
           stood
           with
           Petitions
           readie
           to
           giue
           mony
           for
           the
           reuersion
           of
           it
           :
           for
           Winchester
           now
           durst
           ,
           (
           or
           at
           least
           hopt
           to
           )
           stand
           vpon
           prowd
           termes
           with
           London
           .
           And
           this
           (
           thou
           beloued
           of
           all
           men
           )
           is
           the
           very
           pith
           and
           marrow
           of
           the
           best
           and
           latest
           Newes
           (
           except
           the
           vnmasking
           of
           certaine
           Treasons
           )
           that
           came
           with
           the
           Post
           from
           Winchester
           ,
           where
           if
           thou
           hadst
           hirde
           a
           Chamber
           (
           as
           would
           to
           heauen
           thou
           hadst
           )
           thou
           wouldst
           neuer
           haue
           gone
           to
           any
           Barbers
           in
           London
           whilst
           thou
           hadst
           liude
           ,
           but
           haue
           bin
           trimd
           only
           there
           ,
           for
           they
           are
           the
           true
           shauers
           ,
           they
           haue
           the
           right
           Neapolitan
           polling
           .
        
         
           To
           whose
           commendations
           ,
           let
           me
           glew
           this
           piece
           more
           ,
           that
           it
           is
           the
           most
           excellent
           place
           for
           dispatching
           of
           old
           suites
           in
           the
           world
           ,
           for
           a
           number
           of
           riding
           suites
           (
           that
           had
           lyen
           long
           in
           lauander
           )
           were
           worne
           out
           there
           ,
           only
           with
           seruing
           amongst
           the
           hot
           shots
           ,
           that
           marcht
           there
           vp
           and
           downe
           :
           let
           Westminster
           therefore
           ,
           Temple-bar
           ,
           and
           Fleetestreete
           ,
           drinke
           off
           this
           draught
           of
           
             Rosa
             solis
          
           ,
           to
           fetch
           life
           into
           them
           againe
           ,
           after
           their
           so
           often
           swounding
           ,
           that
           those
           few
           Iurors
           that
           went
           thither
           (
           if
           any
           did
           goe
           thither
           )
           haue
           tane
           an
           oath
           neuer
           to
           sit
           at
           
           Winchester-Ordinary
           againe
           ,
           if
           they
           can
           choose
           ,
           but
           rather
           to
           breake
           their
           fasts
           in
           the
           old
           Abbey
           behinde
           Westminster
           ,
           with
           Pudding-Pyes
           ,
           and
           Furmenty
           .
        
         
           Deliuer
           Copies
           of
           these
           Newes
           (
           good
           Nobody
           )
           to
           none
           of
           thy
           acquaintance
           (
           as
           thou
           tenderst
           me
           )
           and
           thou
           shalt
           commaund
           any
           seruice
           at
           my
           hands
           :
           for
           I
           haue
           an
           intent
           
           to
           hire
           three
           or
           foure
           Ballad-makers
           ,
           who
           I
           know
           will
           be
           glad
           for
           sixe
           pence
           and
           a
           dinner
           ,
           to
           turne
           all
           this
           limping
           Prose
           into
           more
           perfectly-halting
           Verse
           ,
           that
           it
           shall
           doe
           any
           true-borne
           Citizens
           heart
           good
           ,
           to
           heare
           such
           doings
           sung
           to
           some
           filthie
           tune
           ,
           and
           so
           farewell
           .
           Turne
           ouer
           a
           new
           leafe
           ,
           and
           try
           if
           I
           handle
           the
           Plague
           in
           his
           right
           kind
           .
        
         
           
             Deuoted
             to
             none
             but
             thy selfe
             ,
             Some-body
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           Newes
           from
           Graues-ende
           .
        
         
           TO
           Sicknes
           ,
           and
           to
           
             Queazie
             Tymes
          
           ,
        
         
           We
           drinke
           a
           health
           in
           wholesome
           Rymes
           ,
        
         
           Phisicke
           we
           inuoke
           thy
           aide
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           (
           that
           borne
           in
           heauen
           )
           art
           made
        
         
           A
           lackey
           to
           the
           meanest
           creature
           ,
        
         
           Mother
           of
           health
           ;
           thou
           nurse
           of
           nature
           ,
        
         
           Equall
           friend
           to
           rich
           and
           poore
           ,
        
         
           At
           whose
           hands
           ,
           Kings
           can
           get
           no
           more
           ,
        
         
           Than
           emptie
           Beggers
           ;
           O
           thou
           wise
        
         
           In
           nothing
           but
           in
           Misteries
           !
        
         
           Thou
           that
           ha'st
           of
           earth
           the
           rule
           ,
        
         
           Where
           (
           like
           an
           Academe
           ,
           or
           Schoole
           )
        
         
           Thou
           readst
           deep
           Lectures
           to
           thy
           sonnes
           ,
        
         
           (
           Mens
           Demi-gods
           )
           Phisitions
           ;
        
         
           Who
           thereby
           learne
           the
           abstruse
           powers
        
         
           Of
           Hearbs
           ,
           of
           Roots
           ,
           of
           Plants
           ,
           of
           Flowers
           ,
        
         
           And
           suck
           from
           poysonous
           stinking
           weede
        
         
           Preseruatiues
           ,
           mans
           life
           to
           feede
           .
        
         
           Thou
           nearest
           to
           a
           God
           ,
           (
           for
           none
        
         
           Can
           worke
           it
           ,
           but
           a
           God
           alone
           ,
           )
        
         
           O
           graue
           Enchauntresse
           ,
           deigne
           to
           breath
        
         
           Thy
           Spells
           into
           vs
           ,
           and
           bequeath
        
         
           Thy
           sacred
           fires
           ,
           that
           they
           may
           shine
        
         
           In
           quick
           and
           vertuall
           medicine
           ,
        
         
         
           Arme
           vs
           to
           conuince
           this
           Foe
           ,
        
         
           This
           King
           of
           dead
           men
           ,
           conquering
           so
           ;
        
         
           This
           hungry
           Plague
           ,
           Cater
           to
           death
           ,
        
         
           Who
           eates
           vp
           all
           ,
           yet
           famisheth
           :
        
         
           Teach
           vs
           how
           we
           may
           repaire
        
         
           These
           Ruines
           of
           the
           rotten
           Aire
           ,
        
         
           Or
           ,
           if
           the
           Aires
           pollution
           can
        
         
           So
           mortall
           strike
           through
           beast
           and
           man
           ,
        
         
           Or
           ,
           if
           in
           blood
           corrupt
           ,
           Death
           lye
           ,
        
         
           Or
           if
           one
           dead
           ,
           cause
           others
           die
           ,
        
         
           How
           ere
           ,
           thy
           soueraigne
           cures
           disperse
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           that
           glory
           crowne
           our
           verse
           :
        
         
           That
           we
           may
           yet
           saue
           many
           a
           soule
        
         
           (
           Perchance
           now
           merry
           at
           his
           Bowle
           )
        
         
           That
           ere
           our
           Tragick
           Song
           be
           don
           ,
        
         
           Must
           drinke
           this
           thick
           Contagion
           :
        
         
           But
           (
           ô
           griefe
           )
           why
           do
           we
           atcite
        
         
           The
           charmes
           of
           Phisick
           ?
           whose
           numbd
           sprite
        
         
           Now
           quakes
           ,
           and
           nothing
           dare
           ,
           or
           can
           ,
        
         
           Checkt
           by
           a
           more
           dread
           Magitian
           ?
        
         
           Sick
           is
           Phisicks
           selfe
           to
           see
        
         
           Her
           Aphorismes
           prou'de
           a
           mockery
           :
        
         
           For
           whilst
           shee
           's
           turning
           o're
           her
           bookes
           ,
        
         
           And
           on
           her
           drugs
           and
           simples
           lookes
           ,
        
         
         
           Shee
           's
           run
           through
           owne
           armed
           heart
           ,
        
         
           (
           Th'
           infection
           flying
           aboue
           Art
           :
           )
        
         
           Come
           therefore
           thou
           the
           best
           of
           Nine
           ,
        
         
           (
           Because
           the
           Saddest
           )
           euery
           line
        
         
           That
           drops
           from
           Sorrowes
           pen
           is
           due
        
         
           Only
           to
           thee
           ,
           to
           Thee
           we
           sue
           :
        
         
           Thou
           Tragick
           Maid
           ,
           whose
           Fury's
           spent
        
         
           In
           dismall
           ,
           and
           most
           black
           O●tent
           .
        
         
           In
           Vprores
           ,
           and
           in
           Fall
           of
           Kings
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           of
           Empires
           change
           that
           sings
           ,
        
         
           Of
           Dearths
           ,
           of
           Warres
           ,
           of
           Plagues
           ,
           and
           laughes
        
         
           At
           Funeralls
           ,
           and
           Epitaphes
           :
        
         
           Carowse
           thou
           to
           our
           thirstie
           soule
        
         
           A
           full
           draught
           from
           the
           Thespian
           bowle
           ,
        
         
           That
           we
           may
           powre
           it
           out
           agen
           ,
        
         
           And
           drinke
           ,
           in
           nombers
           Iuice
           to
           men
           ,
        
         
           Striking
           such
           horrors
           through
           their
           eares
        
         
           Their
           haire
           may
           vpright
           stand
           with
           feares
           ,
        
         
           Till
           rich
           Heires
           meeting
           our
           strong
           verse
        
         
           May
           not
           shrinck
           back
           ,
           before
           it
           pierce
        
         
           Their
           marble
           eye-balls
           ,
           and
           there
           shead
        
         
           One
           drop
           (
           at
           least
           )
           for
           him
           that
           's
           dead
           :
        
         
           To
           worke
           which
           wonder
           ,
           we
           will
           write
        
         
           With
           Penns
           puld
           from
           that
           bird
           of
           night
        
         
         
           (
           The
           shriking
           Owle
           )
           our
           Inck
           wee
           le
           mix
        
         
           With
           teares
           of
           widowes
           ,
           (
           black
           as
           Stix
           )
        
         
           The
           paper
           where
           our
           lynes
           shall
           meete
           ,
        
         
           Shall
           be
           a
           folded
           winding
           sheete
           ,
        
         
           And
           that
           the
           Scene
           may
           shew
           more
           full
           ,
        
         
           The
           Standish
           is
           a
           dead
           mans
           scull
           .
        
         
           Inspire
           vs
           therefore
           how
           to
           tell
        
         
           The
           Horror
           of
           a
           Plague
           ,
           the
           Hell.
           
        
         
           
             The
             cause
             of
             the
             Plague
             .
          
           
             NOr
             drops
             this
             venome
             ,
             from
             that
             faire
          
           
             And
             christall
             bosome
             of
             the
             Aire
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             ceaseles
             motion
             clarifies
          
           
             All
             vaporous
             stench
             ,
             that
             vpward
             flies
          
           
             And
             with
             her
             vniuersall
             wings
             ,
          
           
             Thick
             poisonous
             fumes
             abroad
             she
             flings
             ,
          
           
             Till
             (
             like
             to
             Thunder
             )
             rudely
             tost
             ,
          
           
             Their
             malice
             is
             (
             by
             spreading
             )
             lost
             .
          
           
             Yet
             must
             we
             graunt
             that
             from
             the
             veines
          
           
             Of
             Rottennes
             and
             Filth
             ,
             that
             reignes
             ,
          
           
             O're
             heapes
             of
             bodies
             ,
             slaine
             in
             warre
             ,
          
           
             From
             Carrion
             (
             that
             indangers
             farre
             )
          
           
             From
             standing
             Pooles
             ,
             or
             from
             the
             wombes
          
           
             Of
             Vaults
             ,
             of
             Muckhills
             ,
             Graues
             ,
             &
             Tombes
             ,
          
           
           
             From
             Boggs
             ;
             from
             ranck
             and
             dampish
             Fenns
             ,
          
           
             From
             Moorish
             breaths
             ,
             and
             nasty
             Denns
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sun
             drawes
             vp
             contagious
             Fumes
             ,
          
           
             Which
             falling
             downe
             burst
             into
             Rhewmes
             ,
          
           
             And
             thousand
             malladies
             beside
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             our
             blood
             growes
             putrified
             .
          
           
             Or
             ,
             being
             by
             windes
             not
             swept
             from
             thence
             ,
          
           
             They
             houer
             there
             in
             cloudes
             condense
             ,
          
           
             Which
             suckt
             in
             by
             our
             spirits
             ,
             there
             flies
          
           
             Swift
             poyson
             through
             our
             Arteries
             ,
          
           
             And
             (
             not
             resisted
             )
             strait
             it
             choakes
          
           
             The
             heart
             ,
             with
             those
             pestiferous
             smoakes
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Phisicke
             and
             Philosophy
          
           
             Do
             preach
             ,
             and
             (
             with
             this
             )
             Salues
             apply
             :
          
           
             Which
             search
             ,
             and
             vse
             with
             speede
             :
             but
             now
          
           
             This
             monster
             breeds
             not
             thus
             :
             For
             how
          
           
             (
             If
             this
             be
             prou'de
             )
             can
             any
             doubt
          
           
             But
             that
             the
             Ayre
             does
             (
             round
             about
             )
          
           
             In
             flakes
             of
             poyson
             drop
             on
             all
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sore
             being
             spread
             so
             generall
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             dare
             we
             so
             conclude
             :
             for
             then
          
           
             Fruites
             ,
             Fishes
             ,
             Fowle
             ,
             nor
             Beasts
             ,
             nor
             Men
          
           
             Should
             scape
             vnteinted
             ,
             Grazing
             flocks
          
           
             Would
             feede
             vpon
             their
             graues
             :
             the
             Oxe
          
           
           
             Drop
             at
             the
             plough
             :
             the
             trauelling
             Horse
          
           
             Would
             for
             a
             Rider
             beare
             a
             Coar●e
             :
          
           
             Th'
             ambitious
             Larke
             ,
             (
             the
             Bird
             of
             state
             )
          
           
             Whose
             wings
             do
             sweep
             heauens
             pearled
             gate
             ,
          
           
             As
             she
             descended
             (
             Then
             )
             would
             bring
             ,
          
           
             Pestilent
             Newes
             vnder
             each
             wing
             :
          
           
             Then
             Riu●rs
             would
             drink
             poyson'd
             aire
             :
          
           
             Trees
             shed
             their
             green
             and
             curled
             haire
             :
          
           
             Fish
             swim
             to
             shore
             full
             of
             disease
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             Pestilence
             would
             Fin
             the
             seas
             :
             )
          
           
             And
             we
             should
             thinke
             their
             scaly
             barkes
             ,
          
           
             Hauing
             small
             speckles
             ,
             had
             the
             markes
             .
          
           
             No
             soule
             could
             moue
             :
             but
             sure
             there
             lyes
          
           
             Some
             vengeance
             more
             then
             in
             the
             skies
             :
          
           
             Nor
             (
             as
             a
             Taper
             ,
             at
             whose
             beames
          
           
             Ten
             thousands
             lights
             fetch
             golden
             streames
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             it selfe
             is
             burnt
             to
             death
             ,
             )
          
           
             Can
             we
             belieue
             that
             one
             mans
             breath
          
           
             Infected
             ,
             and
             being
             blowne
             from
             him
             ,
          
           
             His
             poyson
             should
             to
             others
             swim
             :
          
           
             For
             then
             who
             breath'd
             vpon
             the
             first
             ?
          
           
             Where
             did
             th'imbulked
             venome
             burst
             ?
          
           
             Or
             how
             scapte
             those
             that
             did
             diuide
          
           
             The
             selfe-same
             bits
             with
             those
             that
             dide
             ?
          
           
           
             Drunke
             of
             the
             selfe-same
             cups
             ,
             and
             laie
          
           
             In
             Vlcerous
             beds
             ,
             as
             close
             as
             they
             ?
          
           
             Or
             ,
             those
             ,
             who
             euery
             houre
             ,
             (
             like
             Crowes
             )
          
           
             Prey
             on
             dead
             carkasies
             :
             their
             nose
          
           
             Still
             smelling
             to
             a
             graue
             :
             their
             feete
          
           
             Still
             wrapt
             within
             a
             dead
             mans
             sheete
             !
          
           
             Yet
             (
             the
             sad
             execution
             don
             )
          
           
             Careles
             among
             their
             Canns
             they
             run
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             (
             in
             scorne
             of
             Death
             or
             Fate
             )
          
           
             Of
             the
             deceast
             they
             widely
             prate
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             snore
             vntoucht
             ,
             and
             next
             day
             rise
          
           
             To
             act
             in
             more
             new
             Tragedies
             :
          
           
             Or
             (
             like
             so
             many
             bullets
             flying
             )
          
           
             A
             thousand
             here
             and
             there
             being
             dying
             ,
          
           
             Death's
             Text-bill
             clapt
             on
             euery
             dore
             ,
          
           
             Crosses
             on
             sides
             ,
             behinde
             ,
             before
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             the
             (
             i'
             th
             midst
             )
             stands
             fast
             :
             from
             whence
          
           
             Comes
             this
             ?
             you
             le
             say
             from
             Prouidence
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             so
             ,
             and
             that
             's
             the
             common
             Spell
             ,
          
           
             That
             leades
             our
             Ignorance
             ,
             (
             blinde
             as
             hell
             )
          
           
             And
             serues
             but
             as
             excuse
             ,
             to
             keepe
          
           
             The
             soule
             from
             search
             of
             things
             more
             deepe
             ;
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             this
             black
             and
             burning
             starre
          
           
             (
             Whose
             sulphurd
             drops
             ,
             do
             scald
             so
             farre
             ,
             )
          
           
           
             Does
             neither
             houer
             o're
             our
             heads
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             lyes
             it
             in
             our
             bloods
             ,
             nor
             beds
             :
          
           
             Nor
             is
             it
             stitcht
             to
             our
             attires
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             like
             wilde
             balls
             of
             running
             fires
          
           
             Or
             thunderbolts
             ,
             which
             where
             they
             light
          
           
             Do
             either
             bruise
             ,
             or
             kill
             out-right
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             by
             the
             violence
             of
             that
             Bound
          
           
             Leape
             off
             ,
             and
             giues
             a
             second
             wound
             :
          
           
             But
             this
             fierce
             dragon
             (
             huge
             and
             fowle
             )
          
           
             Sucks
             virid
             poyson
             from
             our
             soule
             ,
          
           
             Which
             being
             spit
             forth
             again
             ,
             there
             raigns
          
           
             Showers
             of
             Blisters
             ,
             and
             of
             Blaines
             ,
          
           
             For
             euery
             man
             within
             him
             feedes
          
           
             A
             worme
             which
             this
             contagion
             breedes
             ;
          
           
             Our
             heauenly
             parts
             are
             plaguy
             sick
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             such
             leaprous
             spotts
             do
             stick
             ,
          
           
             That
             God
             in
             anger
             fills
             his
             hand
          
           
             With
             Vengeance
             ,
             throwing
             it
             on
             the
             land
             ;
          
           
             Sure
             t
             is
             some
             Capitall
             offence
             ,
          
           
             Some
             high
             ,
             high
             Treason
             doth
             incense
          
           
             Th'
             Eternall
             King
             ,
             that
             thus
             we
             are
          
           
             Arraign'd
             at
             Death
             most
             dreadfull
             barre
             ;
          
           
             Th'Inditement
             writ
             on
             Englands
             brest
             ,
          
           
             When
             other
             Countries
             (
             better
             blest
             )
          
           
           
             Feele
             not
             the
             Iudges
             heauy
             doome
          
           
             Whose
             breath
             (
             like
             Lightning
             doth
             consume
          
           
             And
             (
             with
             a
             whip
             of
             Planets
             )
             scourges
          
           
             The
             Veines
             of
             mortalls
             ,
             In
             whom
             Surges
          
           
             Of
             sinfull
             blood
             ,
             Billowes
             of
             Lust
          
           
             Stir
             vp
             the
             powres
             to
             acts
             vniust
             .
          
           
             Whether
             they
             be
             Princes
             Errors
             ,
          
           
             Or
             faults
             of
             Peeres
             ,
             pull
             downe
             these
             Terrors
             ,
          
           
             Or
             (
             because
             we
             may
             not
             erre
             ,
             )
          
           
             Lets
             sift
             it
             in
             particuler
             ,
          
           
             The
             Courtiers
             pride
             ,
             lust
             ,
             and
             excesse
             ,
          
           
             The
             Church
             mans
             painted
             holinesse
             ;
          
           
             The
             Lawyers
             grinding
             of
             the
             poore
             ,
          
           
             The
             Souldiers
             staruing
             at
             the
             doore
             ,
          
           
             Ragd
             ,
             leane
             ,
             and
             pale
             through
             want
             of
             blood
             ,
          
           
             Sold
             cheape
             by
             him
             for
             Countries
             good
             .
          
           
             The
             Schollers
             enuy
             ;
             Farmers
             curse
             ,
          
           
             When
             heau'ns
             rich
             Threasurer
             doth
             disburse
          
           
             In
             bounteous
             heapes
             (
             to
             thankles
             men
             )
          
           
             His
             vniuersall
             Blessings
             :
             then
          
           
             This
             deluing
             Moale
             ,
             for
             madness
             eates
          
           
             Euen
             his
             owne
             lungs
             ,
             and
             strange
             oathes
             sweates
             ,
          
           
             Because
             he
             cannot
             sell
             for
             pence
             ,
          
           
             Deare
             yeares
             ,
             in
             spite
             of
             Prouidence
             .
          
           
           
             Adde
             vnto
             these
             ,
             the
             City
             sin
          
           
             (
             Brought
             by
             seuen
             deadly
             monsters
             in
             )
          
           
             Which
             doth
             all
             bowndes
             ,
             and
             blushing
             scorne
             ,
          
           
             Because
             t
             is
             in
             the
             Freedome
             borne
             ,
          
           
             What
             Traines
             of
             Vice
             ,
             (
             which
             euen
             Hell
             hates
             )
          
           
             But
             haue
             bold
             passage
             through
             her
             gates
             ?
          
           
             Pride
             in
             Diet
             ,
             Pride
             in
             Cloathing
             ,
          
           
             Pride
             in
             Building
             ,
             pure
             in
             nothing
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             she
             may
             not
             want
             disease
          
           
             She
             sailes
             for
             it
             beyond
             the
             Seas
             ,
          
           
             With
             Antwerp
             will
             she
             drinke
             vp
             Rhene
             :
          
           
             With
             Paris
             act
             the
             bloodiest
             Scene
             :
          
           
             Or
             in
             pyed
             fashions
             passe
             her
             folly
             ,
          
           
             Mocking
             at
             heauen
             yet
             looke
             most
             holy
             :
          
           
             Of
             Vsury
             shee
             'll
             rob
             the
             Iewes
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Luxury
             ,
             Venetian
             Stewes
             ,
          
           
             With
             Spaniards
             ,
             shee
             's
             an
             Indianist
             ,
          
           
             With
             barbarous
             Turks
             a
             Sodomist
             .
          
           
             So
             low
             her
             Antique
             walls
             do
             stand
             ,
          
           
             These
             sinnes
             leape
             o're
             euen
             with
             one
             hand
             :
          
           
             And
             Hee
             ,
             that
             all
             in
             modest
             black
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Eye-ball
             strings
             shall
             sooner
             crack
             ,
          
           
             Then
             seeme
             to
             note
             a
             tempting
             face
             ,
          
           
             Measuring
             streets
             with
             a
             Doue-like
             pace
             ,
          
           
           
             Vnder
             that
             oyly
             vizard
             weares
             ,
          
           
             The
             poore
             mans
             sweat
             ,
             and
             Orphans
             teares
             :
          
           
             Now
             whether
             these
             particular
             Fates
             ,
          
           
             Or
             generall
             Moles
             (
             disfiguring
             States
             )
          
           
             Whether
             one
             sin
             alone
             ,
             or
             whether
          
           
             This
             Maine
             Battalion
             ioynd
             together
             ,
          
           
             Do
             dare
             these
             plagues
             ;
             we
             cannot
             tell
             ,
          
           
             But
             downe
             they
             beate
             all
             humane
             Spell
             :
          
           
             Or
             ,
             it
             may
             be
             ,
             Iehouah
             lookes
          
           
             But
             now
             vpon
             those
             Audit-Bookes
          
           
             Of
             45.
             yeares
             husht
             account
             ,
          
           
             For
             houres
             mispent
             ,
             (
             whose
             summes
             surmount
          
           
             The
             price
             of
             ransomd
             Kings
             )
             and
             there
          
           
             Finding
             our
             grieuous
             debts
             ,
             doth
             cleere
          
           
             And
             crosse
             them
             vnder
             his
             owne
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Being
             paid
             with
             Liues
             ,
             through
             all
             the
             land
             .
          
           
             For
             since
             his
             Maiden
             .
             Seruant
             's
             gone
             ,
          
           
             And
             his
             new
             Vizeroy
             fills
             the
             Throne
             ,
          
           
             Heauen
             meanes
             to
             giue
             him
             (
             as
             his
             bride
             )
          
           
             A
             Nation
             new
             ,
             and
             purified
             .
          
           
             Take
             breath
             a
             while
             our
             panting
             Muse
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             world
             tell
             gladder
             newes
             ,
          
           
             Than
             these
             of
             Burialls
             ,
             striue
             a
             while
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             thy
             sullen
             nombers
             smile
             :
          
           
           
             Forget
             the
             names
             of
             Graues
             ,
             and
             Ghosts
             ,
          
           
             The
             sound
             of
             bells
             :
             the
             vnknowne
             coasts
          
           
             Of
             Deaths
             vast
             Kingdome
             :
             and
             saile
             o're
          
           
             With
             fresher
             winde
             to
             happier
             Shore
             .
          
           
             For
             now
             the
             maiden
             Ile
             hath
             got
             ,
          
           
             A
             Roiall
             Husband
             ,
             (
             heauenly
             Lott
             )
          
           
             Faire
             Scotland
             does
             faire
             England
             wed
             ,
          
           
             And
             giues
             her
             for
             her
             maiden-head
             ,
          
           
             A
             crowne
             of
             gold
             ,
             wrought
             in
             a
             Ring
             ,
          
           
             With
             which
             Shee
             's
             maried
             to
             a
             King
             :
          
           
             Thou
             Beldame
             (
             whisperer
             of
             false
             Rumors
             )
          
           
             Fame
             ;
             cast
             aside
             those
             Antique
             humors
             ,
          
           
             Lift
             vp
             thy
             golden
             Tromp
             ,
             and
             sound
          
           
             Euen
             from
             Tweedes
             vtmost
             christ
             all
             bownd
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             the
             bankes
             of
             Siluer
             Thames
          
           
             To
             the
             greene
             Ocean
             ,
             that
             King
             Iames
          
           
             Had
             made
             an
             Iland
             ,
             (
             that
             did
             stand
          
           
             Halfe
             sinking
             )
             now
             the
             firmest
             land
             :
          
           
             Carry
             thou
             this
             to
             Neptunes
             eare
             ,
          
           
             That
             his
             shrill
             Tritons
             it
             may
             beare
             ,
          
           
             So
             farre
             ,
             vntill
             the
             Danish
             sound
          
           
             With
             repercussiue
             voice
             rebound
             ,
          
           
             That
             Eccho's
             (
             doubling
             more
             and
             more
             )
          
           
             May
             reach
             the
             parched
             Indian
             shore
             ,
          
           
             For
             t
             is
             heau'ns
             care
             so
             great
             a
             wonder
             ,
          
           
             Should
             fly
             vpon
             the
             wings
             of
             Thunder
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Horror
             of
             the
             Plague
             .
          
           
             O
             Thou
             my
             Countrie
             ,
             here
             mine
             eyes
          
           
             Are
             almost
             sunck
             in
             waues
             ,
             that
             rise
          
           
             From
             the
             rough
             winde
             of
             Sighs
             ,
             to
             see
          
           
             A
             spring
             that
             lately
             courted
             thee
          
           
             In
             pompous
             brauery
             ,
             All
             thy
             Bowers
          
           
             Gilt
             by
             the
             Sunne
             ,
             perfumde
             with
             flowers
             ,
          
           
             Now
             like
             a
             loathsome
             Leaperlying
             ,
          
           
             Her
             arbors
             withring
             ,
             greene
             Trees
             dying
             ,
          
           
             Her
             Reuells
             ,
             and
             May-meriments
             ,
          
           
             Turned
             all
             to
             Tragick
             dreeryments
             :
          
           
             And
             thou
             (
             the
             mother
             of
             my
             breath
             )
          
           
             Whose
             soft
             brest
             thousandes
             nourisheth
             ,
             
          
           
             Alrar
             of
             Ioue
             ,
             thou
             throne
             of
             Kings
             :
          
           
             Thou
             Fownt
             ,
             where
             milke
             and
             hony
             springs
             ,
          
           
             Europs
             Iewell
             ;
             Englands
             Iem
             :
          
           
             Sister
             to
             great
             Ierusalem
             :
          
           
             Neptunes
             minion
             ,
             (
             bout
             whose
             wast
          
           
             The
             Thames
             is
             like
             a
             girdle
             cast
             ,
             )
          
           
             Thou
             that
             (
             but
             health
             canst
             nothing
             want
             ,
          
           
             Empresse
             of
             Cities
             ,
             Troynouant
             .
          
           
             When
             I
             thy
             lofty
             Towers
             behold
             ,
          
           
             (
             Whose
             Pinnacles
             were
             tipt
             with
             gold
          
           
             Both
             when
             the
             Sun
             did
             set
             and
             rise
          
           
             So
             louely
             wert
             thou
             in
             his
             eies
             )
          
           
           
             Now
             like
             old
             Monuments
             forsaken
             ,
          
           
             Or
             (
             like
             tall
             Pynes
             )
             by
             winter
             thaken
             ;
          
           
             Or
             ,
             seeing
             thee
             gorgeous
             as
             a
             bride
          
           
             Euen
             in
             the
             heigth
             of
             all
             thy
             pride
          
           
             Disrobd'e
             ,
             disgracte
             ;
             And
             when
             all
             Nations
          
           
             Made
             loue
             to
             thee
             in
             amorous
             passions
             ,
          
           
             Now
             scornd
             of
             all
             the
             world
             alone
             ,
          
           
             None
             seeke
             thee
             ,
             nor
             must
             thou
             seeke
             none
             ,
          
           
             But
             like
             a
             prisoner
             must
             be
             kept
          
           
             In
             thine
             owne
             walles
             ,
             till
             thou
             hast
             wept
          
           
             Thine
             eyes
             out
             ,
             to
             behold
             thy
             sweete
          
           
             Dead
             children
             heapt
             about
             thy
             feete
             :
          
           
             O
             Derrest
             !
             say
             how
             can
             we
             chuse
          
           
             But
             haue
             a
             sad
             and
             drooping
             Muse
             ,
          
           
             When
             Coarses
             do
             so
             choake
             thy
             way
          
           
             That
             now
             thou
             lookst
             like
             Golgatha
             ;
          
           
             But
             thus
             ,
             The
             altring
             of
             a
             State
          
           
             Alteis
             our
             Bodies
             ,
             and
             our
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             For
             Princes
             death
             's
             do
             euen
             bespeake
          
           
             Millions
             of
             liues
             ;
             when
             Kingdomes
             breake
             ,
          
           
             People
             dissolue
             ,
             and
             (
             as
             with
             Thunder
             )
          
           
             Cities
             proud
             glories
             rent
             asunder
             .
          
           
             Witnes
             thy
             walls
             ,
             whose
             stony
             armes
          
           
             But
             yesterday
             receiu'de
             whole
             swarmes
          
           
           
             Of
             frighted
             English
             :
             Lord
             and
             Lowne
             ,
          
           
             Lawyer
             ,
             and
             Client
             ,
             Courtier
             ,
             Clowne
             ,
          
           
             All
             sorts
             did
             to
             thy
             buildings
             fly
             ,
          
           
             As
             to
             the
             safest
             Sanctuary
             .
          
           
             And
             he
             that
             through
             thy
             gates
             might
             passe
             ,
          
           
             His
             feares
             were
             lockt
             in
             Towers
             of
             brasse
             ,
          
           
             Happie
             that
             man
             :
             now
             happier
             they
          
           
             That
             from
             thy
             reach
             get
             first
             away
             :
          
           
             As
             from
             a
             shipwrack
             ,
             to
             some
             shore
             :
          
           
             As
             from
             a
             lost
             field
             ,
             drownd
             in
             gore
             :
          
           
             As
             from
             high
             Turrets
             ,
             whose
             Ioints
             faile
             :
          
           
             Or
             rather
             from
             ,
             some
             loathsome
             Iaile
             :
          
           
             But
             note
             heau'ns
             Iustice
             ,
             they
             by
             flying
          
           
             That
             would
             cozen
             Death
             ,
             and
             saue
             a
             dying
             ,
          
           
             How
             like
             to
             chaffe
             abroad
             th'
             are
             blowne
             ,
          
           
             And
             (
             but
             for
             scorne
             )
             might
             walke
             vnknowne
             ;
          
           
             Like
             to
             plumde
             Estridges
             they
             ride
             ,
          
           
             Or
             like
             Sea-pageants
             ,
             all
             in
             pride
          
           
             Of
             Tacklings
             ,
             Flags
             ,
             and
             swelling
             Sailes
             ,
          
           
             Borne
             on
             the
             loftiest
             waues
             ,
             that
             veiles
          
           
             His
             purple
             bonnet
             ,
             and
             in
             dread
          
           
             Bowes
             downe
             his
             snowie
             curled
             head
             ,
          
           
             So
             from
             th'
             infected
             citie
             fly
          
           
             These
             Swallowes
             in
             their
             Gallantry
             ,
          
           
           
             Looking
             that
             wheresoe're
             they
             light
             ,
          
           
             Gay
             Sommer
             ,
             (
             like
             a
             Parasite
             )
          
           
             Should
             waite
             on
             them
             ,
             and
             build'em
             bowers
          
           
             And
             crowne
             their
             nests
             with
             wreathed
             flowers
             ,
          
           
             And
             Swaynes
             to
             welcome
             them
             should
             sing
          
           
             And
             daunce
             ,
             as
             for
             their
             Whisson
             King
             :
          
           
             Feather
             of
             Pride
             ,
             how
             art
             thou
             tost
             ?
          
           
             How
             soone
             are
             all
             thy
             beauties
             lost
             ?
          
           
             How
             casely
             golden
             hopes
             vn-winde
             ?
          
           
             The
             russet
             boore
             ,
             and
             leatherne
             hinde
             ,
          
           
             That
             two
             daies
             since
             did
             sinck
             his
             knee
             ,
          
           
             And
             (
             all
             vncouered
             )
             worshipt
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Or
             being
             but
             poore
             ,
             and
             meanely
             cloathed
             ,
          
           
             Was
             either
             laught
             to
             scorne
             or
             loathed
             ,
          
           
             Now
             thee
             he
             loathes
             ,
             and
             laughes
             to
             scorne
             ,
          
           
             And
             tho
             vpon
             thy
             back
             be
             worne
             ,
          
           
             More
             Sattin
             than
             a
             kingdomes
             worth
             ,
          
           
             He
             barrs
             his
             doore
             ,
             and
             thrusts
             thee
             forth
             :
          
           
             And
             they
             whose
             pallat
             Land
             nor
             Seas
             ,
          
           
             Whome
             fashions
             of
             no
             shape
             could
             please
             ,
          
           
             Whome
             Princes
             haue
             (
             in
             ages
             past
             )
          
           
             For
             rich
             attires
             ,
             and
             sumptuous
             wast
             ,
          
           
             Neuer
             come
             neere
             :
             now
             sit
             they
             rownd
          
           
             And
             feede
             (
             like
             beggers
             )
             on
             the
             grownd
             ,
          
           
           
             A
             field
             their
             bed
             ,
             whose
             dankish
             Sheetes
          
           
             Is
             the
             greene
             grasse
             :
             And
             he
             that
             meetes
          
           
             The
             flatrings●
             ?
             Fortune
             ,
             does
             but
             lie
          
           
             In
             some
             rude
             barne
             ,
             or
             loathsome
             stie
             :
          
           
             Forsooke
             of
             all
             ,
             floured
             ,
             forlorne
             :
          
           
             Owne
             brother
             does
             owne
             brother
             scorne
             ,
          
           
             The
             trembling
             Father
             is
             vndone
             ,
          
           
             Being
             once
             but
             breath'd
             on
             by
             his
             sonne
             ;
          
           
             Or
             ,
             if
             in
             this
             sad
             pilgrimage
          
           
             The
             hand
             of
             vengeance
             fall
             in
             rage
             ,
          
           
             So
             heauy
             vpon
             any'es
             head
          
           
             Striking
             the
             sinfull
             body
             dead
             .
          
           
             O
             shame
             to
             ages
             yet
             to
             come
             !
          
           
             Dishonor
             to
             all
             Christendome
             !
          
           
             In
             hallowed
             ground
             no
             heaped
             gold
          
           
             Can
             buy
             a
             graue
             ;
             nor
             linnen
             sold
          
           
             To
             make
             (
             so
             farre
             is
             pittie
             fled
             )
          
           
             The
             last
             apparell
             for
             the
             dead
             :
          
           
             But
             as
             the
             fashion
             is
             for
             those
          
           
             Whose
             desperare
             handes
             the
             knot
             vnlose
          
           
             Of
             their
             owne
             liues
             ,
             In
             some
             hye-way
          
           
             Or
             barren
             field
             ,
             their
             bones
             they
             lay
             ,
          
           
             Euen
             such
             his
             buriall
             is
             ;
             And
             there
          
           
             Without
             the
             balme
             of
             any
             teare
             ,
          
           
           
             Or
             pomp
             of
             Souldiers
             ,
             But
             (
             ô
             griefe
             !
             )
          
           
             Dragd
             like
             a
             Traitor
             or
             some
             thiefe
          
           
             At
             horses
             tailes
             ,
             hee
             's
             rudely
             throwne
             ,
          
           
             The
             coarse
             being
             stuck
             with
             flowers
             by
             none
             ,
          
           
             No
             bells
             (
             the
             dead
             mans
             Confort
             )
             playing
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             any
             holy
             Churchman
             saying
          
           
             A
             Funerall
             Dirge
             :
             But
             swift
             th'
             are
             gon
             ,
          
           
             As
             from
             some
             noysome
             cation
          
           
             O
             desolate
             Citie
             !
             now
             thy
             wings
          
           
             (
             Whose
             shadowe
             hath
             bene
             lou'd
             by
             Kings
             )
          
           
             Should
             feele
             sick
             feathers
             on
             each
             side
             ,
          
           
             Seeing
             thus
             thy
             sonnes
             (
             got
             in
             ther
             pride
             )
          
           
             And
             heate
             of
             plenty
             ,
             In
             peace
             borne
             ,
          
           
             To
             their
             owne
             Nation
             left
             a
             scorne
             :
          
           
             Each
             cowheards
             feares
             a
             Ghost
             him
             haunts
             ,
          
           
             Seeing
             one
             of
             thine
             inhabitants
             ,
          
           
             And
             does
             a
             Iew
             ,
             or
             Turke
             prefer
             ,
          
           
             Before
             that
             name
             of
             Londoner
             ;
          
           
             Would
             this
             were
             all
             :
             But
             this
             black
             Curse
          
           
             Doing
             ill
             abroad
             ,
             at
             home
             does
             worse
             ,
          
           
             For
             in
             thy
             (
             now
             dispeopled
             )
             streetes
             ,
          
           
             The
             dead
             with
             dead
             ,
             so
             thickly
             meetes
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             some
             Prophets
             voice
             should
             say
          
           
             None
             shall
             be
             Citizens
             ,
             but
             they
             .
          
           
           
             Whole
             housholds
             ;
             and
             whole
             streets
             are
             stricken
             ,
          
           
             The
             sick
             do
             die
             ,
             the
             sound
             do
             sicken
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Lord
               haue
               mercy
               vpon
               vs
            
             ,
             crying
          
           
             Ere
             Mercy
             can
             come
             forth
             ,
             th'
             are
             dying
             .
          
           
             No
             musick
             now
             is
             heard
             but
             bells
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             their
             tunes
             are
             sick
             mens
             knells
             ;
          
           
             And
             euery
             stroake
             the
             bell
             does
             toll
             ,
          
           
             Vp
             to
             heauen
             it
             windes
             a
             soule
             :
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             if
             for
             euery
             coarse
             that
             's
             laide
          
           
             In
             his
             cold
             bed
             of
             earth
             ,
             were
             made
          
           
             A
             chyme
             of
             belles
             ,
             if
             peales
             should
             ring
          
           
             For
             euery
             one
             whom
             death
             doth
             sting
             ,
          
           
             Men
             should
             be
             deaffe
             ,
             as
             those
             that
             dwell
          
           
             By
             Nylus
             fall
             ;
             But
             now
             one
             Knell
             ,
          
           
             Giues
             with
             his
             Iron
             voyce
             this
             doome
             ,
          
           
             That
             twentie
             shall
             but
             haue
             one
             roome
             ;
          
           
             There
             friend
             ,
             and
             foe
             ,
             the
             yong
             and
             old
             ,
          
           
             The
             freezing
             coward
             ,
             and
             the
             bold
             :
          
           
             Seruant
             ,
             and
             maister
             :
             Fowle
             and
             faire
             :
          
           
             One
             Liuery
             weare
             ,
             and
             fellowes
             are
          
           
             Sailing
             along
             in
             this
             black
             fleete
             ,
          
           
             And
             at
             the
             New
             Graues-end
             do
             meete
             ,
          
           
             Where
             Church-yards
             banquet
             with
             cold
             cheere
             ,
          
           
             Holding
             a
             feast
             once
             in
             ten
             yeere
             ,
          
           
           
             To
             which
             comes
             many
             a
             Pilgrym
             worme
             ,
          
           
             Hungry
             and
             faint
             ,
             beat
             with
             the
             storme
          
           
             Of
             galping
             Famine
             ,
             which
             before
          
           
             Onely
             pickt
             bones
             ,
             and
             had
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             But
             now
             their
             messes
             come
             so
             fast
             ,
          
           
             They
             know
             not
             where
             ,
             or
             which
             to
             tast
             ;
          
           
             For
             before
             (
             Dust
             to
             Dust
             )
             be
             spoken
             ,
          
           
             And
             throwne
             on
             One
             ,
             more
             Graues
             be
             broken
             .
          
           
             Thou
             Iealous
             man
             I
             pittie
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             that
             liu'st
             in
             hell
             to
             see
          
           
             A
             wantons
             eye
             cheapening
             the
             sleeke
          
           
             Soft
             Iewels
             ,
             of
             thy
             faire
             wiues
             cheeke
             ,
          
           
             My
             verse
             must
             run
             through
             thy
             cold
             heart
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             wife
             has
             playd
             the
             womans
             part
          
           
             And
             lyen
             with
             Death
             :
             but
             (
             spite
             on
             spite
             )
          
           
             Thou
             must
             endure
             this
             very
             night
          
           
             Close
             by
             her
             side
             the
             poorest
             Groome
             ,
          
           
             In
             selfe-same
             bed
             ,
             and
             selfe-same
             roome
             :
          
           
             But
             ease
             thy
             vext
             soule
             ,
             thus
             behold
          
           
             There
             's
             one
             ,
             who
             in
             the
             morne
             with
             gold
          
           
             Could
             haue
             built
             Castells
             :
             now
             hee
             's
             made
          
           
             A
             pillow
             to
             a
             wretch
             ,
             that
             prayde
          
           
             For
             halfe-penny
             Almes
             ,
             (
             with
             broken
             lim
             )
          
           
             The
             Begger
             now
             is
             aboue
             him
             ;
          
           
           
             So
             he
             that
             yesterday
             was
             clad
          
           
             In
             purple
             robes
             ,
             and
             hourely
             had
          
           
             Euen
             at
             his
             fingers
             becke
             ,
             the
             fees
          
           
             Of
             bared
             heads
             ,
             and
             bending
             knees
             ,
          
           
             Rich
             mens
             fawnings
             ,
             poore
             mens
             praiers
          
           
             (
             Tho
             they
             were
             but
             hollow
             aires
             )
          
           
             Troopes
             of
             seruants
             at
             his
             calling
             ,
          
           
             Children
             (
             like
             to
             subiects
             )
             falling
          
           
             At
             his
             proude
             feete
             :
             loe
             ,
             (
             now
             hee
             's
             taken
          
           
             By
             death
             ,
             )
             he
             lies
             of
             all
             forsaken
             .
          
           
             These
             are
             the
             Tragedies
             ,
             whose
             sight
          
           
             With
             teares
             blot
             all
             the
             lynes
             we
             write
             ,
          
           
             The
             Stage
             whereon
             the
             Scenes
             are
             plaide
          
           
             Is
             a
             whole
             Kingdome
             :
             who
             was
             made
          
           
             By
             some
             (
             most
             prouident
             and
             wise
             )
          
           
             To
             hide
             from
             sad
             Spectators
             eyes
          
           
             Acts
             full
             of
             Ruth
             ,
             a
             priuate
             Roome
          
           
             To
             drowne
             the
             horror
             of
             deaths
             doome
             ,
          
           
             That
             building
             now
             no
             higher
             reare
          
           
             The
             Pest-House
             standeth
             euery
             where
             ,
          
           
             For
             those
             that
             on
             their
             Beeres
             are
             borne
             ,
             
          
           
             Are
             nombred
             more
             ,
             than
             those
             that
             mourne
             .
          
           
             But
             you
             graue
             Patriots
             ,
             whom
             Fate
          
           
             Makes
             Rulers
             of
             this
             walled
             State
             ,
          
           
           
             We
             must
             not
             loose
             you
             in
             our
             verse
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Acts
             we
             one
             day
             may
             rehearse
          
           
             In
             marble
             nombers
             ,
             that
             shall
             stand
          
           
             Aboue
             Tymes
             all-destroying
             hand
             :
          
           
             Only
             (
             methinkes
             )
             you
             do
             erre
          
           
             In
             flying
             from
             your
             charge
             so
             farre
             .
          
           
             So
             coward
             Captaines
             shrinke
             away
             ,
          
           
             So
             Shepheards
             do
             their
             flocks
             betray
             :
          
           
             So
             Souldiers
             ,
             and
             so
             Lambes
             do
             perish
             ,
          
           
             So
             you
             kill
             those
             ,
             y'
             are
             bound
             to
             cherish
             :
          
           
             Be
             therefore
             valiant
             ,
             as
             y'
             are
             wife
             ,
          
           
             Come
             back
             again
             :
             The
             man
             that
             dies
          
           
             Within
             your
             walls
             ,
             is
             euen
             as
             neere
          
           
             To
             heau'n
             ,
             as
             dying
             any
             where
             ;
          
           
             But
             if
             (
             ô
             pardon
             our
             bold
             thought
             )
          
           
             You
             feare
             your
             breath
             is
             sooner
             caught
          
           
             Here
             then
             aloofe
             ;
             and
             therefore
             keepe
          
           
             Out
             of
             Deaths
             reach
             ,
             whilst
             thousands
             weepe
          
           
             And
             wring
             their
             hands
             for
             thousands
             dying
             ,
          
           
             No
             comfort
             neare
             the
             sick
             man
             lying
             :
          
           
             T
             is
             to
             be
             fear'd
             (
             you
             petty-kings
             ,
             )
          
           
             When
             back
             you
             spread
             your
             golden
             wings
             ,
          
           
             A
             deadlyer
             siege
             (
             which
             heauen
             auert
             )
          
           
             Will
             your
             replenisht
             walls
             ingirt
             .
          
           
           
             T
             is
             now
             the
             Beggers
             plague
             ,
             for
             none
          
           
             Are
             in
             this
             Battaile
             ouerthrowne
          
           
             But
             Babes
             and
             poore
             :
             The
             lesser
             Fly
          
           
             Now
             in
             this
             Spiders
             web
             doth
             lie
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             that
             great
             ,
             and
             goodly
             swarme
          
           
             (
             That
             has
             broke
             through
             ,
             and
             felt
             no
             harme
             ,
             )
          
           
             In
             his
             inuenom'd
             snares
             should
             fall
             ,
          
           
             O
             pittie
             !
             t
             were
             most
             tragicall
             :
          
           
             For
             then
             the
             Vsurer
             must
             behold
          
           
             His
             pestilent
             flesh
             ,
             whislt
             all
             his
             gold
          
           
             Turns
             into
             Tokens
             ,
             and
             the
             chest
          
           
             (
             They
             lie
             in
             ,
             )
             his
             infections
             brest
             :
          
           
             How
             well
             hee
             le
             play
             the
             Misers
             part
          
           
             When
             all
             his
             coyne
             sticks
             at
             his
             heart
             ?
          
           
             Hee
             s
             worth
             so
             many
             farthings
             then
             ,
          
           
             That
             was
             a
             golden
             God
             mongst
             men
             .
          
           
             And
             t
             is
             the
             aptest
             death
             (
             so
             please
          
           
             Him
             that
             breath
             heauen
             ,
             earth
             ,
             and
             Seas
             )
          
           
             For
             euery
             couetous
             rooting
             Mowle
          
           
             That
             heaues
             his
             drosse
             aboue
             his
             soule
             ,
          
           
             And
             doth
             in
             coyne
             all
             hopes
             repose
          
           
             To
             die
             with
             corps
             ,
             stampt
             full
             of
             those
             .
          
           
             Then
             the
             rich
             Glutton
             ,
             whose
             swolne
             eyne
          
           
             Looke
             fiery
             red
             (
             being
             boild
             in
             wine
             )
          
           
           
             And
             in
             his
             meales
             ,
             adores
             the
             cup
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             when
             he
             falls
             downe
             that
             stands
             vp
          
           
             Therefore
             a
             goblet
             is
             his
             Saint
             ,
          
           
             To
             whome
             he
             kneeles
             with
             small
             constrain
             :
             ,
          
           
             When
             his
             owne
             goblet
             Scull
             flowes
             o're
          
           
             He
             worships
             Bacchus
             on
             all
             foure
             ,
          
           
             For
             none's
             his
             God
             but
             Bacchus
             then
             ,
          
           
             Who
             rules
             and
             guides
             all
             drunken
             men
             ,
             )
          
           
             When
             He
             shall
             wake
             from
             wine
             ,
             and
             view
          
           
             More
             then
             Tauern-tokens
             ,
             new
          
           
             Stampt
             vpon
             his
             brest
             and
             armes
             ,
          
           
             In
             horrid
             throngs
             ,
             and
             purple
             swarmes
             ,
          
           
             Then
             will
             he
             loath
             his
             former
             shapes
             ,
          
           
             When
             he
             shall
             see
             blew
             markes
             mock
             grapes
             ,
          
           
             And
             hang
             on
             clusters
             on
             each
             veine
             ,
          
           
             Like
             to
             wine-bubbles
             ,
             or
             the
             graine
          
           
             Of
             staggering
             sinne
             ,
             which
             now
             appeares
          
           
             In
             the
             December
             of
             his
             yeares
             ,
          
           
             His
             last
             of
             howers
             ;
             when
             hee
             le
             scarce
             haue
          
           
             Time
             to
             goe
             sober
             to
             his
             Graue
             .
          
           
             And
             then
             to
             die
             !
             (
             dreadfull
             to
             thinke
             !
             )
          
           
             When
             all
             his
             blood
             is
             turnd
             to
             drinke
             :
          
           
             And
             who
             knowes
             not
             this
             Sentence
             giuen
             ,
          
           
             Mongst
             all
             sinnes
             ,
             none
             can
             reele
             to
             Heauen
             ?
          
           
           
             But
             woe
             to
             him
             that
             sinkes
             in
             wine
             ,
          
           
             And
             dyes
             so
             (
             without
             heau'd
             vp
             eyne
             )
          
           
             And
             buried
             so
             !
             O
             loathsome
             trench
             !
          
           
             His
             graue
             is
             like
             a
             Tauerne
             bench
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             fearefull
             ,
             and
             most
             hard
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             How
             he
             shall
             stand
             at
             latter
             day
             .
          
           
             The
             adulterous
             and
             luxurious
             spirit
          
           
             Pawnd
             to
             hell
             ,
             and
             sinnes
             hot
             merrit
             ,
          
           
             That
             bathes
             in
             lust
             his
             leaprous
             soule
             ,
          
           
             Acting
             a
             deed
             without
             controll
          
           
             Or
             thought
             of
             Deitie
             :
             through
             whose
             bloud
             ,
          
           
             Runnes
             part
             of
             the
             Infernall
             floud
             :
          
           
             How
             will
             he
             freeze
             with
             horror
             ?
             lying
          
           
             In
             dreadfull
             trance
             before
             his
             dying
             :
          
           
             The
             heate
             of
             all
             his
             dambd
             desires
          
           
             Coold
             with
             the
             thought
             of
             gnashing
             fires
             :
          
           
             His
             Ryots
             rauisht
             ,
             all
             his
             pleasures
          
           
             His
             marrow
             wasted
             with
             his
             treasures
             ,
          
           
             His
             painted
             harlots
             (
             whose
             imbraces
          
           
             Cost
             him
             many
             siluer
             faces
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             only
             care
             and
             thought
             was
             then
          
           
             To
             keepe
             them
             sure
             from
             other
             men
             )
          
           
             Now
             they
             dance
             in
             Russians
             handes
             ,
          
           
             Lazy
             Leiftenents
             (
             without
             bandes
             ,
             )
          
           
           
             With
             muffled
             halfe-fac'de
             Pandars
             ,
             laughing
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             he
             lies
             gasping
             ,
             they
             sit
             qua●fing
             ,
          
           
             Smile
             at
             this
             plague
             ,
             and
             black
             mischance
             ,
          
           
             Knowing
             their
             deaths
             come
             o're
             from
             France
             :
          
           
             T
             is
             not
             their
             season
             now
             to
             die
             ,
          
           
             Two
             gnawing
             poisons
             cannot
             lie
             ,
          
           
             In
             one
             corrupted
             flesh
             together
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             can
             this
             poison
             then
             fly
             thether
             :
          
           
             There
             's
             not
             a
             Strompet
             mongst
             them
             all
          
           
             That
             liues
             and
             rises
             by
             the
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Dreads
             this
             contagion
             ,
             or
             her
             threats
             ,
          
           
             Being
             guarded
             with
             French
             Amulets
             .
          
           
             Yet
             all
             this
             while
             thy selfe
             liest
             panting
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Luxurious
             howers
             recanting
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             before
             thy
             face
             appeares
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             adulterous
             fruit
             of
             all
             thy
             yeares
          
           
             In
             their
             true
             forme
             and
             horrid
             shapes
             ,
          
           
             So
             many
             Incests
             ,
             violent
             Rapes
             ,
          
           
             Chambered
             adulteries
             ,
             vncleane
             passions
             ,
          
           
             Wanton
             habits
             ,
             riotous
             fashions
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             these
             Anticks
             drest
             in
             hell
             ,
          
           
             To
             dance
             about
             the
             passing
             bell
             ;
          
           
             And
             clip
             thee
             round
             about
             the
             bed
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             thousand
             Horrors
             graspe
             thy
             head
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Cure
             of
             the
             Plagne
             .
          
           
             ANd
             therefore
             this
             infectious
             season
          
           
             That
             now
             arrests
             the
             Flesh
             for
             Treason
          
           
             Against
             heauens
             euerlasting
             King
             ,
          
           
             Annointed
             with
             th'
             eternall
             spring
          
           
             (
             Of
             life
             and
             power
             )
             this
             stroke
             of
             Force
             ,
          
           
             That
             turnes
             the
             world
             into
             a
             Coarse
             ,
          
           
             Feeding
             the
             Dust
             with
             what
             it
             craues
             ,
          
           
             Emptying
             whole
             houses
             to
             fill
             graues
             ,
          
           
             These
             speckled
             Plagues
             (
             which
             our
             sinnes
             leuy
             )
          
           
             Are
             as
             needfull
             as
             th'
             are
             heauy
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             cures
             to
             cite
             ,
             our
             Muse
             for
             beares
             ,
          
           
             Tho
             he
             the
             Daphnean
             wreath
             that
             weares
          
           
             (
             Being
             both
             Poesis
             Soueraigne
             King
             ,
          
           
             And
             God
             of
             medicine
             )
             bids
             vs
             sing
          
           
             As
             boldly
             of
             those
             pollicies
             ,
          
           
             Those
             Onfets
             ,
             and
             those
             Batteries
             ,
          
           
             By
             Phisick
             cunningly
             applied
             ,
          
           
             To
             beate
             downe
             Plagues
             (
             so
             fortified
             )
          
           
             And
             of
             those
             Armes
             defensitiue
             ,
          
           
             To
             keep
             th'
             assaulted
             Heart
             aliue
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             those
             wardes
             ,
             and
             of
             those
             sleights
             ,
          
           
             Vsde
             in
             these
             mortall
             single
             fights
             ,
          
           
           
             As
             of
             the
             causes
             that
             commence
          
           
             This
             ciuill
             warre
             of
             Pestilence
             ,
          
           
             For
             Poets
             soules
             should
             be
             confinde
          
           
             Within
             no
             bownds
             ,
             their
             towring
             mindes
          
           
             Must
             (
             like
             the
             Sun
             )
             a
             progresse
             make
          
           
             Through
             Arts
             immensiue
             Zodiake
             :
          
           
             And
             suck
             (
             like
             Bees
             )
             the
             vertuous
             power
             ,
          
           
             That
             flows
             in
             learnings
             seuen-sold
             flower
             ,
          
           
             Distilling
             forth
             the
             same
             agen
          
           
             In
             sweet
             and
             wholesome
             Iuice
             to
             men
             :
          
           
             But
             for
             we
             see
             the
             Army
             great
          
           
             Of
             those
             whose
             charge
             it
             is
             to
             beat
          
           
             This
             proud
             Inuader
             ,
             and
             haue
             skill
          
           
             In
             all
             those
             weapons
             ,
             that
             do
             kill
          
           
             Such
             pestilent
             foes
             ,
             we
             yeeld
             to
             them
          
           
             The
             glory
             of
             that
             stratagem
             :
          
           
             To
             whose
             Oraculous
             voice
             repaire
             ,
          
           
             For
             they
             those
             Delphick
             Prophets
             are
             ,
          
           
             That
             teach
             dead
             bodies
             to
             respire
          
           
             By
             sacred
             Aesculapian
             fire
             :
          
           
             We
             meane
             not
             those
             pied
             Lunatickes
             ,
          
           
             Those
             bold
             fantastick
             Empirickes
             ,
          
           
             Quack-saluers
             ,
             mishrump
             Mountebancks
             ,
          
           
             That
             in
             one
             night
             grow
             vp
             in
             rancks
          
           
           
             And
             liue
             by
             pecking
             Phisickes
             crummes
             ,
          
           
             O
             hate
             these
             venemous
             broodes
             ,
             there
             comes
          
           
             Worse
             sores
             from
             them
             ,
             and
             more
             strange
             births
          
           
             Then
             from
             ten
             plagues
             ,
             or
             twentie
             deaths
             :
          
           
             Only
             this
             Antidote
             apply
             ,
          
           
             Cease
             vexing
             heauen
             ,
             and
             cease
             to
             die
             .
             
          
           
             Seeke
             therefore
             (
             after
             you
             haue
             found
          
           
             Salue
             naturall
             for
             the
             naturall
             wound
          
           
             Of
             this
             Contagion
             ,
             )
             Cure
             from
             thence
          
           
             Where
             first
             the
             euill
             did
             commence
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             's
             the
             Soule
             :
             each
             one
             purge
             one
             ,
          
           
             And
             Englands
             free
             ,
             the
             Plague
             is
             gone
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             necessitie
             of
             a
             Plague
             .
          
           
             YEt
             to
             mixe
             comfortable
             words
          
           
             Tho
             this
             be
             horrid
             ,
             it
             affords
          
           
             Sober
             gladnes
             ,
             and
             wise
             ioyes
             ,
          
           
             Since
             desperate
             mixtures
             it
             destroies
             ;
          
           
             For
             if
             our
             thoughts
             sit
             truly
             trying
             ,
          
           
             The
             iust
             necessitie
             of
             dying
          
           
             How
             needfull
             (
             tho
             how
             dreadfull
             )
             are
          
           
             Purple
             Plagues
             ,
             or
             Crimson
             warre
             ,
          
           
             We
             would
             conclude
             (
             still
             vrging
             pittie
             )
          
           
             A
             Plague's
             the
             Purge
             to
             clense
             a
             Cittie
             :
          
           
             Who
             amongst
             millions
             can
             deny
          
           
             (
             In
             rought
             prose
             ,
             or
             smooth
             Poesie
             )
          
           
           
             Of
             Euils
             ,
             t
             is
             the
             lighter
             broode
             ,
          
           
             A
             dearth
             of
             people
             ,
             then
             of
             foode
             !
          
           
             And
             who
             knowes
             not
             ,
             our
             Land
             ran
             o're
          
           
             With
             people
             ;
             and
             was
             onely
             poore
          
           
             In
             hauing
             too
             too
             many
             ,
             liuing
             ,
          
           
             And
             wanting
             liuing
             !
             rather
             giuing
          
           
             Themselues
             to
             wast
             ,
             deface
             and
             spoyle
             ,
          
           
             Than
             to
             increase
             (
             by
             vertuous
             toyle
             )
          
           
             The
             banckrout
             bosome
             of
             our
             Realme
          
           
             Which
             naked
             birthes
             did
             ouerwhelme
             :
          
           
             This
             begers
             famine
             ,
             and
             bleake
             dearth
             :
          
           
             When
             fruites
             of
             wombes
             passe
             fruites
             of
             earth
             ,
          
           
             Then
             Famines
             onely
             Phisick
             :
             and
          
           
             The
             medcine
             for
             a
             ryotous
             Land
          
           
             Is
             such
             a
             plague
             :
             So
             it
             may
             please
          
           
             Mercies
             Distributer
             to
             appease
             ,
          
           
             His
             speckled
             anger
             ,
             and
             now
             hide
          
           
             Th'
             old
             rod
             of
             Plagues
             :
             no
             more
             to
             chide
          
           
             And
             lash
             our
             shoulders
             and
             sick
             vaines
          
           
             With
             Carbuncles
             ,
             and
             shooting
             Blaines
             :
          
           
             Make
             vs
             the
             happiest
             amongst
             men
             ,
          
           
             Immortall
             by
             our
             prophecing
             pen
             ,
          
           
             That
             this
             last
             lyne
             may
             truly
             raigne
             ,
          
           
             The
             Plague's
             ceast
             ,
             heauen
             is
             friends
             againe
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A02053-e1540
           
             
               A
               pos
               〈…〉
               ad
               Ciui
               〈…〉
               tem
               .
            
          
           
             
               Pest-ho
               〈…〉
            
          
           
             
               The
               〈…〉