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IN SY LLAM. 44.

When I this proposition had defended,
A coward cannot be an honest man,
Thou Sylla seemest forthwith to be offended,
And hold'st the contrary and swears he can :
But when I tell thee that he will forsake
His dearest friend, in peril of his life,
Thou then art chang'd and say'st thou didst mistake,
And so we end our argument and strife:

Yet I think oft, and think I think aright,

Thy argument argues thou wilt not fight.

IN DA cum. 45.
Dacus with some good colour and pretence,
Terms his love's beauty silent eloquence;
For she doth lay more colours on her face,
Than ever Tully used his speech to grace.

IN MARc UM. 46. Why dost thou Marcus in thy misery, Rail and blaspheme, and call the heavens unkind; The heavens draw no kindness unto thee, Thou hast the heavens so little in thy mind; For in thy life thou never usest prayer, But at primero, to encounter fair.

MEDItations of A GULL. 47.
See yonder melancholy gentleman,
Which hood-winked with his hat, alone doth sit
Think what he thinks and tell me if you can,
What great affairs troubles his little wit.

He thinks not of the war 'twixt France and Spain, Whether it be for Europe good or ill, Nor whether the empire can itself maintain Against the Turkish power encroaching still; Nor what great town in all the Netherlands, The stars determine to besiege this spring, Nor how the Scottish policy now stands, Nor what becomes of the Irish mutining. But he doth seriously bethink him whether Of the gull'd people he be more esteem’d, For his long cloak, or his great black feather, By which each gull is now a gallant deem'd : Or of a journey he deliberates, To Paris garden cock-pit or the play; Or how to steal a dog he meditates, Or what he shall unto his mistress say: Yet with these thoughts he thinks himself most fit To be of counsel with a king for wit.

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Peace idle muse, have done ! for it is time,
Since lousy Ponticus envies my fame,
And swears the better sort are much to blame
To make me so well known for ill rhyme:
Yet Banks his horse is better known than he,
So are the camels and the western hog,
And so is Lepidus' high painted dog:
Why doth not Ponticus their fames envy 2
Besides this muse of mine, and the black feather,
Grew both together fresh in estimation,

And both grown stale, were cast away together:

What fame is this that scarce lasts out a fashion ?
Only this last in credit doth remain,
That from henceforth each bastard cast forth rhyme,
Which doth but savour of a libel vein,
Shall call me father, and be thought my crime;
So dull and with so little sense endued,
Is my gross headed judge, the multitude.

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I Love thee not for sacred chastity.
Who loves for that? nor for thy sprightly wit:
I love thee not for thy sweet modesty,
Which makes thee in perfection's throne to sit.

I love thee not for thy enchanting eye,
Thy beauty ravishing perfection:
I love thee not for unchaste luxury,
Nor for thy body's fair proportion.

I love thee not for that my soul doth dance,
And leap with pleasure when those lips of thine,
Give musical and graceful utterance,
To some (by thee made happy) poet's line.

I love thee not for voice or slender small,
But wilt thou know wherefore? fair sweet for all.

"Faith wench : I cannot court thy sprightly eyes,
With the base viol placed between my thighs:
I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing,
Nor run upon a high stretched minikin.

I cannot whine in puling elegies,
Intombing Cupid with sad obsequies:

I am not fashion'd for these amorous times,
To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes:
I cannot dally, caper, dance and sing,
Oiling my saint with supple sonnetting:
I cannot cross my arms, or sigh aye me,
Aye me forlorn, egregious foppery !
I cannot buss thy fill, play with thy hair,
Swearing by love, thou art most debonnaire:
Not I by cock, but shall tell thee roundly,
Hark in thine ear, zounds I can ( ) thee
soundly.

Sweet wench I love thee, yet I will not sue,
Or shew my love as musky courtiers do;
I'll not carouse a health to honour thee,
In this same bezzling drunken courtesy:
And when all's quaff'd, eat up my boosing glass,
In glory that I am thy servile ass.
Nor will I wear a rotten Bourbon lock,
As some sworn peasant to a female smock.
Well-featured lass, thou knowest I love thee dear,
Yet for thy sake I will not bore mine ear,
To hang thy dirty silken shoe-tires there:
Nor for thy love will I once gnash a brick,
Or some pied colours in my bonnet stick.
But by the chaps of hell to do thee good,
I'll freely spend my thrice decocted blood.

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