Selected quad for the lemma: book_n
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A19912
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VVits bedlam ----vvhere is had, whipping-cheer, to cure the mad.
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Davies, John, 1565?-1618.
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1617
(1617)
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STC 6343; ESTC S105201
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53,198
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157
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Ten. A hall mad Bedlams now my Braines like yours Begin to crow my Muse this Afternoone Must dance a Brawle O! looke Apollo lowres To see his Priest so subiect to the Moone Gods me how now what strange confused noise Of murmur heare I O! the Earth doth shake Powles makes her People volley-foorth her voyce Against me for their ierks Haâ—ke O! I quake S'foote what are these that pynch me Goblins A wanion on the Elues for me What now Elues Pinch you behind ye Nits to saue your selues Before me too Saint George then haue at you What Weather 's this how soddain is this Storme Whence fall these Stones that so do batter me What! from the Winds wide Mouth can they in I weigh them not a Mite so light they be or me Harke how it thunders All the world 's afire With flashes of the fury of the mad Looke looke they come beware retire retire Hold Braines this feare I feare will make you gad Apollo helpe me No Wilt leaue me thus What! not one glance of fauour in this Case Then Luna help be thou propitious Why so thou cheer'st me in this Wild-goose-chase But soft What smell is this It wounds my Braine Breath of Blaspheamers Fy is no Place free From this so banefull Ayre Can I remaine No where but lik a Plague 't will follow me O what a Hell is this A hell No no It 's better than some Scapes that more offend T' is but the bleating of some Calfe or so That feeles my Spleenes iust Ierks there 's an end Bitter zeale is lesse than Loue. FAme gathering out of her own motioÌ„ strength And liuely grown by laboure in her flight I seeke to hold yet draw her out at length With this my mirry Muse But here 's the spight To follow Mirth as maym'd she euer vses For Bolts from Dolts still cripple mirry Muses A Caueat TO bite is but a dogged part to sting Is but a Snakes Wasps Hornets or a Bees These Men do shun sith Dole or Death they bring Yet some haue oft a Medcine made of These So though I byting barke and stinging hisse Yet make of all a Medcine for thy Misse To Martiall MArtiall th' art still renownd for thy Free wit But oft reproached for thy Looser-pen Yet Wise-men longing for a merry Fit Reade thee with Praise Pleasure now and then Then I too proudly humble thinke not scorne They Wit-all call my name for thy Fames horne The BOOKE to Grauitie STerne Grauity auert thy face from me Or looke not saddly ou me for I am Too light somewhere for Eyes too sad to see And yet such lightnesse shews but Vice her shame But to reproue Vice viciously is more Amisse I feare the salu's worse than the Sore Yet Grace it selfe can hardly Wit perswade That it is sin to call a Spadâ— a Spade The BOOKE to the Reader LOok'st thou for Wit well relish'd here each Letter Yeelds fresh-Wit season'd well with Salt and Pepper Then if they last not or do proue vnsaury It 's through thy Foolry rather than my Knau'ry Againe ARt good and bad thy wit then touch me not For I doe often ierke the honest Sot Art bad and thy wit good Forbeare much more To touch mee for I lash such till they roare Or art thou good and great thy Wits extent Th'wilt loue me tho thou loathe mine Excrement But be thon good or bad for Six-pence I Will glad and grieue thee make thee laugh cry O! take my money For this Sowre-Honey Why Poets of the present times be not so well esteem'd as those of former IT 's Entry that doth make vs better deeme Of men erst breathing thaÌ„ now drawing breath So Poets that now liue we disesteeme And read them not with pleasure till their death Of the worth of wittiest Workes or Bookes RAre Bookes are Of-springs of Wits most compleate Distill'd from purest Braines refined Spirits Which thereby are consum'd then such rare merits Transcend all Patrons Guifts how euer great Mercy with Iustice. SHould I with ierkes of wit whip euery Vice That now are waÌ„dring I should make my booke Swell as it had the worst of Poysons tooke And make men swell as poison'd with the price But some I le whip the rest I le spare for some Of more Wit and lesse grace in time to come Those Liâ—es which all or none do vnderstand Do neither with Wit Art nor Iudgment stand THose Rimes are best though least of most esteem'd That like sage Platoes Suppers best do please When they diiested be how er'e mis-deem'd They be at first And so I would haue these Of My selfe and this Bable my Booke SOme lothe to be laught at for what they write But I do hold that wrong these Writings right Then iudge of these too Foolish Writings state That onely aime but to be laughed at Against Pseâ—cus the too cunning Palmister and Poet. Epigram 1. PSeâ—cus is perfect in Chirosophy That is hee 's hand-wise stealing coningly But oft he 's well laugh'd at for stealing Rimes So hee 's Hand-wise Head-foole too somtimes Vpon one named Râ— Holland who kept one Nell Cotton Epigram 2. A Light yong-man who lou'd the like yong-woman Desir'd their Things to either might be common So gaue her wheÌ„ her good wil he had gotteÌ„ A Yard of Holland for a N. -ell of Cotton Against the nobly-desended Muscus who wedded a Butchers fat Daughter Epigram 3. THe well-borne Muscus wedded hath of late A Butchers Daughter Fat for Pounds Plate Which Match is like a Pudding sith in That He puts the Bloud her Father all the Fat. Against Faber the Earelesse forger Epigram 4. FAber the Forger would himself bestow In marr'age faine and sweares he nought doth owe True for hee 's Earelesse and hyres all he weares So oweth not so much as Clothes or Eares Against Dromus the Borrowing barraine or bankroupt Discourcer Epigram 5. DRomus in talke repeates but old-said Sawes Of other Mâ—s then Discourse with-draws So like a rotten Naile he cannot bore Through rotten wood without a way before Of Leoena and her two friends Spot and Fuller Epigram 6. LEoena hath two friends that still maintain her The one hight Fuller the other called Spot Hauing a Fuller she should haue no Spot And yet the Fuller with that Spot doth staine her Then if thou canst not put away her Spot Fuller thou and thy Mill are ouer-shot Of a poore Curate that wold haue pawn'd his Bible to a rich Precisians for a Crowne Epigram 7. ACurat poore a rich Precisian praide To lend him but a Crowne but for a Day But his request precisely he denaide Then on his Bible he the same did pray But he like a precise illiberall Clowne Would take nor his nor Gods-Word for a Crown Against selfe-concâ—ited nine-bibbing Phagus Epigram 8. PHagus is wise in his owne Eyes they say Then hee 's a Foole to drinke them so away Against Gaulus the writing-country Schole-master Epigram 9.