Selected quad for the lemma: truth_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
truth_n	work_n	world_n	worth_n	33	3	8.2925	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A07541	A nights search· Discovering the nature and condition of all sorts of night-walkers; with their associates. As also, the life and death of many of them. Together with divers fearfull and strange accidents, occasioned by such ill livers. Digested into a poeme by Humphry Mill.; Nights search. Part 1.	Mill, Humphrey, fl. 1646.	1640 (1640)	STC 17921; ESTC S112683	172,120	346

happy cause be try'd His Epitaph YOu sollid stones incite the gentle dust To guard this man of worth that 's buried here He is a jewell left unto your trust 'Till he in glory gloriously appeare Though saucie death hath laid him in this grave His name 's alive and living praise shall have SECT 2. Against lascivious Poets and poetry and of the ill that is occasioned by such meanes THou that art skill'd in poetry and wilt Abuse thy wit thy parts to mixe the guilt And filth of lust together answer here To what I charge thee with let shame and fear Possesse thy heart this first doth breed the odds Thou striv'st to make the names of heathen gods Both famous and immortall alwayes trying To paint them fresh and shew thy art in lying Is 't fit a Christian with his muse his pen Should strive to be an ape to heathen men Art thou so barren of invention made Is wit and fancy low that thou must trade Beyond-sea altogether fictions vaine Must stuffe thy verse and still direct thy straine Their feigned gods are guilty they confesse Of lust and rapes and of all filthinesse Those Poets with rich nature were endu'd Their witty fictions do so much delude Thee with conceit that thou hast nothing new They fram'd false gods and worship'd them as true Poore men they rov'd at randome in the dark Or natures light but never had a spark O' th light above yet better use they made Of that than he who makes his muse turne jade I say not but those fictions may be us'd To set forth Vertue not to be abus'd To trick up Folly vices may be showne In their owne colours and be better kowne If well applyed we may leave the drosse And take the rest then therein's gaine no losse But he that in lascivious straines doth glory And trims the ruines of a bawdy story Doth shame his Muse he strives ev'n to undoe her She proves a bawd his wit 's a pander to her Such poyson'd bayts trick'd up in gawdy rimes Doe cheat the simple and infect the times To sinne 's too much more to continue in 't 'T is worse to die and leave his sinns in print 'T is strange that men who having wit with Art Should be so mad to take the devills part Doth God give men their learning parts and wit To raise them up the devills size to fit Above the rest on such he sets a price That can with skill paint over his device And scribble out a black and hellish rowle 'T is Sathans will it traps the silly soule For any good he is a stranger to it Or plead for truth he hath no heart to doe it If things of worth doe glance but from his pen 'T is but by chance hee 'll wish 'em out agen If he but finde one bred of heavens race He strives his cause or person to disgrace And to discourage all that hold with them VVho tread the way tow'rds new Jerusalem But if a blade comes that 's to vice inclin'd Hee 'll hugg him 'cause he only suits his mind And he that can to his base humours bend Though nere so bad hee 'l choose him for his friend In hindring good preferring that that 's evill Is poetry to recompence the Devill VVill any man esteeme that Poet best VVho in his wanton wit exceeds the rest And smooths a path for whores and does applaud A shamelesse villaine and a rotten bawd His ulcer'd lines not savouring of the salt But rais'd from burning lust or wine or malt Doe vex the wise they only cheere all bad men Make work for Pimps and sport for fooles mad men A Poets pen should ever strike at vice And raise true vertue to a noble price And honour truth dash falshood out of favour Shame foolish Imps and praise a sweet behaviour Or else the Devill may a Poet prove To honour lust and give it termes of love Of him he borrowes what he doth indite He would doe more but that he may not write 'T is like great Pluto hath bespoke his quill If this be honour let him have it still He does bewitch the youth to bend his minde To vaine delights the sting that comes behinde The young man by 't is fondly drawn away The old man sees vice trimm'd then goes astray The modest Maid whose blushing shewes her grace She runs away the whore whose brazen face Is varnisht o're she can abide and cry Here 's wit at will 't is pitie he should die The baud she mouths it sitting on a bench A wittie Spark he loves a prettie wench Her windowes with such pamphlets furnisht be The Fiends they dopromote her bawderie The VVhiskin laughs untill his heart be full For with this bait he lately catcht a Gull VVho spent his time to learn this shamelesse wooing To sell himselfe for fooles must needs be dooing He 's like to thrive his trade comes on apace And all those imps that love the filthy race Like Sappho's birds may chatter out thy praise And sweare thy scull shall weare the wreath of bayes The fowle that 's newly caught will set thee forth And sing a catch oh here 's a man of worth Thy Art doth teach him to fulfill his lust Stirs up the fire then this vile heap of dust Much like an Ape does on the strumpet grin But she so crafty ere he can her win Must pay her well her smiles and curled locks Do draw him on 'till he hath got the pox Then like a woodcock taken in a snare His gold is gone his empty pare growes bare And all his feathers moulted clean away And when the Chirurgeon comes to seek his pay This light-brain'd foole is growne so light in purse Except his rot it is his greatest curse He payes no debts and keeps a hungry table Hee 'd run away but that he is not able His sin that promis'd him such sweet content Now stings his soule the whore when all is spent Forsakes him jearing at his curs'd estate Her love was false but perfect is her hate Then quickly he begins to stinke alive While with his gold the queane doth seeme to thrive He 'll curse the Poet raile against his whore And being growne so miserably poore Disease and want have quencht his lust full flame He dyes dispairing leaves a rotten name The heavens know if ever he repented 'Mongst men below his death is not lamented Excepting those that liv'd upon his losse And 's creditors that had so great a crosse Poore wretched man that hath so short a time He 's like a worme that creeps in dust and slime Yet spends himselfe sinne sucking out his marrow The world thogh wide doth seem for him too narrow His braines are nimble to contrive the ill To please his humours and his headstrong will Those Milldew'd pleasures that delight the sense He entertaines but for his recompence Death joynes with sinne to throw him in his grave Dust bars him up and keeps

call them blest And let them bee as patterns to the rest Thou need'st not doubt but divers in the City Will cloath thee in thy travels shew thee pity In thy distresse for thou to them shalt show Such things as one of many ne're did know They 'l nurse thee up and when they presse thee out They 'l spread thy name upon the posts about And if with Country gallants thou dost chuse To serve awhile because thou bring'st them newes They 'l bid thee welcome thou maist find some there Which thou didst in thy Night long search for here Salute the Poets kindly let them find Thou did'st not aime at them 't was not thy mind To staine their names but those who with their wils Are factors to advance lusts viler ils Never look thou for favour or releif From any Bawd Pimp Pander Whore or Theif They 'l hurt thee if they can but take no care The gallows or the whip will be their share When praise is thine their causes must be try'd Come never whimper law is on thy side Thou hast a guard of worthies none shall wrong Thy innocence feare nothing passe along When thou do'st meet with such who having spent Their time in sin yet hell-ward still are bent Strike home and spare not quickly settle to it And if they' are vext say thou art pre'st to do it If any change their minds their waies their ends Seeing the shame imbrace them and be friends I know this is thy aime thy mind is easd Though thou be angry thou 'lt be quickly pleas'd If thou canst keep back any from this vice Who els might have been lost they 'l raise thy price Above all expectation then thy fire Will shine as well as warme looke thou no higher So now thou hast thy Charge and we must part Farewell deare SMuse nor do's it grieve my heart To part upon these termes I know e're long Thou 'lt change thy Mourning to a plesant song Let all that heare or see thee passing by Wish thee all good successe and so wish I. FINIS To his worthy friend the Author of the Nights Search WHen I had found thy drift in this thy Night Which is to bring such vassals to the light As undermine the world how by thy pen The living dye the dead to live agen Thy various Searching and thy lofty straines Thy quaint expressions how thy knowing braines Set out their sins thy witty usefull parts Thy honest end how thou dost cast thy darts That Hell-hounds fall before thee how the times May see and hate the vilenesse of those crimes That are unmask'd by thee thy Muse went in Yet thou didst never know that cursed sin Complaints and griefe are kept alive so rare That I am forc'd to weep and beare a share I thought to praise thee but again thought I 'T will but disgrace thy worth and industry But with this reason did my thoughts agree 'T will be my honor if I write of thee 'T will be my pride if these low lines of mine May be thought worthy to be bound with thine Though I come late let me this favour find That I may wait upon thy Muse behind Thou hast not rob'd the dead nor dost thou strive To scrape a line from any man alive Invention's rich in thee for I find still Thy Genius is too nimble for thy quill Thou do'st not rub thy braines a day or two To hatch a fancy as some others do Nor blot out often what thou once do'st write 'T is worth the trusting what thou do'st indite I would have read thy searching Muse throughout Had it been meane but to resolve the doubt 'T is worthy to be studied every page May teach a lesson to this puny age So much I found as pleas'd me for the rest I 'le read and study it when once'tis prest Thy praise will live though pride and envy burst And all th' infernall troop that are accurst Spit fire at thee wisemen all know well They envy thee because thou do'st excell Tho Philips To the Author on his exact description of the Night-walkers of our time I Lately walk'd your round took full survey Of all all being worth notice in my way Observ'd the order of your scouts how fast The silly dotrels to their ruine haste How the delinquents met your lash and how Those that escap'd had in conceit enough Sense of your scourge which being so severe Made them lesse wicked not for love but feare Thus English Juvenal thy whip doth good Not gently laying on but fetching blood For our depraved times and manners too Wanted too long a Censor like to you Which can with your meere frowns make all men shun At once the sin and the temptation But how the Roysters of the time will rage When they shall see th' abuses of our age Reform'd and they for their supply must be Enforc'd to travell France and Italy To finde their overthrow when all they gaine Is but a sad experience of their paine Me thinks I see the mincing Dames approve Thy quaint description of their wicked love And with unusuall teares repent those times That wrong'd their husbands by their shamefull crimes The sharking Pander will deplore the state Of his lewd conversation and will hate His servile drudgerie and wish he were Againe some Serving-man to quasse and sweare Or what ills else to act which might obtaine His Mistris favour or his Masters gaine To wait upon some chamber-maid which hee Knowes well his Master keepes at liverie Which may ingratiate to his willing eare His service and for that esteeme him deare Sometimes he might content his Mistris too And for her sake more than his Master do And this were better far and lesser ill Than to be slave unto a Wantons will And after all to be reproach'd for 't thus For serving an incarnat Incubus The rampant Doxie now the twilight feares Nor as her usuall wont abroad appeares The plodding Cheat's reclaim'd and rather will Work hard all yeare than one weeke at the Mill. Thus in the worst of times 't is to be thought Thou hast a generall reformation wrought And yet if there be any dare persist In their lewd courses like the Sensualist They even they thy fancies will admire And praise the tartnesse of thy fiercer ire For if that any of their Order be By thy advice falne from the liverie Though they themselves do their lewd wayes retaine Yet with their praise will they applaud thy paine And as the Vsurer did the Preacher fee That none at length might use that trade but hee So will these Hackney Strumpets with their crue All that they can strive now to honour you How can this work of thine then chuse but sell When they 'gainst whom 't is writ say 't is done well What now shall I commend in thee let all Who view this coppy praise th' originall 'T would be absurd thy wit or Art to praise Or with our garlands to adorne thy Bayes Let thine ownelines and not some others bee The perspective by which we may ken thee And surely 't were but labour lost to write What thine owne works make publish to the sight Thy merits and thy praise let the world then Beleeve Fames trumpet is become thy pen. But yet behinde thy back I dare be bold Some secret truths concerning thee unfold And to acquaint the world there is in thee The choyser seeds of honour'd poesie Cleantbes-like each day thou do'st apply Thy selfe unto thy taske with industry And when the night drawes neare thy waking minde Doth something worthy of our wonder finde Whereon to contemplate how many now Dreame their whole time away and nothing doe They dare record yet at those houres when sleepe The most part of the world in rest doth keepe Thou art not idle but hast done far more By night than many all their dayes before Heaven gave thy soule wings that she still might be Soaring aloft unto her Hierarchie Not that with them thou should'st thy pillow stuffe And so give nature more than what 's enough Thou hast withdrawne times curtairs and hast shown Those hidden truths which he may blush to owne O how in everie page might learned men Descrie the rare conceits flow from thy pen I have perus'd it throughly and confesse I were quite stupid should I wonder lesse Go onwards worthy Sir and as 't is fit Make all the world to wonder at your wit That as you have this piece compos'd to please Your selfe let others it enjoy which ease And idle houres have foster'd that it may Remaine your monument at your dying day Haec quorsum premis ut percant quis talia condit Edere si non vis omnibus ede tibi C. G. Interioris Templi