Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies,
Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities,
Stranger than strangers: one, who for a Dane
In the Dane's massacre had sure been slain,
If he had liv'd then; and without help dies,
When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise;
One, whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by;
One, t' whom th' examining justice sure would cry,

66

Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are." His clothes were strange, though coarse; and black though bare;

Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been

Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen)
Become tufftaffaty; and our children shall
See it plain rash awhile, then nought at all.
The thing hath travell'd, and faith speaks all tongues,
And only knoweth what t' all states belongs.
Made of th' accents, and best phrase of all these,
He speaks one language. If strange meats displease,
Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste;
But pedant's motley tongue, soldier's bombast,
Mountebank's drug-tongue, nor the terms of law,
Are strong enough preparatives to draw
Me to hear this, yet I must be content

With his tongue, in his tongue call'd compliment:
In which he can win widows, and pay scores,
Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
Out-flatter favourites, or outlie either

Jovius or Surius, or both togther.

He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, "God! How have I sinn'd, that thy wrath's furious rod, This fellow, chooseth me." He saith, "Sir,

I love your judgment; whom do you prefer,

For the best linguist?" and I sillily

Said, that I thought Calepine's Dictionary.
"Nay, but of men, most sweet sir?" Beza then,
Some Jesuits, and two reverend men

Of our two academies I nam'd; here

He stopp'd me, and said: "Nay, your apostles were Good pretty linguists, so Panurgus was;

Yet a poor gentleman; all these may pass

By travel;" then, as if he would have sold

His tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders told,
That I was fain to say, "If you had liv'd, sir,
Time enough to have been interpreter

To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tow'r had stood."
He adds, "If of court-life you knew the good,
You would leave loneness." I said,

My loneness is; but Spartan's fashion,

Not alone

To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last
Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste;
No more can princes' courts, though there be few
Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue."

He, like to a high-stretch'd lute-string, squeak'd, “O, sir,

'Tis sweet to talk of kings."—" At Westminster,”
Said I, "the man that keeps the abbey tombs,
And for his price doth, with whoever comes,
Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk,

From king to king, and all their kin can walk :
Your ears shall hear nought but kings; your eyes

meet

Kings only; the way to it is King's Street."

He smack'd, and cry'd, "He's base, mechanic

coarse;

So 're all your English men in their discourse

Are not your Frenchmen neat?"

see,

"Mine, as you

I have but one, sir, look, he follows me.

"Certes they're neatly cloth'd. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your grogaram."

"Not so, sir, I have more." Under this pitch
He would not fly; I chaf'd him: but as itch
Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worse: so I, fool found,
Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress:
And asks, what news; I tell him of new plays,
He takes my hand, and as a still which stays
A semibrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As lothe to enrich me, so tells many a lie,

More than ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial household trash he knows; he knows
When the queen frown'd or smil'd, and he knows
what

A subtle statesman may gather of that;

He knows who loves whom; and who by poison
Hastes to an office's reversion;

He knows who 'hath sold his land, and now doth beg
A license old iron, boots, and shoes, and egg-
Shells to transport; shortly boys shall not play
At span-counter or blow point, but shall pay
Toil to some courtier; and, wiser than all us,
He knows, what lady is not painted.

Would n't Heraclitus laugh to see Macrine,
From hat to shoe, himself at door refine,

As if the presence were a Moschite; and lift
His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift,
Making them confess not only mortal

Great stains and holes in them, but venial
Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate:
And then by Durer's rules survey the state
Of his each limb, and with strings the odds tries
Of his neck to his leg, and waist to thighs.
So in immaculate clothes and symmetry
Perfect as circles, with such nicety,

As a young preacher at his first time goes
To preach, he enters; and a lady, which owes
Him not so much as good will, he arrests,
And unto her protests, protests, protests;
So much as at Rome would serve to 've thrown
Ten cardinals into the Inquisition;

And whispers by Jesu so oft, that a

Pursuivant would have ravish'd him away,
For saying our lady's psalter. But 'tis fit
That they each other plague, they merit it.
But here comes Glorious, that will plague them both,
Who in the other extreme only doth

Call a rough carelessness good fashion;
Whose cloak his spurs tear, or whom he spits on,
He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm
To him, he rushes in, as if, Arm, Arm,
He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill
As theirs, which in old hangings whip Christ, still
He strives to look worse, he keeps all in awe ;
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Tir'd now I leave this place, and but pleas'd so,
As men from jails to execution go,

Go through the great chamber (why is it hung,
With the seven deadly sins?) being among
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing-cross for a bar, men that do know
No token of worth, but queen's man, and fine
Living, barrels of beef, and flaggons of wine.
I shook like a spy'd spy. Preachers, which are
Seas of wit and arts, you can, then dare
Drown the sins of this place, for, for me,
Which am but a scant brook, it enough shall be
To wash the stains away; although I yet
(With Machabee, modesty) the known merit
Of my work lessen: yet some wise men shall,
I hope, esteem my wits canonical.

SATIRE.

I FOUND, by him, least sound him who most knows,
He swears well, speaks ill, but best of clothes,
What fit summer, what what winter, what the spring,
He had living, but now these ways come in
His whole revenues. Where his whore now dwells,
And hath dwelt, since his father's death, he tells.
Yea he tells most cunningly each hid cause

Why whores forsake their bawds. To these some

laws

He knows of the duel, and on his skill

The least jot in that or these he quarrel will,
Though sober, but ne'er fought. I know
What made his valour undubb'd windmill go,