Classic Poem

To Licus.

Licus , thou art deceau'd in saying, that
I'me a fine man: thou saist thou knowst not what.
He's fine fellow who is neate and fine,
Whose locks are kem'd, & neuer a tangled twine,
Who smels of Musk, Ciuet, and Pomander,
Who spends, and out-spends many a pound a yeare,
Who piertly iets, can caper, daunce, and sing,
Play with his Mistris fingers, her hand wring,
Who companying with wenches nere is still:
But either skips or mowes, or prates his fill,
Who is at euery play, and euery night
Sups with his Ingles , who can well recite,
Whatsoeuer rimes are gracious. ( Licus ) leaue,
Iniure not my content then, to bereaue
My fortune of her quiet: I am I,
But a fine fellow in my fantasie
Is a great trouble, trouble me not then,
For a fine fellow, is a fine foole mongst men.