Short Poems

When times are troubled, then forbeare; but speak,
When a cleare day, out of a Cloud do's break.

Ursley, she thinks those Velvet Patches grace
The Candid Temples of her comely face:
But he will say, who e'r those Circlets seeth,
They be but signs of Ursleys hollow teeth.

Tis much among the filthy to be clean;
Our heat of youth can hardly keep the mean.

Strut, once a Fore-man of a Shop we knew;
But turn'd a Ladies Usher now, ('tis true:)
Tell me, has Strut got ere a title more?
No; he's but Fore-man, as he was before.

Still take advice; though counsels when they flye
At randome, sometimes hit most happily.

Wo'd ye oyle of Blossomes get?
Take it from my Julia's sweat:
Oyl of Lillies, and of Spike,
From her moysture take the like:
Let her breath, or let her blow,
All rich spices thence will flow.

Know when to speake; for many times it brings
Danger to give the best advice to Kings.

Need is no vice at all; though here it be,
With men, a loathed inconveniencie.

Adversity hurts none, but onely such
Whom whitest Fortune dandled has too much.

At Post and Paire, or Slam, Tom Tuck would play
This Christmas, but his want wherwith, sayes Nay.