To Mira.

Many aske Mira , why I nam'd thee so:
Let them aske Nature why she fram'd thee so.

Of Issa.

Issa from me to a player tooke her way,
No meruaile, for she alwaies lou'd to play.

Of Cornelius.

See you him yonder, who sits o're the stage,
With the Tobacco-pipe now at his mouth?
It is Cornelius that braue gallant youth,
Who is new printed to this fangled age:
He weares a lerkin cudgled with gold lace,
A profound slop, a hat scarce pipkin high,
For boots, a paire of dagge cases; his face,
Furr'd with Cads -beard: his poynard on his thigh.
He wallows in his walk his slop to grace,
Sweares by the Lord , daines no salutation

Of Pansa.

Fine spruce yong Pansa's growne a malcontent,
A mighty malcontent though young and spruce,
As heresie he shuns all merriment,
And turn'd good husband, puts forth sighs to vse,
Like hate-man Timon in his Cell, he sits
Misted with darknes like a smoaky roome,
And if he be so mad to walke the streetes,
To his sights life, his hat becomes a toombe.
What is the cause of this melancholly,
His father's dead: no, such newes reuiues him,
Wants he a whore? nor that, loues he? that's folly,

Of Chrestina.

Talke bawdery and Chrestina spets and spals,
So much her chast thoughts hate it, tut that's false,
She loues it well, wherfore then should she spet?
Her teeth doe water but to heare of it.

To Women.

Yee that haue beauty and withall no pitty,
Are like a prick-song-lesson without ditty.

To Cotta.

Be not wrath, Cotta , that I not salute thee,
I vs'd it whilst I worthy did repute thee:
Now thou art made a painted Saint, and I
Cotta will not commit idolatry.

To Lydia.

( Lydia ) so mote I thee thou art not faire,
A plaine brownetta when thou art at best:
Yet darst not thou come forth into the ayre,
When no wind stirres, and Sunne's hid in the west,
But mask'd forsooth, I prethy what's thy reason,
That hauing (God he knowes) no faire to loose,
Thou hid'st that pitteous None so out of season?
Oh th'art a mummer, and perhaps dost choose,
A faire calme euen as fittest for thy gaine:

To the Reader.

Excuse me (Reader) though I now and than,
In some light lines doe shew my selfe a man,
Nor be so sowre, some wanton words to blame,
They are the language of an Epigrame.

Of Gellia.

The world finds fault with Gellia , for she loues
A skip-iack fidler, I hold her excus'd,
For louing him, sith she her selfe so proues:
What, she a fidler? tut she is abus'd?
No in good faith; what fidle hath she vs'd?
The Viole Digambo is her best content,
For twixt her legs she holds her instrument.