692. Beauty.

Beauty's no other but a lovely grace,
Of lively colours, flowing from the face.

693. On Poetical Blinks.

He nine wayes looks, and needs must learned be, That all the Muses at one view can see.

694. A Conceit.

As Sextus once was opening of a nut,
With a sharpe knife his finger deeply cut,
What signe is this, quoth he, can any tell?
'Tis sign, quoth one, y'have cut your finger well.
Not so, saith he, for now my finger's sore,
And I am sure that it was well before.

695. Women.

Howsoe'r they be, thus do they seem to me, They be and seem not, seem what least they be.

696. Mutuans Dissimulans.

Dick crafty borrows to no other end,

But that he will not ought to others lend,

That else might ask him: 'tis some wisdome Dick How ere, accounted but a knavish trick.

697. Writing.

When words we want, love teacheth to indite;

And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.

698. A cure for Impatience....

Who would be patient, wait he at the Pool,
For Bull-heads, or for Block-heads in the school.

699. Satisfaction.

For all our works, a recompence is sure:
'Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.

Love runs within your veins, as it were mixt
With quick-silver, but would be wisely fixt :
For though you may for beauty bear the bell,
Yet ever to ring Changes sounds not well.

701. On a Mad-man.

One ask'd a mad-man, if a wife he had?
A wife! quoth he, I never was so mad.

702. To Scilla.

If it be true that promise is a debt,
Then Scilla will her freedom hardly get;
For if she hath vow'd her service to so many,
She'l neither pay them all, nor part from any.
Yet she to satisfie her debts, desires

To yeeld her body, as the Law requires.

703. Nescis, quid serus vesper vehat.

Lyncus deviseth as he lyes in bed,

What new apparrell he were best to make him :
So many fashions flow within his head,

As much he fears the Taylor will mistake him :
But he mistook him not, that by the way
Did for his old suit lay him up that day.

704. To Ficus.

Ficus hath lost his nose, but knows not how,

And that seems strange to every one that knows it : Me thinks I see it written in his brow,

How, wherefore, and the cause that he did loose it. To tell you true, Ficus, I thus suppose, 'Twas some French Caniball bit off your nose.

705. On a painted Curtezan.

Whosoever saith thou sellest all, doth jest,
Thou buy'st thy beauty, that sell'st all the rest.

706. Of Arnaldo.

Arnaldo free from fault, demands his wife,
Why he is burthen'd with her wicked life?
Quoth she, good husband do not now repent,
I far more burthens bear, yet am content,

707. Labor improbus omnia vincit.

Glogo will needs be knighted for his lands,
Got by the labour of his fathers hands,
And hopes to prove a Gentleman of note,
For he hath bought himself a painted coat.

708. Quis nisi mentis inops

Ware proffer'd stinks; yet stay good Proverb, stay,
Thou art deceiv'd, as Clients best can say ;
Who profering trebble fees, for single care,
It's well accepted, gold it is such ware.

709. On a friend indeed.

A reall friend a Cannon cannot batter;
With nom'nal friends, a Squib's a perilous matter.

710. On an Italian Proverb.

Three women met upon the market day,
To make a Market, (they do use to say

In Italy) and why? their tongues do walk
As loud, as if an hundred men did talk.

One hearing this, swore had his wife been there
And made a fourth, there might have been a Faire.

711. Mans ingresse and egresse.

Nature, which head-long into life did fling us,
With our feet forward to our grave doth bring us.
What is lesse ours, than this our borrow'd breath?
We stumble into life, we go to death.

Bad debtors are good lyers; for they say,
I'l pay you without fail, on such a day;
Come is the day, to come the debt is still,
So still they lye, though stand in debt they will.
But Fulcus hath so oft ly'd in this wise,
That now he lies in Ludgate for his lyes.

713. On a foolish dolt.

A Fustice walking o're the frozen Thames,
The Ice about him round, began to crack;
He said to's man, Here is some danger, James,
I pray thee help me over on thy back.

Tom asks no fathers blessing, if you note him,
And wiser he, unlesse he knew who got him.

715. To a sleeping Talker.

In sleep thou talk'st un-forethought mysteries,
And utter'st un-foreseen things, with close eyes.
How wel wouldst thou discourse, if thou wert dead,
Since sleep, deaths image, such fine talk hath bred?

716. Omne simile non est idem.

Together as we walk'd, a friend of mine
Mistook a painted Madam for a Signe,