And often alters pace as wayes growe deepe,
    (For who, in pathes unknowne, one gate can keepe?)
  Sometimes he smoothlie slideth doune the hill;
    Another while, the stones his feete doe kill; 280

  In clammie waies he treaddeth by and by,
    And plasheth and sprayeth all that be him nye. 
  So fares this iollie rider in his race,
    Plunging and sousing forward in lyke case, 284

  He dasht, and spurted, and he plodded foule,
    God giue thee shame, thou blinde mischapen owle! 
  Fy-fy, for grief:  a ladies chamberlaine,
    And canst not thou thy tatling tongue refraine? 288

  I reade thee beardles blab, beware of stripes,
    And be aduised what thou vainelie pipes;
  Thou wilt be whipt with nettles for this geare
    If Cicelie shewe but of thy knauerie heere. 292

  Saint Denis shield me from such female sprites! 
    Regarde not, Dames, what Cupids Poete writes: 
  I pennd this storie onelie for my selfe,
    Who, giuing suck unto a childish Elfe, 296

  And quitte discourag’d in my nurserie,
    Since all my store seemes to hir penurie. 
  I am not as was Hercules the stout,
    That to the seaventh iournie could hould out; 300

  I want those hearbe’s and rootes of Indian soile,
    That strengthen wearie members in their toile—­
  Druggs and Electuaries of new devise,
    Doe shunne my purse, that trembles at the price. 304

  Sufficeth all I haue, I yeald hir hole
    Which, for a poore man, is a princelie dole,
  I paie our hostess scott and lott at moste,
    And looke as leane and lank as anie ghoste; 308

  What can be added more to my renowne? 
    She lyeth breathlesse; I am taken doune;
  The waves doe swell, the tydes climbe or’e the banks;
    Judge, gentlemen! if I deserue not thanks? 312

  And so, good night! unto you euer’ie one;
    For loe, our thread is spunne, our plaie is donne.

    Claudito iam vinos Priapa, sat prata biberunt [sic[j]].

  Tho.  Nash.

[Illustration]

Thus[k] hath my penne presum’d to please my friend—­
  Oh mightst thou lykewise please Apollo’s eye. 
  No, Honor brooke’s no such impietie,
  Yett Ouids wanton Muse did not offend.

He is the fountaine whence my streames doe flowe—­
  Forgive me if I speake as I was taught,
  A lyke to women, utter all I knowe,
  As longing to unlade so bad a fraught.

My mynde once purg’d of such lasciuious witt,
  With purifide words and hallowed verse,
  Thy praises in large volumes shall rehearce,
  That better maie thy grauer view befitt.

Meanewhile yett rests, you smile at what I write;
  Or, for attempting, banish me your sight._