To lord or fool, cuckold, beggar, or knight,
To peace-teaching lawyer, proctor, or brave
Reformed or reducèd captain, knave,
Officer, juggler, or justice of peace,
Juror or judge; I touch no fat sow’s grease;
I am no libeller, nor will be any,
But—like a true man—say there are too many.
I fear not ore tenus; for my tale
Nor count nor counsellor will look red or pale.
A citizen and his wife the other day
Both riding on one horse, upon the way
I overtook; the wench, a pretty peat,
And—by her eye—well fitting for the feat.
I saw the lecherous citizen turn back
His head, and on his wife’s lip steal a smack;
Whence apprehending that the man was kind,
Riding before to kiss his wife behind,
To get acquaintance with him I began
To sort discourse fit for so fine a man;
I ask’d the number of the plaguing bill;
Ask’d if the custom farmers held out still;
Of the Virginian plot, and whether Ward
The traffic of the island seas had marr’d;
Whether the Britain Burse did fill apace,
And likely were to give th’ Exchange disgrace.
Of new-built Aldgate, and the Moor-field crosses,
Of store of bankrupts, and poor merchants’ losses
I urgèd him to speak; but he—as mute
As an old courtier worn to his last suit—
Replies with only yeas and nays; at last
—To fit his element—my theme I cast
On tradesmen’s gains; that set his tongue a-going.
“Alas! good sir,” quoth he, “there is no doing
In court or city now”; she smiled, and I,
And, in my conscience, both gave him the lie
In one met thought; but he went on apace,
And at the present time with such a face
He rail’d, as fray’d me; for he gave no praise
To any but my Lord of Essex’ days;
Call’d that the age of action—“True!” quoth I—
“There’s now as great an itch of bravery,
And heat of taking up, but cold lay down,
For, put to push of pay, away they run;
Our only city trades of hope now are
Bawds, tavern-keepers, whores, and scriveners.
The much of privileged kinsmen and store
Of fresh protections make the rest all poor.
In the first state of their creation
Though many stoutly stand, yet proves not one
A righteous paymaster.” Thus ran he on
In a continued rage; so void of reason
Seem’d his harsh talk, I sweat for fear of treason.
And—troth—how could I less? when in the prayer
For the protection of the wise Lord Mayor,
And his wise brethren’s worships, when one prayeth,
He swore that none could say amen with faith.
To get off him from what I glow’d to hear,
In happy time an angel did appear,
The bright sign of a loved and well-tried inn,
Where many citizens with their wives had been
Well used and often; here I pray’d him stay,
To take some due refreshment by the way.
Look, how he look’d that hid the gold, his hope,
And at return found nothing but a rope,
So he at me; refused and made away,
Though willing she pleaded a weary stay.
I found my miss, struck hands, and pray’d him tell—
To hold acquaintance still—where he did dwell.
He barely named the street, promised the wine,
But his kind wife gave me the very sign.
Elegy XV
The Expostulation
To make the doubt clear, that no woman’s true,
Was it my fate to prove it strong in you?
Thought I, but one had breathèd purest air;
And must she needs be false, because she’s fair?
Is it your beauty’s mark, or of your youth,
Or your perfection, not to study truth?
Or think you heaven is deaf, or hath no eyes,
Or those it hath smile at your perjuries?
Are vows so cheap with women, or the matter
Whereof they’re made, that they are writ in water,
And blown away with wind? Or doth their breath,
Both hot and cold, at once make life and death?
Who could have thought so many accents sweet
Form’d into words, so many sighs should meet
As from our hearts, so many oaths, and tears
Sprinkled among, all sweeten’d by our fears,
And the divine impression of stolen kisses,
That seal’d the rest, should now prove empty blisses?
Did you draw bonds to forfeit? sign to break?
Or must we read you quite from what you speak,
And find the truth out the wrong way? or must
He first desire you false, would wish you just?
O! I profane! though most of women be
This kind of beast, my thoughts shall except thee,
My dearest love; though froward jealousy
With circumstance might urge thy inconstancy,
Sooner I’ll think the sun will cease to cheer
The teeming earth, and that forget to bear;
Sooner that rivers will run back, or Thames
With ribs of ice in June will bind his streams;
Or nature, by whose strength the world endures,
Would change her course, before you alter yours.
But O! that treacherous breast, to whom weak you
Did drift our counsels, and we both may rue,
Having his falsehood found too late; ’twas he
That made me cast you guilty, and you me;
Whilst he, black wretch, betray’d each simple word
We spake, unto the cunning of a third.
Cursed may he be, that so our love hath slain,
And wander on the earth, wretched as Cain,
Wretched as he, and not deserve least pity.
In plaguing him, let misery be witty;
Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,
Till he be noisome as his infamy;
May he without remorse deny God thrice,
And not be trusted more on his soul’s price;
And, after all self-torment, when he dies,
May wolves tear out his heart, vultures his eyes,
Swine eat his bowels, and his falser tongue
That utter’d all, be to some raven flung;
And let his carrion corse be a longer feast
To the king’s dogs, than any other beast.
Now have I cursed, let us our love revive;
In me the flame was never more alive.
I could begin again to court and praise,
And in that pleasure lengthen the short days
Of my life’s lease; like painters that do take
Delight, not in made work, but whiles they make.
I could renew those times, when first I saw
Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law
To like what you liked; and at masks and plays
Commend the selfsame actors, the same ways;
Ask how you did, and often with intent
Of being officious, be impertinent;
All which were such soft pastimes, as in these
Love was as subtly catch’d as a disease.
But being got, it is a treasure sweet,
Which to defend
