with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet‐heart on
proud array.
Tom's a
cold.
What hast thou bin?
A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that
curl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust
of my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with
her. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke
them in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the
contriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I
deerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out‐Paramour'd
the Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand;
Hog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog
in madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes,
Nor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman.
Keepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of
Plackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the
foule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the
cold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy,
Boy
Sesey: let him trot by.
Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere
with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is
man no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st
the Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no
Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are
sophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated
man, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall
as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton
heere.
Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie
night to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field,
were like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest
on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire.
This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at
Curfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web
and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare‐lippe;
Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature
of earth.
Switholdfooted thrice the old,
How fares your Grace?
What's he?
Who's there? What is't you seeke?
What are you there? Your Names?
Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the
Toad, the Tod‐pole, the wall‐Neut, and the water: that
in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats
Cow‐dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the
ditch‐Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing
Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and
stockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites
to his backe, sixe shirts to his body:
What, hath your Grace no better company?
The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman.
Modo
he's call'd, and
Mahu.
Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so
vilde, that it doth hate what gets it.
Poore Tom's a cold.
