Men. Nay, then I see, 'tis love that thee doth wring. Admet. Thou err'st, Menalchas, there is no such thing. Men. If neither loss of friends, nor loss of wealth, Admet. I'll tell thee than: The case is alter'd!-I'M A MARRIED MAN! The Shrift. [From the same.] [This is inserted on account of the singularity of its A TIME there was, and divers there be yet Whose riper years can well remember it, When folks were shriven for sins they did commit, And had their absolution, as was fit; 'Mongst which, as one crime doth another get, Where hope of pardon doth authorize it, (For Virtues, turtle-like, do single sit, But th' troops of Vices still in squadrons meet,) A boon companion, to his liquor given, Came thither with his neighbours to be shriven. "Stephen," quoth friar (for's Christian name was Stephen,) "What sins hast done to grieve the Lord of heaven? "Speak freely, man! and it is ten to seven "But by due penance I will make all even. "Confession is the way, when man is driven "Into despair, that guides him unto heaven.” "I have been drunk last day, and this day too, owe, "Yet come next day, thou's hear what thou "shalt do." Meanwhile, the friar would not neglect his time Therefore betime, ere four o'clock did chime, For upsefreese he drank from four to nine, Upward and downward it did work so sore, Stephen kept his steaven, and, to the time he gave, Came to demand what penance he should have? "What penance?" quoth the friar, "I'll tell thee, "knave! "I think it fit this penance to receive. "Go and be drunk again! for if it have “Th' effect with thee it had with me, I'd crave [STANZAS,] [Extracted out of "Alcilia, Philoparthen's loving Folly," &c. By J. C. 1628, 4to. second edition.] * WHAT thing is Beauty, Nature's dearest minion? The snare of Youth; like the inconstant moon, Waxing and waning; error of opinion; A morning's flower that withereth ere noon; A swelling fruit, no sooner ripe than rotten, Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten. In looking back unto my follies past, While I the present with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste, Painting on clouds, and building in the air, I sigh within myself, and say in sadness, "This thing, which fools call love, is nought but "madness." How vain is youth, that, cross'd in his desire, Who of itself continues constant still, And doth us good oft-times against our will. * * * * Thy large smooth forehead wrinkled shall appear; Vermilion hue to pale and wan shall turn; Time shall deface what Youth hath held most dear; Yea, those clear eyes, which once my heart did burn, Shall in their hollow circles lodge the night, And yield more cause of terror than delight. Lo, here the record of my follies past, The fruits of wit unstaid, and hours mis-spent! Full wise is he that perils can forecast, And so by others' harms his own prevent. All worldly pleasure that delights the sense Is but a short sleep, and time's vain expence. |