EPIGRAMS OF BEN JONSON.
TO FINE GRAND.
What is't Fine Grand, makes thee my friendship fly,
Or take an Epigram so fearfully,
As't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter?
The world must know your greatness is my debtor.
IMPRIMIS, Grand, you owe me for a jest
I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.
ITEM, a tale or two some fortnight after,
That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.
ITEM, the Babylonian song you sing;
ITEM, a fair Greek poesy for a ring,
With which a learned madam you bely.
ITEM, a charm surrounding fearfully
Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn
In solemn cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn.
ITEM, a gulling impress for you, at tilt.
ITEM, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt.
ITEM, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock.
ITEM, an epitaph on my lord's cock,
In most vile verses, and cost me more pain,
Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein.
Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.
TO BRAINHARDY.
Hardy, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confest,
Thou more; that with it every day dar'st jest
Thyself into fresh brawls; when call'd upon,
Scarce thy week's swearing brings thee off of one;
So in short time, thou art in arrearage grown
Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none;
Nor need'st thou; for those few, by oath released,
Make good what thou dar'st in all the rest.
Keep thyself there, and think thy valor right,
He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight.
TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC.
When men a dangerous disease did 'scape,
Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape;
Let me give two, that doubly am got free;
From my disease's danger, and from thee.
TO SIR ANNUAL FILTER.
Filter, the most may admire thee, though not I;
And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, why?
For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit
All brains, at times of triumph, should run wit;
For then our water-conduits do run wine;
But that's put in, thou'lt say.
Why, so is thine.
ON BANKS THE USURER.
Banks feels no lameness of his knotty gout,
His moneys travel for him in and out,
And though the soundest legs go every day,
He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.
ON CHEVRIL THE LAWYER
No cause, nor client fat, will Cheveril leese,
But as they come, on both sides he takes fees,
And pleaseth both; for while he melts his grease
For this; that wins, for whom he holds his peace.