Blu. To prooue that best, by strong and armed reason,
Whose part reason feares to take, cannot but prooue,
Your wit’s fine temper, and from these win loue.
Min. I promise you has almost conuerted me, I pray bring
forward your bald reasons M. Poet.
Cri. Mistris you giue my Reasons proper names,
For Arguments (like Children) should be like,
The subiect that begets them; I must striue
To crowne Bald heades, therefore must baldlie thriue;
But be it as it can: To what before,
Went arm’d at table, this force bring I more,
If a Bare head (being like a dead-mans scull)
Should beare vp no praise els but this, it sets
Our end before our eyes; should I dispaire,
From giuing Baldnes higher place then haire?
Mini. Nay perdie, haire has the higher place.
Cri. The goodliest & most glorious strange-built wonder,
Which that great Architect hath made, is heauen;
For there he keepes his Court, It is his Kingdome,
That’s his best Master-piece; yet tis the roofe,
And Seeling of the world: that may be cal’d
The head or crowne of Earth, and yet that’s balde,
All creatures in it balde; the louely Sunne,
Has a face sleeke as golde; the full-cheekt Moone,
As bright and smooth as siluer: nothing there
Weares dangling lockes, but sometime blazing Starres,
Whose flaming curles, set realmes on fire with warres.
Descend more low; looke through mans fiue-folde sence,
Of all, the Eye, beares greatest eminence;
And yet that’s balde, the haires that like a lace,
Are sticht vnto the liddes, borrow those formes,
Like Pent-houses to saue the eyes from stormes.
Sir Adam. Right, well said.
Cris. A head and face ore-growne with Shaggie drosse,
O, tis an Orient pearle hid all in Mosse,
But when the head’s all naked and vncrown’d,
It is the worlds Globe, euen, smooth and round; Baldnes is natures But, at which our life,
Shootes her last Arrow: what man euer lead
His age out with a staffe, but had a head
Bare and vncouer’d? hee whose yeares doe rise,
To their full height, yet not balde, is not wise.
The Head is Wisedomes house, Haire but the thatch,
Haire? It’s the basest stubble; in scorne of it,
This Prouerbe sprung, he has more haire then wit:
Marke you not in derision how we call,
A head growne thicke with haire, Bush-naturall?
Min. By your leaue (Master Poet) but that Bush-naturall, is one a the trimmest, and most intanglingst beautie in a woman.
Cris. Right, but beleeue this (pardon me most faire)
You would haue much more wit, had you lesse haire:
I could more wearie you to tell the proofes,
(As they passe by) which fight on Baldnes side,
Then were you taskt to number on a head,
The haires: I know not how your thoughts are lead,
On this strong Tower shall my opinion rest,
Heades thicke of haire are goode, but balde the best.