Tell men of high condition,
That in Affaires of State
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
Goe tell the young Nobility,
They doe degenerate,
Wasting their large ability,
In things effeminate.
Tell those that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
And, in their greatest cost,
Seeke but a self-commending.
Tell Zeale it wants Devotion,
Tell Love it is but Lust,
Tell Priests they hunt Promotion,
Tell Flesh it is but Dust.
Say Souldiers are the Sink
Of Sinne to all the Realme;
Given all to whores and drink,
To quarrell and blaspheme.
Tell Townesmen, that because that
They pranck their Brides so proud,
Too many times it drawes that
Which makes them beetle-brow'd.
Goe tell the Palace-Dames
They paint their parboil'd faces,
Seeking by greater shames
To cover lesse disgraces.
Say to the City-wives,
Through their excessive brav'ry,
Their Husband hardly thrives,
But rather lives in Slav'ry.
Tell London Youths that Dice,
Faire Queanes, fine Clothes, full Bouls,
Consume the cursed price
Of their dead-Fathers Soules.
Say Maidens are too coy
To them that chastely seeke them,
And yet are apt to toy
With baser Jacks that like them.