Classic Poem

SAT. V.

Fie on all Courtesie, and vnrulie windes,
Two onely foes that fayre disguisement findes.
Strange curse! But fit for such a fickle age,
When Scalpes are subiect to such vassalage.
Late trauailing along in London way,
Mee met, as seem'd by his disguis'd aray,
A lustie Courtier, whose curled head,
With abron lockes was fairely furnished.
I him saluted in our lauish wise:
He answers my vntimely courtesies.
His bonnet val'd, ere euer he could thinke,
Th'vnruly winde blowes of his Periwinke.
He lights, and runs, and quickly hath him sped,
To ouertake his ouerrunning hed.
The sportfull wind, to mocke the Headlesse man,
Tosses apace his pitch'd Gregorian :
And straight it to a deeper ditch hath blowne:
There must my yonker fetch his waxen crowne.
I lookt, and laught, whiles in his raging minde,
He curst all courtesie, and vnrulie winde.
I lookt, and laught, and much I maruailed,
To see so large a Caus-way in his head.
And me bethought, that when it first begone
T'was some shroud Autumne , that so bar'd the bone.
Is't not sweete pride, when men their crownes must shade
With that which lerks the hams of euery lade
Or floor-strowd locks from of the Barbers sheares?
But waxen crowns well gree with borowed haires.