If well the Dice runne, lets applaud the cast:
The happy fortune will not alwayes last.

Our Bastard-children are but like to Plate,
Made by the Coyners illegitimate.

Hence a blessed soule is fled,
Leaving here the body dead:
Which (since here they can't combine)
For the Saint, we'l keep the Shrine.

Despaire takes heart, when ther's no hope to speed:
The Coward then takes Armes, and do's the deed.

Live by thy Muse thou shalt; when others die
Leaving no Fame to long Posterity:
When Monarchies trans-shifted are, and gone;
Here shall endure thy vast Dominion.

Sweet are my Julia's lips and cleane,
As if or'e washt in Hippocrene.

I am zeallesse, prethee pray
For my well-fare (Julia)
For I thinke the gods require
Male perfumes, but Female fire.

Peapes he do's strut, and pick his Teeth, as if
His jawes had tir'd on some large Chine of Beefe.
But nothing so; The Dinner Adam had,
Was cheese full ripe with Teares, with Bread as sad.

As is your name, so is your comely face,
Toucht every where with such diffused grace,
As that in all that admirable round,
There is not one least solecisme found;
And as that part, so every portion else,
Keepes line for line with Beauties Parallels.

Men must have Bounds how farre to walke; for we
Are made farre worse, by lawless liberty.