HE is a Gentleman grown lousie, not in the Noble way of Arms, but with singing of Ballads: Time was, when he wore himself out at Elbows with fine cloathes to bee cried up by the Women, and stiled a Wit; When that would not doe, he turned Alchymist, and made projection of his Land, to give a tincture to his brain. This wrought a little; but the chiefe of his Trophies is due to the Sword of his enemy: which, had it spa­red the Cedar, had left him a very Shrub in the Muses Mount, hardly a Fagot of brush wood, though now he undertakes to hedge in victories, as the Sages of Gotham did the Cuckow.

The main thing that confirmes him in his errour [Page 2]is, that the great Ladies are all for the Cavaliers, to whose charmes they at Oxford either give such an ob­servance, as the Devill doth to Magicians, or keep them like Coy-ducks, or Pigeons of Aleppo, to send hither with letters, as they used to doe Footmen to the Porters lodge.

The word Legislative hee takes to bee a Fiddle­string, and is alwayes scraping upon it, though it see­med to his brother Waller (a man, as the Muses can testifie, something sharper sighted) after a whole years study upon the poynt, to be a sadder object, and rather resembling an halter.

He makes no use of religious Epithites, except it be to pin them, as Boyes doe Fox-tailes, upon their backes, whom hee would laugh at. Hee dares ap­proach no neerer to the sanctity of the Common­prayer book, then Hopkins and Sternhold: but out­does the Devill at Scripture, which hee never brings out, but as the Jewes did Christ, to scorn and spit up­on it; hee would not bee hired to use the Legend, Talmud, or Alcaron so, because they resemble Ovids Metamorphosis. Hee Christens Beasts and Men whom hee imagines little better, with Scripture names, to make them iridiculous, whilest hee gives Poeticall ones to his Mistresses, not to be pronounced without adoration. And as he uses the best Book, because it re­sembles not his studies, so he doth the best men, be­cause they resemble not his companions.

If a man have zeale, like a right Bull-dogge, he flies straight at his Nose, the old Paris-garden com­mon place, by which you may discover the breeding of his wit, and by a late snuffle hee hath got in his [Page 3]own, whose tender gristle hee laps up in dirty ragges, raked out of the dunghill of ruined stages, is be­come as very a tyrant at it, as Sir Iohn Falsestolf.

He is so sad at the abortion of Plots, that hee en­vies nothing so much as a good Mid-wife, a skill he intends to practise against Sir Edward Hides belly bee brought to bed of Spinola's Whale. In the mean time, because Bristow's grown a dotard, hee is contented to be Nurse unto the second infancie of his brain; but so dry a one, that hee is fain to borrow Culpeppers sucking-bottle, which, whilest the Janisaries hold the town of Bristow, is sure never to want milk.

I had almost overseen shady Cottington, who was pitched in Spain, horn'd in England, and moves e­ver since like Fauxe's dark Lanthorne: this fellow is a Burrachio full of Spanish snuffs, risen like the spirit of Sack from the Cellar to the Councell-table.

He would take it in foule scorne (though this pu­issant Knights errantry never knew other carreer, then that which lies between a prison and an Alehouse) that you should celebrate him by the name of Don Qui­xot, or say, he hath a windmill in his head; no, it is a watermill, open but the sluce of a Hogshead, and you set Pericranium on worke, like the great wheele, till his fists, the milstones, grind you the bottles (like Miscelline) to gather with the next noddle. Hee is a terrible State-engine, and had he lived in Machiavils time, would have set his head where his heels stood: he gives his Oracles, like Sibylla, flaming: hee is the politicke Barnaval; the Bacchanalia are to him but an Ash-wednesday.

My Lord George helped our Libeller with two or [Page 4]three of his jests; and is absolutely, in his opinion (and his owne) the hopesullest young States-man, whilest his necke is able to support the weight of his brain, in Europe, though his Spanish gravitie be something miscomposed by his late Treatie with Browne; since which time, hee goes to the Coun­cell board like a Lictor, with a faggot in his face: and it is feared, because the Fates are women, that hee will be lesse of their counsell for this deformity. Hee looks with fervent eyes upon the Lievtnant of the Hierarchie, Doctor Steward, whose foot hee hopes, will stand its ground better then his Lord of Canterbury's head: indeed the foot is a fine foot, and hath cost something in Ribbon, to hang it for a doctrine & use in the eye of the Ladies, for he never hangs any in their eares. Hee would faine know for how long my Lord Hoptons soul hath taken a lease of his body: perhaps for some seven yeeres longer then his honour. Hee is very modest; for that's all he saith of his Oxford Champions. Where's Goring? hath that wilde colt forgot the trick of trespassing upon the Commons? is the Legislative hedge too strong for him? hath he not been often enough sicke of the staggers, to forget the Pinner of Wakefield? Where's little Porter, that came hi­ther with a stratagem, to provide himself of an Of­fice, and cary away the Town-gates with him, lea­ving (for your service, if you please to advance, Gentlemen) the city as penetrable, as he found his Mistresse? Where's Gerrat [...]? how in quirpo, upon the mountains of Wales, luring Domingo Gonsales his Gansas to conduct him to the countrey of the Moon? [Page 5]For shame, Poet, lend him Pegasus; shall one of your chief Commanders ride out of the world up­on a Goose? And where's my Lord of Loughborow? cannot Aulicus, though you confesse him to be a Witch, conjure up his spirits? are they all redu­ced to their subterranean mansion? or sit with their browne bills, cawing like Dawes out of the holes of old walls? This is a sad Chronacek, Poet, to be written upon thread-bare breeches. I pray you, how long is it since you saw a pair of new Boots? It was time to go to the Market at Uxbridge: there is no more hope of my Lord of Norwitches frippery, be­lieve mee, that designe of his, to bring all the Nuns linnen and petticoats into Sir Balthazar Gerbiers monte di pieta, is a dangerous one; for what will be­come of you, if the Whore of Babylon turn Ada­mite for want of a smock? Well, remember mee to Mercurius Aulicus, hee must raise the next ar­my, and pay it too. I will make bold to borrow one of your diddles to lap a token of my love to him in.

And so farewell, Canis ad Nilum, with your snat­ches, and your ink that cures Ringworms; would it would cure the pox, that you might pleasure your friends, and redeem your land with your wit, as you purchased your wit with your land.