Good Folkes, take heede; for, here’s a wanton _Wagge_, Who, having _Bowes_ and _Arrowes_, makes his bragg That, he hath some unhappy trick to play; And, vowes to shoot at all he meets to day. Pray be not carelesse; for, the _Boy_ is blinde, And, sometimes strikes, where most he seemeth kinde. This rambling _Archer_ spares nor one, nor other: Yea, otherwhile, the _Monkey_ shoots his Mother. Though you be little _Children_, come not neere; For, I remember (though’t be many a yeare Now gone and past,) that, when I was a _Lad_, My Heart, a pricke, by this young Wanton had, That, pain’d me seven yeares after: nor had I The grace (thus warn’d) to scape his waggery; But many times, ev’n since I was a man, He shot me, oftner then I tell you can: And, if I had not bene the stronger-hearted, I, for my over-daring, might have smarted. You laugh now, as if this were nothing so; But, if you meet this _Blinkard_ with his Bow, You may, unlesse you take the better care, Receive a _wound_, before you be aware. I feare him not; for, I have learned how To keepe my heart-strings from his Arrowes now: And, so might you, and so might ev’ry one That vaine _Occasions_, truely seekes to shunn. But, if you sleight my Counsells, you may chance To blame at last, your willfull ignorance: For, some, who thought, at first, his wounds but small Have dyed by them, in an _Hospitall_. _On whether side soe’re I am, I, still, appeare to bee the same._ [Illustration: QUOCUNQUE FERAR. ILLVSTR. XX. _Book. 4_]