_Desire._ This he gave me. Your wants are never ending; and those supplies That came to stop those breaches, are ever lavisht Before they reach the main, in toys and trifles, Gew-gaws, and gilded puppets: _Vain delight_ He says has ruin'd ye, with clappi[n]g all That comes in for support, on clothes, and Coaches, Perfumes, and powder'd pates; and that your Mistris, The Lady _Pleasure_, like a sea devours At length both you and him too. If you have houses, Or land, or jewels, for good pawn, he'll hear you, And will be readie to supplie occasions; If not, he locks his ears up, and grows stupid. From him, I went to _Vanity_, whom I found Attended by [a]n endless troop of Tailors, Mercers, Embroiderers, Feather-makers, Fumers, All occupations opening like a Mart, That serve to rig the body out with braverie; And th'row the roome new fashions flew like flyes, In thousand gaudie shapes; _Pride_ waiting on her, And busily surveying all the breaches Time and delaying Nature had wrought in her, Which still with art she piec'd again, and strengthened: I told your wants; she shew'd me gowns and head-tires, Imbroider'd wastcoats, smocks seam'd thorow with cut-works, Scarfs, mantles, petticoats, muffs, powders, paintings, Dogs, monkeys, parrots, which all seemed to shew me The way her money went. From her to _Pleasure_ I took my journey. _Anth._ And what says our best Mistris? _Desire._ She danc'd me out this answer presently: Revels and Masques had drawn her drie alreadie. I met old _Time_ too, mowing mankind down, Who says you are too hot, and he must purge ye. _Anth._ A cold _quietus_. Miserable creatures, Born to support and beautifie your master, The godlike man, set here to do me service, The children of my will; why, or how dare ye, Created to my use alone, disgrace me? Beasts have more court[e]sie; they live about me, Offering their warm wooll to the shearers hand, To clothe me with their bodies to my labours; Nay, even their lives they daily sacrifice, And proudly press with garlands to the altars, To fill the gods oblations. Birds bow to me, Striking their downie sails to do me service, Their sweet airs ever ecchoing to mine honor, And to my rest their plumie softs they send me. Fishes, and plants, and all where life inhabits, But mine own cursed kind, obey their ruler; Mine have forgot me, miserable mine, Into whose stonie hearts, neglect of dutie, Squint-ey'd deceit, and self-love, are crept closely: None feel my wants, not one mend with me. _Desire._ None, Sir? _Ant._ Thou hast forgot (_Desire_) thy best friend, _Flatterie_; He cannot fail me. _Delight._ Fail? he will sell himself, And all within his power, close to his skin first.