Then lend me your Touch, for dissembling there’s much, Ile try them before I do trust. For a base needy Slave, in shew may be brave, And a sliding Companion seem just. The man that’s down right, in heart & in sight, Whose life and whose looks doth agree, That speaks what he thinks, and sleeps when he winks, O that’s the companion for me. _A copy of Verses of a mon[e]y Marriage._ 1. No Gypsie nor no Blackamore, No Bloomesbery, nor Turnbald whore, Can halfe so black, so foule appeare, As she I chose to be my Deare. She’s wrinkled, old, she’s dry, she’s tough, Yet money makes her faire enough. 2. Nature’s hand shaking did dispose, Her cheeks faire red unto her nose, Which shined like that wanton light, Misguideth wanderers in the night. Yet for all this I do not care, Though she be foul, her money’s faire. 3. Her tangled Locks do show to sight, Like Horses manes, whom haggs affright. Her Bosome through her vaile of Lawne, Shews more like Pork, her Neck like Brawn. Yet for all this I do not care, Though she be foul, her money’s faire. 4. Her teeth, to boast the Barbers fame, Hang all up in his wooden frame. Her lips are hairy, like the skin Upon her browes, as lank as thin. Yet for all this I do not care, Though she be foul, her money’s faire. 5. Those that her company do keep, Are rough hoarse coughs, to break my sleep. The Palsie, Gout, and Plurisie, And Issue in her legge and thigh. Yet me it grieves not, who am sure That Gold can all diseases cure. 6. Then young men do not jeere my lot, That beauty left, and money got: For I have all things having Gold, And beauty too, since beautie’s sold. For Gold by day shall please my sight, When all her faults lye hid at night. _The baseness of Whores._ Trust no more, a wanton Whore, If thou lov’st health and freedom, They are so base in every place, It’s pity that bread should feed ’um. All their sence is impudence, Which some call good conditions. Stink they do, above ground too, Of Chirurgions and Physitians. If you are nice, they have their spice, On which they’le chew to flout you, And if you not discern the plot, You have no Nose about you. Furthermore, they have in store, For which I deadly hate ’um, Perfum’d geare, to stuffe each eare, And for their cheeks Pomatum. Liquorish Sluts, they feast their guts, At Chuffs cost, like Princes, Amber Plumes, and Mackarumes, And costly candy’d Quinces. Potato plump, supports the Rump, Eringo strengthens Nature. Viper Wine, so heats the chine, They’le gender with a Satyr.