Put up his sword, and not be laught at neyther. Oh thou deform’d unwoeman-like disease, That plowst up flesh and bloud, and there sow’st pease, And leav’st such printes on beauty, that dost come As clouted shon do on a floore of lome; Thou that of faces hony-combes dost make, And of two breasts two cullenders, forsake Thy deadly trade; thou now art rich, give ore, And let our curses call thee forth no more. Or, if thou needs will magnify thy power, Goe where thou art invoked every houre Amongst the gamsters, where they name thee thicke At the last maine, or the last pocky nicke. Get thee a lodging neare thy clyent, dice, There thou shalt practice on more then one vice. There’s wherewithall to entertaine the pox, There’s more then reason, there’s rime for ’t, the box. Thou who hast such superfluous store of game, Why struckst thou one whose ruine is thy shame? O, thou hast murdred where thou shouldst have kist; And, where thy shaft was needfull, there it mist. Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face, Where thy ill-favour’d kindnesse might adde grace, That men might say, How beauteous once was shee! Or, What a peece, ere shee was seaz’d by thee! Thou shouldst have wrought on some such ladyes mould That ne’re did love her lord, nor ever could Untill shee were deform’d, thy tyranny Were then within the rules of charity. But upon one whose beauty was above All sort of art, whose love was more then love, On her to fix thy ugly counterfett, Was to erect a pyramide of jett, And put out fire to digg a turfe from hell, And place it where a gentle soule should dwell: A soule which in the body would not stay, When twas noe more a body, nor good clay, But a huge ulcer. O thou heav’nly race, Thou soule that shunn’st th’ infection of thy case, Thy house, thy prison, pure soule, spotless, faire, Rest where no heat, no cold, no compounds are! Rest in that country, and injoy that ease, Which thy frayle flesh deny’de, and her disease! ON THE CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY. The failure of success in the representation of this play has been detailed in the Life of the Bishop: indeed it seems to have subjected the Oxonians to much ridicule, which the elegant bishop King[74] joined with Corbet in retorting. One of the numerous banters on this occasion is recorded by Wood, and deserves to be preserved: “At Christ-Church ‘Marriage,’ done before the king, Lest that those mates should want an offering, The king himself did offer—What? I pray. He offer’d twice or thrice to go away.” ON CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY AT WOODSTOCK.