Marke! how the lanterns clowd mine eyes, See where a moon-drake ’gins to rise; Saturne crawls much like an iron catt, To see the naked moone in a slipshott hatt. Thunder-thumping toadstools crock the pots To see the mermaids tumble; Leather cat-a-mountaines shake their heels, To heare the gosh-hawke grumble. The rustic threed Begins to bleed, And cobwebs elbows itches; The putrid skyes Eat mulsacke pyes, Backed up in logicke breches. Munday trenchers made good hay, The lobster weares no dagger; Meale-mouthed she-peacocke powle the starres, And made the lowbell stagger. Blew crocodiles foame in the toe, Blind meale-bagges do follow the doe; A ribb of apple braine spice Will follow the Lancashire dice. Harke! how the chime of Plutoes pispot cracks, To see the rainbowes wheele-gann made of flax. NONSENCE. (Ashmole’s Museum, A. 37.) Like to the thundring tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logicke breeches, Or like the graye-furre of a crimson catt, Or like the moone-calfe in a slip-shodde hatt: Even such is hee who never was begotten Untill his children were both dead and rotten. Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crabbe-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey dinge, dingea dingea dinge: Even such is he who spake, and yet no doubt Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out. Like to a fairs, fresh, faiding, withered rose, Or lyke to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or lyke the stumbles of a tynder box, Or lyke a man that’s sound yet hath the pox: Even such is he who dyed, and yet did laugh To see these lines writt for his epitaph. THE COUNTRY LIFE[116].