Now, grim Reproof, swell in my rough-hued rhyme, That thou mayst vex the guilty of our time. Yon is a youth whom how can I o'er-slip, Since he so jump doth in my meshes hit? He hath been longer in preparing him Than Terence wench; and now behold he's seen. Now, after two years' fast and earnest prayer The fashion change not (lest he should despair Of ever hoarding up more fair gay clothes), Behold at length in London street he shows. 10 His ruff did eat more time in neatest setting Than Woodstock's[383] work in painful perfecting; It hath more doubles far than Ajax' shield When he 'gainst Troy did furious battle wield. Nay, he doth wear an emblem 'bout his neck; For under that fair ruff so sprucely set, Appears a fall, a falling-band forsooth. O dapper, rare, complete, sweet nitty[384] youth! Jesu Maria! How his clothes appear Cross'd and recross'd with lace, sure for some fear 20 Lest that some spirit with a tippet mace[385] Should with a ghastly show affright his face. His hat, himself, small crown and huge great brim, Fair outward show, and little wit within. And all the band with feathers he doth fill, Which is a sign of a fantastic still. Why, so[386] he is, his clothes do sympathise And with his inward spirit humorise, As sure as (some do tell me) evermore A goat doth stand before a brothel door. 30 His clothes perfumed, his fusty mouth is aired, His chin new swept, his very cheeks are glaired.[387] But ho! what Ganymede is that doth grace The gallant's heels? One who for two days' space Is closely hired. Now who dares not call This Æsop's crow--fond, mad, fantastical? An open ass, that is not yet so wise As his derided fondness to disguise. Why, thou art Bedlam mad, stark lunatic, And glori'st to be counted a fantastic; 40 Thou neither art, nor yet will seem to be, Heir to some virtuous praisèd quality. O frantic man! that thinks all villany The complete honours of nobility! When some damn'd vice, some strange misshapen suit, Make youths esteem themselves in high repute. O age! in which our gallants boast to be Slaves unto riot and rude luxury! Nay, when they blush, and think an honest act Doth their supposèd virtues maculate! 50 Bedlam, Frenzy, Madness, Lunacy, I challenge all your moody empery Once to produce a more distracted man Than is inamorato Lucian. For when my ears received a fearful sound That he was sick, I went, and there I found Him laid of love, and newly brought to bed Of monstrous folly and a frantic head. His chamber hang'd about with elegies, With sad complaints of his love's miseries; 60 His windows strew'd with sonnets, and the glass Drawn full of love-knots. I approach'd the ass, And straight he weeps, and sighs some sonnet out