Ay, marry, sir, here's perfect honesty, When Martius will forswear all villainy (All damn'd abuse of payment in the wars, All filching from his prince and soldiers), When once he can but so much bright dirt glean As may maintain one more Whitefriars quean, One drab more; faith, then farewell villainy, He'll cleanse himself to Shoreditch purity. As for Stadius, I think he hath a soul; And if he were but free from sharp control 10 Of his sour host, and from his tailor's bill, He would not thus abuse his rhyming skill; Jading our tirèd ears with fooleries, Greasing great slaves with oily flatteries. Good faith, I think he would not strive to suit The back of humorous Time (for base repute 'Mong dunghill peasants), botching up such ware As may be saleable in Sturbridge fair, If he were once but freed from specialty; But sooth, till then, bear with his balladry. 20 I ask'd lewd Gallus when he'll cease to swear, And with whole-culverin, raging oaths to tear The vault of heaven--spitting in the eyes Of Nature's nature loathsome blasphemies. To-morrow, he doth vow, he will forbear. Next day I meet him, but I hear him swear Worse than before. I put his vow in mind. He answers me "To-morrow;" but I find He swears next day far worse than e'er before, Putting me off with "morrow" evermore. 30 Thus, when I urge him, with his sophistry He thinks to salve his damnèd perjury. Silenus now is old, I wonder, I, He doth not hate his triple venery. Cold, writhled[473] eld, his life-sweat[474] almost spent, Methinks a unity were competent. But, O fair hopes! he whispers secretly, When it leaves him he'll leave his lechery. When simp'ring Flaccus (that demurely goes Right neatly tripping on his new-black'd toes) 40 Hath made rich use of his religion, Of God himself, in pure devotion; When that the strange ideas in his head (Broachèd 'mongst curious sots, by shadows led) Have furnish'd him, by his hoar auditors, Of fair demesnes and goodly rich manors; Sooth, then, he will repent when's treasury Shall force him to disclaim his heresy. What will not poor need force? But being sped, God for us all! the gurmond's[475] paunch is fed; 50 His mind is changed. But when will he do good? To-morrow,--ay, to-morrow, by the rood! Yet Ruscus swears he'll cease to broke a suit, By peasant means striving to get repute 'Mong puffy sponges, when the Fleet's defrayed, His revel tire, and his laundress paid. There is a crew which I too plain could name, If so I might without th' Aquinians'[476] blame, That lick the tail of greatness with their lips-- Labouring with third-hand jests and apish skips, 60 Retailing others' wit, long barrellèd, To glib some great man's ears till paunch be fed-- Glad if themselves, as sporting fools, be made