Some harsher sevens for variety, My native skill discerns it presently. What then? Will any sottish dolt repute, Or ever think me Orpheus absolute? Shall all the world of fidlers follow me, 130 Relying on my voice in musickry? Musus, here's Rhodes; let's see thy boasted leap, Or else avaunt, lewd cur, presume not speak, Or with thy venom-sputtering chaps to bark Gainst well-penn'd poems, in the tongue-tied dark. O for a humour, look, who yon doth go, The meagre lecher, lewd Luxurio! 'Tis he that hath the sole monopoly, By patent, of the suburb lechery; No new edition of drabs comes out, 140 But seen and allow'd by Luxurio's snout. Did ever any man e'er hear him talk, But of Pick-hatch,[597] or of some Shoreditch balk, Aretine's filth, or of his wand'ring whore;[598] Of some Cinædian, or of Tacedore; Of Ruscus' nasty, loathsome brothel rhyme, That stinks like A-jax[599] froth, or muck-pit slime? The news he tells you is of some new flesh, Lately broke up, span new, hot piping fresh. The courtesy he shows you is some morn 150 To give you Venus 'fore her[600] smock be on. His eyes, his tongue, his soul, his all, is lust, Which vengeance and confusion follow must. Out on this salt humour, letcher's dropsy, Fie! it doth soil my chaster poesy! O spruce! How now, Piso, Aurelius' ape, What strange disguise, what new deformèd shape, Doth hold thy thoughts in contemplation? Faith say, what fashion art thou thinking on? A stitch'd taffeta cloak, a pair of slops 160 Of Spanish leather? O, who heard his chops E'er chew of ought but of some strange disguise? This fashion-monger, each morn 'fore he rise, Contemplates suit-shapes, and once from out his bed, He hath them straight full lively portrayèd. And then he chucks, and is as proud of this As Taphus when he got his neighbour's bliss. All fashions, since the first year of this queen, May in his study fairly drawn be seen; And all that shall be to his day of doom; 170 You may peruse within that little room; For not a fashion once dare show his face, But from neat Piso first must take his grace: The long fool's coat, the huge slop, the lugg'd[601] boot, From mimic Piso all do claim their root. O that the boundless power of the soul Should be coop'd up in fashioning some roll! But O, Suffenus! (that doth hug, embrace His proper self, admires his own sweet face; Praiseth his own fair limbs' proportion, 180 Kisseth his shade, recounteth all alone His own good parts) who envies him? Not I, For well he may, without all rivalry. Fie! whither's fled my sprite's alacrity? How dull I vent this humorous poesy! In faith I am sad, I am possess'd with ruth, To see the vainness of fair Albion's youth; To see their richest time even wholly spent