The most elegant and witty epigrams of Sir Iohn Harrington, Knight digested into foure bookes: three vvhereof neuer before published.

About this Item

Title: The most elegant and witty epigrams of Sir Iohn Harrington, Knight digested into foure bookes: three vvhereof neuer before published.
Author: Harington, John, Sir, 1560-1612.
Publication: London :: Printed by G[eorge] P[urslowe] for Iohn Budge: and are to be sold at his shop in Paules Church-yard at the signe of the Greene Dragon,; 1618.
Rights/Permissions: To the extent possible under law, the Text Creation Partnership has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above, according to the terms of the CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication (http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). This waiver does not extend to any page images or other supplementary files associated with this work, which may be protected by copyright or other license restrictions. Please go to http://www.textcreationpartnership.org/ for more information.
Subject terms: Epigrams, English.
Link to this Item: http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A02647.0001.001
Cite this Item: "The most elegant and witty epigrams of Sir Iohn Harrington, Knight digested into foure bookes: three vvhereof neuer before published." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A02647.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 15, 2024.

Pages

38 Of an accident of saying grace at the Lady Rogers, who vsed to dine exceeding late. Written to his wife.
MY Mall, in your short absence from this place,
My selfe here dining at your mothers bord,
Your little sonne did thus begin his grace;
The eyes of all things looke on thee, ô Lord,
And thou their foode doost giue them in due season.
Peace boy, quoth I, not more of this a word,
For in this place, this Grace hath little reason:
When as we speake to God, we must speake true.
And though the meat be good in taste and season,
This season for a dinner is not due:
Then peace, I say, to lie to God is treason.
Say on, my boy, saith shee, your father mocks,
Clownes, and not Courtiers, vse to goe by clocks.
Courtiers by clocks, said I, and Clownes by cocks.
Now, if your mother chide with me for this,
Then you must reconcile vs with a kisse.