The lettin[g] of humours blood in the head-vaine with a new morissco, daunced by seauen satyres, vpon the bottome of Diog[e?]nes tubbe.

TO THE GENTLE∣MEN READERS.

HVmours, is late crown'd king of Caualeeres. Fantastique-follies, grac'd with common fauour: Ciuilitie, hath serued out his yeeres, And scorreth now to waight on Good be hauour. Gallants, like Richard the vsurper, swagger, That had his hand continuall on his dagger.

Fashions is still consort with new fond shapes, And feedeth dayly vpon strange disguise: We shew our selues the imitating Apes Of all the toyes that Strangers heades deuise: For ther's no habite of hell-hatched sinne, That we delight not to be clothed in.

Some sweare, as though they Stars from heauen could pull▪ And all their speach is poynted with the stabbe, When all men know it is some coward gull, That is but champion to a Shorditch drabbe: Whose feather is his heades lightnes-proclaymer, Although he seeme some mightie monster tamer.

Epicurisme cares not how he liues, But still pursueth brutish Appetite. Disdaine, regardes not what abuse he giues; Carelesse of wronges, and vnregarding right. Selfe-loue, (they say) to selfe-conceite is wed, By which base match are vgly vices bred.

Pride, reuels like the roysting Pródigall; Stretching his credite that his pursse strin•••• cracke, Untill in some distresfull Iayle he fall, Which wore of late a Lordship on his backe: Where he till death must he for debt, "Griefes night is neare, when pleasures sunne is set,

Vaunting, hath got a mightie thundring voyce, Looking that all men should applaude his sounde: His deedes are singuler, his wordes be choyce; On earth his equall is not to be founde. Thus Vertu's hid with Follies iuggling mist, And hee's no man, that is no Humourist.

S. R.