Alas! how these (far-worse then death) DiseasesExceed each Sicknes that our body seises;Which makes vs open war, and by his spightGiues to the Patient many a holsom light,Now by the colour, or the Pulles beating,Or by som Fit, som sharper dolor threatning;Whereby the Leach neer-ghessing at our grief,Not seldom findes sure means for our relief.But, for these Ills raign in our Intellect(Which only, them both can and ought detect)They rest vnknown, or rather self-conceal'd;And soule-sick Patients care not to be heal'd.Besides, we plainly call the Feuer, Feuer:The Dropsie, Dropsie: ouer-gilding neuer,With guile-full flourish of a fained phraze,The cruell Languors that our bodies craze:Whereas, our fond self-soothing Soule, thus sick,Rubs her owne sore; with glozing RhetorikCloaking her vice: and makes the blinded BlainNot fear the touch of Reasons Cautere vain.And sure, if euer filthy Vice did ietThe miserable corruption of our Times, worse then all former Ages.In sacred Vertues spot-less mantle neat,'Tis in our days, more hatefull and vn-hallow'd,Then when the World the Waters wholly swallow'd.Ile spare to speak of foulest Sins, that spotTh' infamous beds of men of mighty lot;Least I the Saints chaste tender ears offend,And seem them more to teach, then reprehend.Who bear vpon their French-sick backs about,All riotous Pro∣digalitie disgui∣sed with the name of Libera∣litie.Farms, Castles, Fees, in golden shreads cut-out;Whose lauish hand, at one Primero-rest,One Mask, one Turney, or one pampering Feast,Sends treasures, scrap't by th' Vsury and CareOf miser Parents; Liberall counted are.Who, with a maiden voice, and mincing pase,Quaint looks, curl'd locks, perfumes, and painted face,Effeminate cu∣riofitie & luxu∣vious Pride, mis∣called Clean∣lines.Base coward-hart, and wanton soft array,Their man-hood only by their Beard bewray,0