A messe of Non-sense.
Like to the tone of unspoke speeches,
Or like a Lobster clad in logick breeches,
Or like the gray freeze of a crimson cat,
Or like a Moon-calfe in a slipshooe-hat,
Or like a shadow when the Sun is gon,
Or like a thought that ne'r was thought upon:
Even such is man, who never was begotten,
Untill his children were both dead and rotten.
Like to the fiery touchstone of a Cabbage,
Or like a Crablouse with his bag and baggage,
Or like th'abortive issue of a Fizle,
Or the bag-pudding of a Plow-mans whistle,
Or like the foursquare circle of a ring,
Or like the singing of Hey down a ding;
Even such is man, who breathles, without doubt,
Spake to small purpose when his tongue was out.
Like to the green fresh fading Rose,
Or like to Rime or Verse that runs in prose,
Or like the Humbles of a Tinder-box,