Recreation for ingenious head-peeces, or, A pleasant grove for their wits to walk in of epigrams 700, epitaphs 200, fancies a number, fantasticks abundance : with their addition, multiplication, and division.

About this Item

Title
Recreation for ingenious head-peeces, or, A pleasant grove for their wits to walk in of epigrams 700, epitaphs 200, fancies a number, fantasticks abundance : with their addition, multiplication, and division.
Author
Mennes, John, Sir, 1599-1671.
Publication
London :: Printed by M. Simmons ...,
1654.
Rights/Permissions

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Subject terms
English wit and humor.
Epigrams.
Epitaphs.
Link to this Item
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A50616.0001.001
Cite this Item
"Recreation for ingenious head-peeces, or, A pleasant grove for their wits to walk in of epigrams 700, epitaphs 200, fancies a number, fantasticks abundance : with their addition, multiplication, and division." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A50616.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 16, 2024.

Pages

An Eccho.

Come Eccho I thee summon, Tell me truly what is Woman? If worn, she is a feather, If woo'd she's frosty weather; If worn, the wind not slighter: If weigh'd, the Moons not lighter: If lain withall, she's apish: If not laine with, she's snappish.
Come Eccho I thee summon, Tell me once more what is woman? If faire, she's coy in courting, If witty, loose in sporting,

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If ready, she's but cloathing, If naked, she's just nothing, If not belov'd, she horns thee; If lov'd too well, she scorns thee. The Eccho still replyed, But still me thought she lyed.
Then for my Mistresse sake, I againe reply did make. If worn, she is a Jewell, If woo'd, she is not cruell, If won, no Rock is surer, If weigh'd, no gold is purer, If laine withall, delicious; If not, yet no way vitious. False Eccho goe, you lye, See your errours I descry.
And for the second summon I This for woman doe reply. If faire, she's heavenly treasure, If witty, she's all pleasure, If ready, she is quaintest, If not ready, she's daintiest, If lov'd, her heart she spares not, If not belov'd, she cares not. False Eccho, goe you lye, See, your errours I descry.

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Icar.
Oh you doe my hearing wrong, I have turn'd my eyes thus long To be captiv'd by your tongue.
Phil.
Then my houres are happy spent, If my tongue give such content, It shall be thy Instrument.
Icar.
But be sure you use it then, Thus unto no other men, Lest that I grow deaf agen.
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