THIS fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons pease,

And utters it again when God doth please.

He is wit’s pedler, and retails his wares

At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;

And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,

Have not the grace to grace it with such show.

This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;

Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve.

He can carve, too, and lisp; why, this is he

That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy;

This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,

That, when he plays at table, chides the dice

In honourable terms; nay, he can sing

Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;

The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.

This is the flower that smiles on every one,

To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone;

And consciences that will not die in debt

Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

See where it comes!—Behaviour, what wert thou

Till this man show’d thee? and what art thou now?