DECEIT

Yonder's Simplicity whom I hate deadly, Has held the world too long; he's but a fool, A toy will cozen him: if I once fasten on't, I'll make it such a Nursery for Hell, Planting black Souls in't, it shall never be fit For honesty to set her simples in. I must speak fair to the Fool. Lass, who has put that load? that carriage On poor Simlcity? had they no mercy? Pretty, kind, loving worm; come, let me help it. The world, sweet heart, is full of cares and troubles, No match for thee, thou art a tender thing, A harmless quiet thing, a gentle fool, Fit for the fellowship of Ewes and Rams: Go, take thine ease and pipe; give me the burden, The clog, the torment, the heartbreak, the world; Here's for thee, Lamb, a dainty Oaten Pipe. I think, some serpent sure has licked him over, And given him only craft enough to keep, And go no farther with him; all the rest Is innocence about him, truth and bluntness. I must seek other course; for I have learned Of my Infernal Sire, not to be lazy, Faint or discouraged at the tenth repulse: Me thinks that world Simplicity now huggs fast, Do's look as if't should be Deceit's at last. Sir, he's a fool, the world belongs to you, You're mighty in your worth and your command, You know to govern, form, make laws, and take Their sweet and precious penalty, it befits A mightiness Like yours, the world was made For such a Lord as you, so absolute A Majesty in all Princely nobleness As your self is; but to lie useless now, Rusty or lazy in a Fools pre-eminence, It is not for a glorious worth to suffer. Now my hope ripens fairly. Pray let me case your Majesty. Still repulsed? I must find ground to thrive on. Captain, it's you that have the bloody sweats, You venture life and limbs it's you that taste The stings of thirst and hunger, Yet lets another carry away the World, Of which, by right, you are the only Master, Stand curtsing for your pay at your return Perhaps with wooden legs to every Groom That dares not look full right upon a sword, Nor upon any wound, or slit of honour? Giue't me sir to lay up, I am your Treasurer, In a poor kind. Is it possible? Can I yet set no footing in the World? I'm angry, but not weary; I'll hunt out still: For, being Deceit, I bear the Devils name, And he's known seldom to give over his game. Shall the Land-captain, sir, usurp your right, Yours that try thousand dangers to his one, Rocks, shelves, gulfs, quick sands, hundred hundred horrors, That makes the Land-men tremble when th'are told; Beside the enemies encounter, I knew 'twould come at last. And shall your Purser help you? I will not leave yet; Destruction plays in me such pleasant strains, That I would purchase it with any pains. I'll feed upon the Muck on't, that a while Shall satisfy my longings, Wealth is known The absolute step to all promotion. This is no place for us. I have my wishes here, my sanctified Patron, I'll first fill all the Chests i'th Vestry, Then theres a secret Vault for Great men's Legacies. I made my self sure here. Church fail me too? I thought it mere impossible by all reason, Since theres so large a bridge to walk upon betwixt negligence and Superstition. Where could one better piece up a full vice? One service lazy, tother overnice: There had been betwixt, room enough for me. I will take root, or run through each degree. Pity your Trampler, Sir, your poor Solliciter.