Time serving humour thou wrie-faced Ape,
That canst transforme thy selfe to any shape:
Come good Proteus come away a pace,
We long to see thy mumping Antique face.
This is the fellow that lives by his wit,
A cogging knave and fawning Parrasit,
He has behaviour for the greatest porte,
And hee has humors for the rascall sorte,
He has beene great with Lordes and high estates,
They could not live without his rare conceites,
He was associat for the bravest spirits,
His galland carriage such favour merrits.
Yet to a Ruffiin humor for the stewes,
A right graund Captaine of the damned crewes,
With whome his humor alwayes is unstable
Mad, melancholly, drunke and variable.
Hat without band like cutting Dicke he goe’s,
Renowned for his new invented oathes.
Sometimes like a Civilian, tis strange
At twelve a clocke he must unto the Change,
Where being thought a Marchant to the eye,
He tels strange newes his humor is to lie.
Some Damaske coate the effect thereof must heare,
Invites him home and there he gets good cheare.
But how is’t now such brave renowned wits,
Weare ragged robes with such huge gastly slits,
Faith thus a ragged humour he hath got
Whole garments for the Summer are too hot.
Thus you may censure gently if you please,
He weares such garments onely for his ease.
Or thus his credit will no longer wave.
For all men know him for a prating knave.