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 Raunging the bryerie desartes of blacke sin, Seeking a dismall caue to reuell in. This latter age or member of that time, Of whom my snarling muse now thundreth rime Wandred the brackes vntil a hidden Cell, He found at length, and still therein doth dwell: The house of gain insatiat it is, Which this hore aged pesant deemes his bliss. Oh that desire might hunt amongst that fur, It should go hard but he would loose a cur: To rowse the fox, hid in a bramble bush, Who frighteth conscience with a wrimouth'd push: But what need I to wish or would it thus, When I may find him starting at the burs: Where he infected other pregnant wits, Making them Coheires to his damned fits. There may you see this writhen faced masse, Of rotten mouldring clay, that prating asse: That riddles wonders, meete compact of lies, Of heauen, of hell, of earth and of the skies.