A Replicacion to Camels Objection,
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IF right or reason, might move you to speake,
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I wold not you blame, your malice to wreake:
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Or if your judgement, were upright and cleane,
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You wolde not so rudely construe what I meane.
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How should your folly, so plainly be knowne,
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If that your wisdome, abrode were not blowne.
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You byd me amende, whose life you know not,
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As though that in you, there were not a spot.
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A tale of a tubbe, you bragge and you brall,
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wherein you do rubbe your selfe on the gall.
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You touch not one poynt, wherof that I wrate.
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You leape ore the hedge, and seeith not the gate,
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I muse what you meane to discant and preache,
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Upon a plaine song, so farre past your reache.
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why Camell I say, wyl you needes be fyne,
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what wyll ye be knowne for a durty devine.
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It seemes you are learned, past reason or wyt,
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Or els you coulde not, the marke so well hyt.
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You have so good laten, you can want no pewter.
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Though ye are no foole, yet you are a newter.
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You writ like a clerke, ore seene well in Cato,
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Forgetting your name, which Therens cals Gnato.
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I can do no lesse, but shew what you are,
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Synce you ar a Daniell, darke dreames to declare
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Your knowledge is great, your judgement is good,
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The most of your study, hath ben of Robyn hood
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And Bevys of Hampton, and syr Launcelet de lake,
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Hath tought you full oft, your verses to make:
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By sweete saint Benet, I swere by no foole,
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You are not to learne, you plyde well your scole.
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Your wyts are not breched, who list you to preeve,
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You flocke and you flout, and smils in your sleeve,
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I prayse you no more, lest you thinke I flatter,
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I must now retourne, to the pith of my matter,
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How can you well prove, that I do envye,
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At any estate, be they low or hye,
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Or that I spye fauts, in Juppiters seate,
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why are you so mad, on me thus to bleate,
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It grees not, it cords not, it fyts not you say,
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That men shuld find faut, with gods that bere sway
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If plaine Davy Dicar, with wise men be skande,
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He speaketh uprightly, I dare take in hande.
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I write not so rashly, but I rule my pen.
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In faith you mistake, Davy Dicars, when,
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You take chauke for chese, and day for darke night,
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Of like you are spurblinde, or ye loke not a right:
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Your purpose I know, you were in such care,
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Against this good tyme, your purs was ful bare.
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You thought to optaine, some garment or gift,
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Then dyd you invent, to make a foule shift,
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To flatter the Gods. & get a new cote,
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That made you to syng, so mery a note.
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You faine me like Judas, you thinke me not so,
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For if I were he, then you wold me know,
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I beare not the bagge, that mai you rewarde,
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But yet my good wyll, I pray you regarde,
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You say that order, would have eche degree,
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To walke in his calling: then how may this be,
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That you out of frame, do blother and barke,
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So like a curre dogge, at every good warke,
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Is this the order, that Camels doo use?
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Bicause you are a beast, I must you exscuse:
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A Camell, a Capon, a Curre sure by kynde,
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I may you well call, synce so I you fynde:
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Bicause you have ratled and railed to mytche,
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Now give me good leve, to claw you wher ye ytch
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And if that you thinke, I rubbe you to sore,
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Then give me no cause, to scratch you no more.
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Holde this for certayn, and for a sure thing,
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The ofter you styrre me, the more I wyll styng.
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Syns that you wyll needes awaken my wyttes,
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I wyll seeke for you, both snaffuls and bittes.
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To holde in your head, and make you to rayne,
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And byte on the bridle, for angre and payne.
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Then will I devise for you such a burthen,
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As long as you live, you shall beare a lurden:
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A Camell by kinde, wyll beare more at once,
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Then .iii. great horses, pickt out for the nonce.
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More meeter for you, to be in some stable,
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To beare heavy burthens, I thinke you more able
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Then being as you are, walking abrode,
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Your limmes ar well made, to carye a great lode:
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All beastes that be made for carte and cariage.
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Shuld leane to their labour, as man to his mariage
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with horses and Asses, you are well acquainted,
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Their maners in ordre, right wel you have painted
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I dout of your shape, some monster you are,
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Bicause such a name, to me you declare.
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Your wordes and your workes, ar tokens right sure
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You ar some brute beast, in mans forme & picture.
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Right happy he were, that had you in charge,
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He shuld gaine moch money, to shew you at large
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what cause, or what toye, dyd trouble your mynde,
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To make you seeke fauts, wher non you can finde:
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Your instrument jarres, your myrth is not sweete,
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You play on false striings, which thing is unmeete
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Your eare is not good, you know no sweete sounde,
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You can not espie, where faut may be founde.
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So farre out of tune, I never hearde none,
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Nor so much past shame, nor yet so farre gone,
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As you in this case, God sende you to amende,
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Which seekes to learnr me, to bow and to bende:
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Direct well your steppes, by order and lyne,
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And sclaunder me not, nor no workes of myne.
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In all my writinges, right honestly I ment.
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If thei be taken, to my true entent:
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Thei shall breede no strife, nor no error sowe.
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when truth shal be tryde, and vertue shall flow.
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Thus yet once to, when, againe I returne,
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Bicause that you seeme, against it to spurne,
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Untill this long, when, do well come to passe,
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This world shalbe nought, & you shalbe an Asse:
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Since you doo invey, alle vice to maintaine,
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You shew that you have, a folish light braine:
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God send you more wit, now kepe your head warme
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Or els the next winter, mai doo you some harme.
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Thus here I do ende, and rest for this time,
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Excepte you procure me, to make a new rime.
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