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f quarles - bowls - richard mitchley lyrics

ye are of your father the devil, and the l*sts of your father ye will do. ** john 8:44

here’s your right ground: wagge gently o’r this black;
tis a short cast; y’are quickly at the jack
rub, rub an inch or two; two crowns to one
on this boul’s side: blow wind, ’t is fairly thrown:
the next boul’s worse that comes, come boul away;
mammon , you know the ground untutour’d, play;
your last was gone a yard of strength well spar’d
had touch’d the block; your hand is still too hard
brave pastime, readers, to consume that day
which without pastime flies too swift away!
see how they labour: as if day and night
were both too short to serve their loose delight
see how their curved bodies wreath, and skrue
such antick shapes as proteus never knew:
one raps an oath, another deals a curse;
he never better boul’d; this never worse:
one rubs his itchlesse elbow, shrugs and laughs
the tother bends his beetle*browes, and chafes:
sometime they whoop, sometimes their stygian cries
send their black* santos to the blushing skies:
thus mingling humours in a mad confusion
they make bad premises, and worse conclusion;
but where’s the palm that fortune’s hand allowes
to blesse the victour’s honourable browes?
come, reader, come; i’ll light thine eye the way
to view the prize, the while the gamesters play;
close by the jack, behold, gill fortune stands
to wave the game; see, in her partiall hands
the glorious garland’s held in open show
to chear the lads, and crown the conqrour’s brow
the world’s the jack; the gamesters that contend
are cupid, mammon : that judiclous friend
that gives the ground, is satan; and the boules
are sinfull thoughts; the prize, a crown for fools
who breathes that boules not; what bold tongue can say
without a blush, he hath not boul’d to day;
it is the trade of man; and every sinner
has plaid his rubbers: every soule’s a winner
the vulgar proverb’s crost: he hardly can
be a good bouler and an honest man
good god, turn thou my brazil thoughts a new;
new sole my boules, and make their bias true:
i’ll cease to game, till fairer ground be given
nor wish to winne untill the mark be heaven

- richard mitchley lyrics

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