



Produced by ellinora, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)





Transcriber’s Note: This text was originally printed in 1608, and uses
the spelling of that period. The only alterations made (for readability)
are to use s rather than long-s and j rather than i, and to standardise
u/v to modern convention. One or two punctuation errors have also been
corrected (poems should end with full stops). Any remaining apparent
errors in the text are as printed.

Decorative illustrations are not marked in this plain text version.




                             Hunterian Club

                            No. II.--1871-2.

                                 HUMORS
                             LOOKING GLASSE

                                   BY
                             SAMUEL ROWLANDS

                   _REPRINTED FROM THE FIRST EDITION_
                                  1608

                     PRINTED FOR THE HUNTERIAN CLUB

                                  1872




                                 HUMORS
                                 LOOKING
                                 Glasse.

                                _LONDON._
              Imprinted by _Ed. Allde_ for _William Fere-_
                 brand and are to be sold at his Shop in
                 _the popes-head Pallace, right over a-_
                        gainst the Taverne-dore.
                                  1608.




_To his verie Loving Friend Master_ George Lee.


    _Esteemed friend, I pray thee take it kinde,_
    _That outward action beares an inward minde,_
    _What objects heere these papers do deliver,_
    _Bestow the viewing of them for the giver._
    _I make thee a partaker of strange sights,_
    _Drawne antique works of humours vaine delights._
    _A mirrour of the mad conceited shapes,_
    _Of this our ages giddy-headed apes,_
    _These fash’on mongers, selfe besotted men_
    _Of kindred to the fowle that wore my pen,_
    _Are at an howers warning to appeare,_
    _And muster in sixe sheetes of Paper heere._
    _And this is all at this time I bestow,_
    _To evidence a greater love I owe._

                                                 Yours SAMUEL ROWLAND_S_.




_Reader._


    As many antique faces passe,
    From Barbers chaire unto his glasse,
    There to beholde their kinde of trim,
    And how they are reform’d by him,
    Or at _Exchang_ where Marchants greete,
    Confusion of the tongues do meete,
    As _English_, _French_, _Italian_, _Dutch_,
    _Spanish_, and _Scot’sh_, with divers such.
    So from the Presse these papers come
    To show the humorous shapes of some.
    Heere are such faces good and bad,
    As in a Barbers shop are had,
    And heere are tongues of divers kindes,
    According to the speakers mindes.
    Beholde their fashions, heare their voice,
    And let discretion make thy choice.

                                                        SAMUELL ROWLANDS.




_Epigram._


    Some man that to contention is inclin’de;
    With any thing he sees, a fault wil finde,
    As, that is not so good, the same’s amisse,
    I have no great affection unto this.
    Now I protest I doe not like the same,
    This must be mended, that deserveth blame,
    It were farre better such a thing were out,
    This is obscure, and that’s as full of doubt.
    And much adoe, and many words are spent
    In finding out the path that humours went,
    And for direction to that Idle way
    Onely a busie tongue bears all the sway.
    The dish that _Aesope_ did commend for best;
    Is now a daies in wonderfull request,
    But if you finde fault on a certaine ground,
    Weele fall to mending when the fault is found.




_Epigram._


    Pra’y by your leave, make moūsieur humors roome
    That oft hath walk’d about Duke Humphries tombe
    And sat amongst the Knights to see a play,
    And gone in’s suite of Sattin ev’ry day,
    And had his hat display a bushie plume,
    And’s verie beard deliver forth perfume.
    But when was this? aske Frier Bacons head
    That answered _Time is past_, O time is fled!
    Sattin and silke was pawned long agoe,
    And now in canvase, no knight can him knowe.
    His former state, in dark oblivion sleepes,
    Onely Paules Gallarie, that walke he