F Quarles - Bowls

Lyrics

Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts 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