An Epigram called the Couriter

Now heauen preserue mine eyesight what is here?
A man made vp in Wainscot? now I sweare,
I tooke him for some Colosse; sure I erre,
This is not he: yes: this's the Courtier,
Brau Pun-tevallo, for those armes he beares,
(An Asse head rampant) and that chaine he weares,
By blest Saint Martin, doe descry it's he,
Well, ile obserue his carriage narrowly.
What makes him go so stiffe, has he the gout?
No, but a fire in's hams that went not out
These seuen yeares to my knowledge: then it has
Begun (it seems bout time) when th'glasse-work wa
Its true, it did so, I haue heard some say,
He has a pleasant wit, he has one way
A pretty thriuing wit, can make a legge,
And harken out what office he may begge.
Can looke as big and burly on such men,
(Poore Gnats) that come for to petition him,
As Giants in a Pagent, can protest,
For meere formality, laugh at a iest,
(Without conceiuing ont) has witte enough,
To put good close on, beare his face in's ruffe.
Like a braue sprightly Spaniard, will not let,
With some new minted oaths to pay his debt,
And can dispense with them, nor does he more,
In this, then what his Elders did before.
With truth (in complement) he seldome meetes,
For naked truth with Eue lies without sheetes,
And he endures not that, nor can incline,
To such a motion, but in progresse time.
He cannot blush (no more can women now)
Till that their pretie painter tell them how.
He ha's a kind of vaine in sonnetting,
Purchast by brocage or by pilseing,
With which he wooes his mistresse, he will set,
His face to any fashion, and will bett,
Wagers on Ladies honours: hauing forgotten
Wha he should speake, hee's fingering his button,
Or some such trifling action, till he store
himselfe with wit, which he had lost before:
Nor did that Morall erre, who wisely would,
Compare a Courtiers witte to th'Marigold.
It opens with the Sunne, but beeing set
The Mari-gold shuts vp, so doth his witte.
The Marigold's most cheer'd by mid-day sunne,
So's he, whence 'st, he lies in bed till noone.
Occasion is his Cupid, lust his lure,
Pleasure his Pander, dalliance his whoore,
He h'as but one receipt of making loue,
And being put out, he cannot speake, nor moue,
But like a liue-lese image, seemes to be,
Till by good hap his speech recouered be.
He smells of Complement, in presence faire,
And vses oft to weare bracelets of haire,
Swearing they came from such, but tis not so,
For t'was some tyre-woman he tooke them fro.
The Ornaments which he admires are these,
To faune, to obserue times, to court, to please,
To make strange faces, sleeke his prefum'd skin,
Starch his Mouchatoes, and forget his sinne.
To dance, to dice, to congie, to salute,
To stamp, to stalke, to finger well a lute.
To tremble at a Cannon when it shootes,
To like, dislike, and fill his head with doubts.
To be in passion, wind his carelesse armes,
To plie his Mistresse with delightfull charmes.
To be for all, yet ignorant in all,
To be disguisd, and strange fantasticall:
Briefly to be, what all his kind haue beene,
Seeme what they be not, be what least they seeme.
Such is my Puntauallo, and in time
No question but hee'l prooue true Pantomime,
To imitate all formes, shapes, habits, tyes
Suting the Court, and sorting his desires,
And then what th' Satyre said, shall well appeare:
The Deuill is the perfects Courtier.
Hauing my complete Courtier thus defin'd,
I haue no more that I can call to minde,
" Saue what is common, and is knowne to all,
" That Courtiers as the tide doe rise and fall,
So I will end with what I haue writ before,
"Till the'next tide come, and then I wil write more.