A ROGUE by CHARLES COTTON

READER, read this man, than whom
Is none more vile in Christendom:
Thou may'st know him, wheresoe'er
Thou meet'st him, by his character,
And, to begin first with his face,
It is the worst that ever was,
So crab-like, wrinkled, and so foul,
His mother shit him sure at stool.
To that, his limbs are such, thou'dst swear
No two of them could make a pair:
His hands! Man never saw such clutches,
Nor such feet walk without crutches;
The bulk to these fair branches is
A chaos of confounded vice;
A trunk of tumours and diseases,
Which a thousand ulcers eases,
With a stink that would infect us,
Did not kinder Heaven protect us.
Now how this hide of his is lin'd!
To this shape he has a mind
Of so damn'd a leprous taint
As the Devil himself would Saint.
Bloody, revengeful, treacherous:
A hellish liar, covetous;
A cursed sycophanting slave,
A fool, a coward, and a knave:
Lewdly debaucht (the Devil take him!)
As drabs, and dice, and drink can make him:
Loudly profane 'bove blasphemy,
The abstract of all villainy;
Ignorant of all things, but evil:
And now y'ave warning of a Devil.

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