oppie of Verses that I made
Of a mighty raine which fell once in the _Indies_.

_Sis_. That you made? If you will venture your lungs let me heare more
impossible stories to passe away the tyme.

_De. _Heaven did not weepe, but in its swelling eye
Whole Seas of Rhume and moist Catarrs did lie,
Which so bespauld the lower world, men see
Corne blasted and the fruit of every tree;
Aire was condenst to water gainst their wish,
And all their foule was turn'd to flying Fish;
Like watermen they throng'd to ply a fare,
As though it had been navigable Aire.
Beasts lost the naturall motion of each limbe,
Forgott to goe with practiseing to swime:
A trout now here you would not thinke how soone
Taken and drest for th'Emperour o'the Moone,
The fixed Starres, though to our eyes were missing
Wee knew yet were by their continuall hissing.
Weomen were mermaides sailing with the wind,
The greatest miracle was fish behind:
But men were all kept chast against their wish,
And could comitt but the cold sin of fish_.

_Sis_. And that synne would puzzle all the Civell Lawyers in the
kingdome. Sinns of the flesh they are perfect in; they know well enough
what belongs to Adultery and simple fornication, but you would much
improve and oblige the practise of the Court, if you could bring this
sinne of fish under the Commission. But now, I hope, the raine is over
we shall have faire weather.

_De_. Now I can tell you, Lady, what a strange frost was in one part of
the world--

_Sis_. I shall cry out fire if you doe; I had rather have some discourse
to keepe me warm still.

_De_. Or how the whole world was troubled with the wind Collick.

_Sis_. No more Earthquakes, I beseech you. Some frends of myne lost a
great deale of land the last terme, and for ought I know tis never like
to be recover'd. Why, all these verses you have honourd me to heare were
translated out of _French_.

_De_. You say very right, Lady.

_Sis_. No, no; they are out of _Spanish_, as I remember.

_De_. I thinke it be out of _Spanish_, indeed.

_Sis_. Or else the _Italian_.

_De_. Troth, I know not which very well.

_Sis_. And yet you made 'em! Some gentlemen have the faculty to make
verses and forgett what language was the Originall: tis Alamode, I
confesse, sir.

_De_. Thers the mischiefe in poetry: a man might have told 200 lies in
prose upon his owne name, and never miscaried.--But, leaving these rude
rymes, Ladie, how do you like the novice that Sir _Ri