 | Favnvs and Melliflora |  |
The first Satyre of Horace. To his Patron Mecœnas.
Bounteous Mecœnas, s'daining to peruse,
And patronage the weakenesse of my Muse.
And patronage the weakenesse of my Muse.
What is the cause that none content will liue,
In that estate which choise or chance doth giue,
But euermore a nouell life pursues,
And praiseth that another man doth vse?
Th' vnwildie warrior brusde with toile, and spent
With groueling eld, saith, most of all content
O blisfull life, O merchants fortunate:
The Merchant saith misliking this estate,
When Southerne windes with raine bedagled wings
Swell vp the seas, and him neare shipwracke brings:
Warre's better, why? they fight, and presently,
Or quicke death comes, or ioyfull victory:
The Counsellor when as the clyent waites,
And fore the cocks crow knocketh at his gates,
Cries, happie husbandman, his bed which keeps,
And lullabies his thoughts with carelesse sleepes:
The countryman, if for a surety sent,
Vnto the cittie he is euer bent,
To gape, and pore, and staring wide he pries
On euery mocke-Ape toy which he espies,
Iogging his mate vpon the elbow, he
Sweares cittizens the blessed people be.
The residue of these new fangles would,
(They are so many which I haue enrould)
Tyre-prating Fabius, lest I thee delay,
Heare in a word. Suppose some god would say,
Your likings all I wondrous well allow,
I will effect your will: and souldier, thou
Shalt be a Merchant, Counsellor I giue
To thee thy wish, a farmer thou shalt liue:
Your trades are turnd, depart here from my sight,
Why stand you still? they will not though they might
Accept this blisfull and their chiefest boone,
Then what's the cause but Ioue of right may soone,
In wrathfull moode engorge his swelling cheeke
Gainst all this sort, and heare not them which seeke,
And sue to change their present state hereafter?
In that estate which choise or chance doth giue,
But euermore a nouell life pursues,
And praiseth that another man doth vse?
Th' vnwildie warrior brusde with toile, and spent
With groueling eld, saith, most of all content
O blisfull life, O merchants fortunate:
The Merchant saith misliking this estate,
When Southerne windes with raine bedagled wings
Swell vp the seas, and him neare shipwracke brings:
Warre's better, why? they fight, and presently,
Or quicke death comes, or ioyfull victory:
The Counsellor when as the clyent waites,
And fore the cocks crow knocketh at his gates,
Cries, happie husbandman, his bed which keeps,
And lullabies his thoughts with carelesse sleepes:
The countryman, if for a surety sent,
Vnto the cittie he is euer bent,
To gape, and pore, and staring wide he pries
Iogging his mate vpon the elbow, he
Sweares cittizens the blessed people be.
The residue of these new fangles would,
(They are so many which I haue enrould)
Tyre-prating Fabius, lest I thee delay,
Heare in a word. Suppose some god would say,
Your likings all I wondrous well allow,
I will effect your will: and souldier, thou
Shalt be a Merchant, Counsellor I giue
To thee thy wish, a farmer thou shalt liue:
Your trades are turnd, depart here from my sight,
Why stand you still? they will not though they might
Accept this blisfull and their chiefest boone,
Then what's the cause but Ioue of right may soone,
In wrathfull moode engorge his swelling cheeke
Gainst all this sort, and heare not them which seeke,
And sue to change their present state hereafter?
But lest some say, too much I mingle laughter,
Though what forbids but that the iester may
Speake truth in toyes, and make the Reader stay,
As faire spoke Pedants, teaching country schooles,
With butterd bread will lure the little fooles,
To learne their Crosse-row: but Ile make an end
Of trifles now, and serious things vnbend:
The country swaine which shares the yeelding leas,
The Mariner that furrowes vp the seas,
The Tauerner which reakes not much to lie,
And Souldier, say, the cause they trauaile why,
Is this, that when vnnimble three-legg'd age,
There stronger yeares, or moyling toyle doth swage,
That then they might of all sufficient haue,
Least easelesse neede their bodie bring to graue.
Not much vnlike the little Ant that moiles,
(A little beast, but one of greatest toile)
And drawes her dainties thwart the hillie soile
By might of mouth: and placed in her cell,
In all she may, she huswiues it so well:
Layes it in piles, and shroudes it vnder roofe,
As one which were not for to learne the proofe
Of winters wrath, when sleeting Ianiuere,
With sullen shoures saddes the beginning yeare:
Within her caue she keepes her festiuall,
And feeles the fruit of her prouision all
In Summer time. But thee, nor scorching heate,
Nor shuddering cold,
Nor stormie seas, nor winter, fire, nor sword,
Nor ought can keepe from heaping vp thy hord.
Thy glutton mind with moath-consuming pelfe,
Whilst one thou seest be richer then thy selfe:
What vailes it thee to grubbe this waight of molde,
So fearefully this Idoll god thy gold,
In hugger mugger euermore to hide,
Which if thou spend, no farthing will abide,
And if thou snudge, and coffert from the sunne,
What shew makes it, what good is thereby wonne?
Of corne dehuskt admit thou hast in store,
An hundreth thousand Mets on thy barne flore,
What comes thereby? thy bellie holds no more
Then mine, as if to hirelings thou wert sent,
Thy shoulders fraught with bags of bread, thou went,
And they receiuing what thou thither brought,
Thou gaines no more then him which carried nought.
Though what forbids but that the iester may
Speake truth in toyes, and make the Reader stay,
As faire spoke Pedants, teaching country schooles,
With butterd bread will lure the little fooles,
To learne their Crosse-row: but Ile make an end
Of trifles now, and serious things vnbend:
The country swaine which shares the yeelding leas,
The Mariner that furrowes vp the seas,
The Tauerner which reakes not much to lie,
And Souldier, say, the cause they trauaile why,
Is this, that when vnnimble three-legg'd age,
That then they might of all sufficient haue,
Least easelesse neede their bodie bring to graue.
Not much vnlike the little Ant that moiles,
(A little beast, but one of greatest toile)
And drawes her dainties thwart the hillie soile
By might of mouth: and placed in her cell,
In all she may, she huswiues it so well:
Layes it in piles, and shroudes it vnder roofe,
As one which were not for to learne the proofe
Of winters wrath, when sleeting Ianiuere,
With sullen shoures saddes the beginning yeare:
Within her caue she keepes her festiuall,
And feeles the fruit of her prouision all
In Summer time. But thee, nor scorching heate,
Nor shuddering cold,
Nor stormie seas, nor winter, fire, nor sword,
Nor ought can keepe from heaping vp thy hord.
Thy glutton mind with moath-consuming pelfe,
Whilst one thou seest be richer then thy selfe:
What vailes it thee to grubbe this waight of molde,
So fearefully this Idoll god thy gold,
In hugger mugger euermore to hide,
Which if thou spend, no farthing will abide,
And if thou snudge, and coffert from the sunne,
What shew makes it, what good is thereby wonne?
Of corne dehuskt admit thou hast in store,
An hundreth thousand Mets on thy barne flore,
What comes thereby? thy bellie holds no more
Then mine, as if to hirelings thou wert sent,
And they receiuing what thou thither brought,
Thou gaines no more then him which carried nought.
Or answere this: to him which doth propound
Nature his guide, what booteth him of ground,
Whether that he an hundreth acres tilles,
Or else a thousand? But to him which filles,
From a huge heape, thou saist, It feeds the eie,
And in the same we condiscend to thee,
Whilst our repaste contents the mind alwaies,
Shunning all not: wherefore dost thou praise,
Thy corne-stuft gardners, boue our sacks? wee feed
On them as well as you, they serue our neede.
As if thou must thy pot with water fill,
And by thy side a fountaine doth distill:
Yet for affection, and to please thine eie,
Vnto a riuer further off thoult hie:
At which, whilst some haue reacht beyond the brim,
The banks haue burst, and they haue fallen in.
But he that takes to serue his vse, no more,
The troubled water neare the slimie shore,
Needes not to drinke, his flaming thirst to coole,
Nor drowning feare within the muddie poole:
But greatest part of men with poyson'd baite
Of wealth bewitch'd, aboundance in ech state
Is all their blisse, their God, and earthly store,
A man is but his money, and no more.
What punishment shall we deuise or find,
For him that hath this vnder-eating mind?
Lets suffer him in sinne to wallow still,
And wretched be so long as er'e he will.
Such one we reade of dwelt in Athens towne,
In substance rich, but yet a niggard clowne:
Whose couetize the world would euer hisse,
Of infamie he still regardlesse is.
Let people hisse and mocke me as they list,
Whilst with my gold (quoth he) lockt in my chest,
I please my selfe, mine eie still viewing is
My gold, my goods, my God and heauenly blisse.
Dry Tantalus doth oft aspire to taste
The gliding water, but his labour's waste.
Why dost thou laugh? what pleasure dost thou take
To loue this gold, which endlesse griefe doth make?
For thou endur'st his fate, take but his name,
This fable's told of thee, thou art the same.
What though amidst thy heaped bagges thou sleepe,
When fearefull dreames thy mind awaking keepe,
And that (which thy confusion will bring,)
Thou sparest it like to some holy thing:
And Tymon-like thou dost but please thine eie,
With that which should thine honour raise on hie.
As though it were in pictures to delight,
Thou dost not know the vse of money right,
Disburse it so for to supplie thy want:
Let bread be bought, hearbs, wine, or what is scant,
By which abating Nature waxeth faint.
To wake daies, nights to stand in awe and feare
Of theeues, least of thy riches they should heare.
Of fire, of seruants, least they pilfer thee,
Be these thy gaines? Ioue then this boone to me
Grant, that deuoyd of wealth I euer be.
Nature his guide, what booteth him of ground,
Whether that he an hundreth acres tilles,
Or else a thousand? But to him which filles,
From a huge heape, thou saist, It feeds the eie,
And in the same we condiscend to thee,
Whilst our repaste contents the mind alwaies,
Shunning all not: wherefore dost thou praise,
Thy corne-stuft gardners, boue our sacks? wee feed
On them as well as you, they serue our neede.
As if thou must thy pot with water fill,
And by thy side a fountaine doth distill:
Yet for affection, and to please thine eie,
Vnto a riuer further off thoult hie:
At which, whilst some haue reacht beyond the brim,
The banks haue burst, and they haue fallen in.
But he that takes to serue his vse, no more,
The troubled water neare the slimie shore,
Needes not to drinke, his flaming thirst to coole,
Nor drowning feare within the muddie poole:
But greatest part of men with poyson'd baite
Of wealth bewitch'd, aboundance in ech state
Is all their blisse, their God, and earthly store,
A man is but his money, and no more.
What punishment shall we deuise or find,
For him that hath this vnder-eating mind?
Lets suffer him in sinne to wallow still,
Such one we reade of dwelt in Athens towne,
In substance rich, but yet a niggard clowne:
Whose couetize the world would euer hisse,
Of infamie he still regardlesse is.
Let people hisse and mocke me as they list,
Whilst with my gold (quoth he) lockt in my chest,
I please my selfe, mine eie still viewing is
My gold, my goods, my God and heauenly blisse.
Dry Tantalus doth oft aspire to taste
The gliding water, but his labour's waste.
Why dost thou laugh? what pleasure dost thou take
To loue this gold, which endlesse griefe doth make?
For thou endur'st his fate, take but his name,
This fable's told of thee, thou art the same.
What though amidst thy heaped bagges thou sleepe,
When fearefull dreames thy mind awaking keepe,
And that (which thy confusion will bring,)
Thou sparest it like to some holy thing:
And Tymon-like thou dost but please thine eie,
With that which should thine honour raise on hie.
As though it were in pictures to delight,
Thou dost not know the vse of money right,
Disburse it so for to supplie thy want:
Let bread be bought, hearbs, wine, or what is scant,
By which abating Nature waxeth faint.
To wake daies, nights to stand in awe and feare
Of theeues, least of thy riches they should heare.
Of fire, of seruants, least they pilfer thee,
Be these thy gaines? Ioue then this boone to me
But if the cough chance trouble sore thy head,
Or some disease do cause thee keepe thy bed,
Thou hast thy friends still at thy elbow prest,
Which will prouide confections of the best:
Cunning Phisitians for thy helpe procure,
And to thy sonnes and kinsfolke thee restore,
With potions will in perfect health againe.
Or some disease do cause thee keepe thy bed,
Thou hast thy friends still at thy elbow prest,
Which will prouide confections of the best:
Cunning Phisitians for thy helpe procure,
And to thy sonnes and kinsfolke thee restore,
With potions will in perfect health againe.
Thou art deceiu'd, thy wife she workes thy baine,
Thy sonne, thy neighbours maides, acquaintance all
Weepe, but lest death should linger in thy fall:
What meruaile is't when siluer was thy Lord,
None loue thee? thou deseru'st no louing word,
For if thy kinsmen and thy friends thou will
With slight regard thus bind in friendship still,
Thy labour's vaine, perseuerance in loue,
Discordeth much. Thou maist as well aboue,
The sluggish Asse a golden saddle set,
And teach him chew the bit, plaie, and curuet:
Thy sonne, thy neighbours maides, acquaintance all
Weepe, but lest death should linger in thy fall:
What meruaile is't when siluer was thy Lord,
None loue thee? thou deseru'st no louing word,
For if thy kinsmen and thy friends thou will
With slight regard thus bind in friendship still,
Thy labour's vaine, perseuerance in loue,
Discordeth much. Thou maist as well aboue,
The sluggish Asse a golden saddle set,
And teach him chew the bit, plaie, and curuet:
This be the end: when much thou hast in store,
Then feare not want, and trauaile for no more:
Thy wil accomplisht, liue then at thine ease,
Let not Ouidius greedie mind thee please,
It is too long to tell how he would turne
His coomed coyne which shoules nor would adorne,
His corps with cloaths, but like the poorest wight,
No better then his seruant euer dight,
Fearing his riches would in time asswage,
And he sustaine great penury in his age:
But loe his wife (of Greekish dames most bold)
Did cut his throte, so ended he and's gold
What, is it best like Meuius to liue?
Or all my goods like Momentanus giue
To whores and bawdes? why dost thou thus compare
Extremities, all spend, or else all spare?
I would not thee a greedie cormorant haue,
Wilt thou then be a drunkard and a knaue?
There is a difference twixt the Eunuch Taine,
And Hermosus that most luxurious swaine.
A meane there is in all things, bonds be pight
On this side or beyond which nought stands right.
But now at length to come to my request,
How hapneth it that no man liketh best
His owne estate? His neighbours goate doth beare
A bigger bagge, her milke is farre more cleare.
Comparing him not to the greater sort,
Whose state is base, who liues in meane apport:
But shoots at high'st, with him he doth contend
To passe in coine, and so there is no end:
For he that all men meanes to leaue behind,
In running shall some richer euer find:
As when to winne some lawrell crowned fame,
The Charrioter (as in th' olympick game)
Lashing his thundring Coursers makes the ground,
(Whose rising face their fierie hoofes doth wound.)
To shake, and dandle, neuer lookes behind
At those he coates, but swifter then the wind.
Scoures forward still, to ouergo the rest,
And here it comes that he hath liued blest
Not one will say: A man we seldome find,
So cloyd with th' world, as one which hath new dinde
Is with his meate: none in s extreamest dayes.
Will part from life, as from a feast his waies.
But drad Mecœnas, now this shall suffize,
Least thou suppose my volume would arize
Greater then that which bleare-eide Crispine made.
Not one word more at this time shall be sayd.
Then feare not want, and trauaile for no more:
Thy wil accomplisht, liue then at thine ease,
Let not Ouidius greedie mind thee please,
It is too long to tell how he would turne
His coomed coyne which shoules nor would adorne,
His corps with cloaths, but like the poorest wight,
No better then his seruant euer dight,
Fearing his riches would in time asswage,
And he sustaine great penury in his age:
But loe his wife (of Greekish dames most bold)
What, is it best like Meuius to liue?
Or all my goods like Momentanus giue
To whores and bawdes? why dost thou thus compare
Extremities, all spend, or else all spare?
I would not thee a greedie cormorant haue,
Wilt thou then be a drunkard and a knaue?
There is a difference twixt the Eunuch Taine,
And Hermosus that most luxurious swaine.
A meane there is in all things, bonds be pight
On this side or beyond which nought stands right.
But now at length to come to my request,
How hapneth it that no man liketh best
His owne estate? His neighbours goate doth beare
A bigger bagge, her milke is farre more cleare.
Comparing him not to the greater sort,
Whose state is base, who liues in meane apport:
But shoots at high'st, with him he doth contend
To passe in coine, and so there is no end:
For he that all men meanes to leaue behind,
In running shall some richer euer find:
As when to winne some lawrell crowned fame,
The Charrioter (as in th' olympick game)
Lashing his thundring Coursers makes the ground,
(Whose rising face their fierie hoofes doth wound.)
To shake, and dandle, neuer lookes behind
At those he coates, but swifter then the wind.
Scoures forward still, to ouergo the rest,
And here it comes that he hath liued blest
Not one will say: A man we seldome find,
Is with his meate: none in s extreamest dayes.
Will part from life, as from a feast his waies.
But drad Mecœnas, now this shall suffize,
Least thou suppose my volume would arize
Greater then that which bleare-eide Crispine made.
Not one word more at this time shall be sayd.
The first Satyre of Persius.
O slight regard of sots, or brainlesse men!How great their blindfold vanities are, when
Naught they applaud but tingling Poesie,
Lulling the sence with itchfull ribaudry.
What meanes my tragicke clamor, to what end,
My ayrie breath to water do I spend?
What man takes pleasure? who will loose his time
In reading of my testy waiward rime?
To me didst speake, no flat-cap low prizde swaine,
(Much lesse my selfe) to reade my crabbed graine,
Will leaue a pleasing Poets sugred vaine.
Then to respect me, shall I find not one?
Yea, two perhaps thou shalt, or rather none.
This retchlesse care is much to be lamented,
Wherefore? not that my soule is discontented,
Fore me they should Polydemias preferre,
Or blockish Labeo, these but trifles are,
No: for what thing it please tempestuous Rome,
To raise, or throw downe by her bribed doome:
Thereto assent, correct, nor make deniall,
Or in the ballance poise that wicked triall.
Know thou thy selfe, but not by others words,
Oh if my tongue might runne at liberty,
And now it may, I'me come to grauity:
With sad rough-wrinkled age, and what I say,
Is casting toyes and childishnesse away:
And also now sterne vnkles I resemble,
Whose sharp correction make their neuews tremble:
Now then forgiue me. But I will not tho,
How can I but a Satyres forehead show?
And be a scorner in a sawcy splen,
We write shut vp, within our studies, when
He for to write in ordred sillables chose,
Another at his libertie in prose,
Some great great worke the Romanes haue assign'd,
Which to procure (I feare me) of the mind
The ayrie lunges wil troubled be for wind,
This doubtles to the people he shall reede,
Com'd, in his new gowne, and his richest weed:
With his Sardonix birth-dayes iewell graced,
In some high seate, or chaire, emperiall placed,
When with some limber unguent he hath noynted,
His mouing throate, at all assaies appointed,
Faint, with a swimming, turnd vp Venus eie,
He of his speech will make deliuerie:
Here maist thou see in most lasciuious guize,
The greatest Romanes play, and wantonize,
When as their lungs his lust-stung words do perse,
And itching entralles, scracht are with his verse.
Old-ore-worne truncke, and dost thou lay the baite,
For tickling eares, for eares which itching waite,
Thou knowst thine owne, and dost excuse their sinne.
O stay, what profit doth thy learning show?
Vnlesse that foolish doctrine thou dost know,
And barren figge tree so deepe rooted in thee,
Thy liuer burst, come forth and honor win thee?
Behold thy manners, and thy withered eld,
O foolish manners now for vertue held,
And is it nothing for to know thine owne,
Lesse what thou knowst, to al the world be knowne?
O but it is a iolly thing to see,
Men with their fingers point thee forth, tis he
Which pend that learnd egregious Poesie:
Deemes thou it nothing openly t'haue bin read,
Of an hundred schoole-boyes yellow curled heads?
Behold the Romanes mid their gluttony,
Inquire the most be-praised Poetrie,
Some noble man t'whome bout his shoulders hings,
A diuers coloured garment screaming sings,
Or through the nose speakes some foule tragedy,
Of Phillis and Hipsiphilus, or what poesie,
Is lamentable in Pandars surquedry,
He melts and breakes it in deliuery:
They rise vp all to him, they giue the palme,
And with these speeches they his words embalme.
Are not the ashes of this Poet blest,
The gentle coffin will not's bones haue prest,
From's Manes, his happy cinders and his toome,
Will not the Violets, and the Roses come?
And dost thou scoffe vs? thy sharp hooked nose
Will there be any willing to refuse
The peoples praise, when as his skilfull Muse
Doth leaue works worth the iuice of Cedars tree,
To after age, and all posteritie?
And verse, not fearing Salters quicke consume,
Nor Pothecaries wrapping in perfume.
Whosoe're thou art moud with my reprehension,
Which at this time gainst me doth make obiection,
I do not alwaies when I write refuse
The peoples praise if so my dullard Muse
(Which happens seldome) bring some legend forth,
Wittie conceited, sweete, and praises worth:
Nor are my heart strings of obdurate horne,
That such esteeme and honour I should scorne.
But the maine poynt, and the extreamest end,
To which thy studie and thy actions tend
I do refuse. Thy well done, wondrous rare,
Good, excellent examine with me here:
This whole great praise, what hath it inwardly?
Here is not Labeoes sottish Poetrie:
His Iliads drunke, with neesing Hellebore,
No Elegies for faire mouth'd Romaines more,
Raw stomackt at their banquets to rehearse,
For to be writ in Cittron beddes no verse.
Thou know'st what dainties are most meete to place
Before thy flatterers, which thee alway grace:
Thou know'st how to reward the needie poore,
With some cast garment, threed-bare, raggd, and tore.
And then thou saist, the truth faine would I know,
Both of my selfe, and of my poesie,
What high regard wee're in. Foole how can't be
That they corrupted with thy bribery,
Should speake the truth? But without flattery
Wouldst haue me speake? Thy Poetry is vaine,
Thee and thy workes the wisest do disdaine:
When such a hogge-trough, such a panch thou hast,
Reaching a foote and halfe aboue thy wast,
And gurmondizing still in gluttonie,
How canst thou write (foole) wittie Poesie?
O Ianus, first made prince of Italie,
Who can expresse thy great felicitie,
Whom neuer Stork-bild ieerer yet did flout,
Nor medlers hand did asses eares point out,
Behind thy backe, nor put forth such a tong,
So farre extended forth, drawne out so long?
How farre some dogge of scorcht Apulia
Hangs out his tongue, vpon the hottest day.
But you O Romane peeres, whom nature gaue,
As to other men, behind no eies to haue,
Looke warily vnto these glauerers,
These writhen-mouth'd frumpers gullish flatterers,
Do thou but aske the vulgars true opinion,
Of thy writ lines, thy scoffer in derision
Will answere thee: Why who can but commend,
Such a sweete flowing Poem rarely pend,
Whose pollisht numbers do so smoothly end,
He knowes the best his verses to extend:
As one that hauing shut one of his cine,
If neede require to write a Comedie,
A sharp fang'd Satyre or a Tragedie.
Some fatall banquet of swart Atreus,
Orestes, Progne, and of Tereus,
Then doth his Muse giue witfull poesie,
Unto our Poet most aboundantly.
Behold we see one to the hearing brings,
Some lofty stile of Emperours or Kings,
Or some great Poeme for to take in hand,
When as the freshman doth not vnderstand
His rudiments, nor hath the salt of wit,
For to describe a groue as doth befit,
Nor praise the fruitfull cóuntrie how the waines,
Carrie the liquor which the grape distraines,
Nor fire, nor heards of swine fed fat with graines:
Nor yet the feasts of Pales celebrate,
The goddesses of shepheards consecrate,
From whence the Emperour Remus did deriue,
His pedegree. How Quintus thou didst riue,
And breake thy plow-share, with the furrow torne,
Whenas thy stonisht wife stood thee beforne,
With a Dictators vesture thee t'adorne.
The sergeant who this sodaine newes did know,
Vpon his shoulders carried home thy plow.
Well done ingenious Poet, to expresse
A lofty stile, and graueld in the lesse,
But some there be who more obscurely write,
Whom th' venemous booke of Labeo doth delight,
Some with Pacunius harsh Antiopa,
Whose mournfull heart in sorrowes extasie,
Is vnderpropt, he saith, with care and misery.
When pur-blind fathers euery day thou sees,
Vnto their children teach such words as these:
Dost thou demand how this vnpolisht speech,
Into the tougues of all men made a breach,
From whence this ruine of the Romane tongue
Did first arise, in which the Romanes long
Haue tooke delight? fore all this they preferre,
And act it on the Amphitheater,
And doth this language nothing thee ashame?
Will not gray haires thy greene affections tame,
And wilt thou euer be so couetous,
To heare this latine mingled barbarous,
Call Pedius Theefe, then what will Pedius say,
He in smooth opposites will his trespasse way:
And for his sugred flowing eloquence,
Hee's greatly praisde and held in reuerence,
O eloquent Apollo robbing witte!
And is it so? lasciuious Romanes, yet
Like fauning dogges this flattering do ye loue?
What? shal a shipwrackt man to pittie moue,
My liberall mind some mony to bestow,
Whenas before me singing he doth goe.
Thy shipwracke on thy shoulders thou dost bring,
Vpon a table painted, and dost sing.
But such a whining speech premeditate,
Cannot make me thy chance commiserate,
Yea but in verse there is a comely grace,
A secret couching of each word in place,
Of Atis borne in Berecinthius,
And not vnlike the Poesie of him.
The Dolphin tooke Nerea for to swimme,
Thus haue I taken a part priuily,
Of Apenines mount diuiding Italie:
But like to these affecting euermore,
To speake by some odde foolish Metaphore.
Arma, Virum, what difference twixt them both,
Uirgills beginning, tis a barmie froth,
A grosse-puft stile, like to some bough puld downe
From the greene corke-tree dried in the sunne:
Then in thy iudgement what worth reading is?
What Poeme is most pleasing then? Why this
Of some wise Romane in his Nioblis.
Now they haue fild their writhen vnpleasing hornes,
With the hoarse sound of hissing Mimallones,
Taking away the painted head by this,
From the prowd heifer of priest Bassaris,
And Mœnas wreathing th' ivie which, alone
Makes Linceus still redouble Euion,
And the new Eccho answeres therevpon.
Could these be writ, in vs (Oh how I'm grieu'd)
If any vertue from our fathers liu'd.
This nice effeminate mouing with our hippes,
This slime is euer swimming in our lippes,
Mœnas and Atis euer in our mouth,
Whose wanton speech corrupts both age and youth,
Nor hath it yet a Poems triall biden,
Nor know what meanes a Poets nailes off bitten,
What neede haue we? or what will it auaile's,
Take heede, be not so malapert and bold,
Least that thy Patrons entrance waxen cold,
Denying thee to come within their gates.
Some churlish Porter thy approachment waites,
To beate thee backe, and euer as thou goes,
This dogged letter R sounds through his nose.
I passe not for it, for my part I praise
Your amorous Poems, and your wanton laies:
O! all is good, all excellent you write,
These, these my words thou saist againe delight:
I do forbid now that there should be one,
Twixt thee and me to make dissention.
Paint here two Saints, say, children pisse without,
This place is holy sanctifide about.
I straight depart. But Lucils libertie
Did lash and scourge the best of Italie.
Blunting his teeth gainst thee Rutilius,
VVhetting them sharpe for wilful Mutius,
Slie subtile Horace taxed euerie sinne,
Vnto Mecœnas, once admitted in,
Twixtiest and earnest witt'ly would forbid,
More secret vices in the heart-strings hid.
And craftily keepe the longing Audience,
With a gratious gesture euer in suspence.
And was it lawfull they their minds should vtter,
And such a hainous thing for me to mutter
My halfe spoke word? nor spake them priuilie,
Nor in a reede like Midaes familie:
Yet in my booke ile whisper secretly,
O little booke, I haue seene openly,
But now adorn'd is with long asses eares?
This in my booke I insert couertly,
Yet would not change my smiling Poesie
For Labeos Illiads. Who delighted is,
To reade bold Cratine, or crabd Eupolis:
Vntill with old age he waxe bleakish wan,
Reade or'e my Satyres, if by chance he can,
Some hidden knowledge find, the reauer than,
With feruent zeale my Satyres all will heare,
And reade me or'e with a prepared eare.
But such a reader, such a tinckring slaue,
For to peruse my lines I do not craue,
VVhose dunghill Muse delights to looke so low,
As cauell at a Grecians crooked shooe,
Or that can say vnto the blinde: thou'rt blind,
One which all faults in outward parts doth find.
Thinking himselfe one of authoritie,
Raisde to renowne perhaps and dignitie,
By bearing office late in Italie.
Because the false measures he hath broken,
Of Aretus.
Nor craue I him who takes his cheefe delight,
Numbers and figures in a boord to write,
Or in the dust, as our Astromoners,
Reioycing much if from Philosophers,
Some shamelesse whore do pull away the beard.
But vnto these, (when th' officers they haue heard,
And Dinner ends, in lustfull sort to liue)
The Curtizan Callirrhoe I giue.
The first Satyre of Iuuenall.
Still shall I then an hearer only bee,
And ne're put forth my hidden poesie?
With the bigge Theseods so often cumbred
Of whuling Codrus, and vnpunished:
Shall one recite alow'd his histories
To me, another his sadde Elegies?
Huge Telephus, ought he t'haue spent the day
Scotfree, or on a ful-writ Margent stay?
Of all the booke with audience euer tended,
Orestes, not as yet behind him ended.
And ne're put forth my hidden poesie?
With the bigge Theseods so often cumbred
Of whuling Codrus, and vnpunished:
Shall one recite alow'd his histories
To me, another his sadde Elegies?
Huge Telephus, ought he t'haue spent the day
Scotfree, or on a ful-writ Margent stay?
Of all the booke with audience euer tended,
Orestes, not as yet behind him ended.
Venus (to whome it is daungerous denying any reasonable request) hearing glowming Inuenall threaten so great a punishment, entreates my Muse, that for a while she would leaue him in his English tongue vnperfect yet to Venus she makes a vow, that Iuuenal, Horace, and Persius shall hereafter all be translated.
Loues Queene faire Venus all this while attended,
Wishing they would their criticke stile haue ended:
Hearing them thus maligne, snarle, raile, and bite,
Spewing the rancor of their enuious spight:
Her Godhead being most of all abused,
All possible meanes she for reuengement vsed:
Abhorring more their spightfull action,
That they exposde her to detraction:
Because she sau'd from Iunoes tyrannie,
Eneas sometimes prince of Italie:
Preseruing then Ascanius his bratte,
By sea and land from her malignant hate:
Thus much by much entreatie she obtainde:
Or by her owne powre she thus much then gainde,
I know not whether, that (for Satyres spight)
Italians should in fond loues take delight.
In stranger sinnes, sinnes which she was ashamed,
Among th' Italians rightly should be named.
Sinnes, scarlet sinnes, sinnes who delights to vse,
In other regions, thus we him abuse
(For through the world her wrath's inueterate)
In odious termes, Yon's one Italionate:
And (to be breefe) that lustfull venerie,
Should be the downfall of all Italie:
This is the cause Italians to this day,
Are euer readie, apt, and prone that way.
Not hauing fully quencht the flaming fire
Of vengeance, with th' Italians. Now in ire
She mounts her Charriot swifter then the wind,
Or subtile comprehension of the mind.
Which by two nimble Cocksparrowes was drawne,
Caparisond but lightly, with the lawne
Tooke from the Flowerdeluces inner skin,
Trapt and embost with marigolds: within
Sits Uenus naked, holding in her hand,
A tumbling shel-fish, with a mirtle wand,
Wearing a garland on her wimpled head,
Compacted of the white rose and the red:
None but the blinde boy Cupid durst approach,
For to be whurried with her in the coach.
The snow-white Graces running by their sides,
Were through the heauens their waggoners and guides,
Lashing the sparrowes vnder quiuering wings,
With whips of twisted gold, and siluer strings:
A Beuie of white Doues still flickering ouer,
From the Sunnes sight such beautie seemde to couer.
And thus she rode in triumph in her throne,
Whose radiant lustre like the Sunne beames shone.
Darting her raies into the heauens aboue,
As halfe dismaide the maiestie of Ioue:
All heauens beautie seemed farre the lesse,
Her naked beautie striuing to suppresse:
And shrunke aside, not daring once come nie her,
Iealouse of Ioue, least he by chance should spie her:
Knowing he would their glorious beautie scorne,
When one more faire appeared him beforne.
The presence alway of the greater light,
Doth make the lesser shine not halfe so bright.
Take heede faire Ladies, standing in the place
With one more faire, you lose your former grace.
Her iourney tended to our English clime.
And here she houered, and remaind a time.
Hearing before the Satyres enmitie,
Gainst her proceedings and her deitie,
Vsing all mischiefe gainst her enemies,
Thrusting her selfe in baudy elegies,
Polluting with her damned luxury,
All eares which vowd were vnto chastity,
And euermore thus on fel mischiefe bent,
Vntil she found (she neuer was content:)
Some of her Saints (belike) who euery day,
Vnto her shrine their orizons did say:
Which fore she askt, this boone to her was giuing.
That all the Satyres then in England liuing
Should sacrifisde be in the burning fire,
To pacifie so great a goddesse ire,
And from their Cyndars should a Satyre rise,
Which their Satyricke snarling should despise.
All which perform'd, she left our English shore,
Neuer I hope to trouble vs any more.
If trauailers this yeare of Iubilie,
Bring her not o're againe from Italie:
VVhich if they do, no sooner see her floate,
But Satyres pinch her spangled Petticoate:
You know her malice plainely, as you see
Your true discent, and lineall Pedigree.
Wishing they would their criticke stile haue ended:
Hearing them thus maligne, snarle, raile, and bite,
Spewing the rancor of their enuious spight:
Her Godhead being most of all abused,
All possible meanes she for reuengement vsed:
Abhorring more their spightfull action,
That they exposde her to detraction:
Because she sau'd from Iunoes tyrannie,
Eneas sometimes prince of Italie:
Preseruing then Ascanius his bratte,
By sea and land from her malignant hate:
Thus much by much entreatie she obtainde:
Or by her owne powre she thus much then gainde,
I know not whether, that (for Satyres spight)
Italians should in fond loues take delight.
In stranger sinnes, sinnes which she was ashamed,
Among th' Italians rightly should be named.
Sinnes, scarlet sinnes, sinnes who delights to vse,
In other regions, thus we him abuse
(For through the world her wrath's inueterate)
In odious termes, Yon's one Italionate:
And (to be breefe) that lustfull venerie,
Should be the downfall of all Italie:
This is the cause Italians to this day,
Are euer readie, apt, and prone that way.
Not hauing fully quencht the flaming fire
Of vengeance, with th' Italians. Now in ire
She mounts her Charriot swifter then the wind,
Or subtile comprehension of the mind.
Caparisond but lightly, with the lawne
Tooke from the Flowerdeluces inner skin,
Trapt and embost with marigolds: within
Sits Uenus naked, holding in her hand,
A tumbling shel-fish, with a mirtle wand,
Wearing a garland on her wimpled head,
Compacted of the white rose and the red:
None but the blinde boy Cupid durst approach,
For to be whurried with her in the coach.
The snow-white Graces running by their sides,
Were through the heauens their waggoners and guides,
Lashing the sparrowes vnder quiuering wings,
With whips of twisted gold, and siluer strings:
A Beuie of white Doues still flickering ouer,
From the Sunnes sight such beautie seemde to couer.
And thus she rode in triumph in her throne,
Whose radiant lustre like the Sunne beames shone.
Darting her raies into the heauens aboue,
As halfe dismaide the maiestie of Ioue:
All heauens beautie seemed farre the lesse,
Her naked beautie striuing to suppresse:
And shrunke aside, not daring once come nie her,
Iealouse of Ioue, least he by chance should spie her:
Knowing he would their glorious beautie scorne,
When one more faire appeared him beforne.
The presence alway of the greater light,
Doth make the lesser shine not halfe so bright.
Take heede faire Ladies, standing in the place
With one more faire, you lose your former grace.
And here she houered, and remaind a time.
Hearing before the Satyres enmitie,
Gainst her proceedings and her deitie,
Vsing all mischiefe gainst her enemies,
Thrusting her selfe in baudy elegies,
Polluting with her damned luxury,
All eares which vowd were vnto chastity,
And euermore thus on fel mischiefe bent,
Vntil she found (she neuer was content:)
Some of her Saints (belike) who euery day,
Vnto her shrine their orizons did say:
Which fore she askt, this boone to her was giuing.
That all the Satyres then in England liuing
Should sacrifisde be in the burning fire,
To pacifie so great a goddesse ire,
And from their Cyndars should a Satyre rise,
Which their Satyricke snarling should despise.
All which perform'd, she left our English shore,
Neuer I hope to trouble vs any more.
If trauailers this yeare of Iubilie,
Bring her not o're againe from Italie:
VVhich if they do, no sooner see her floate,
But Satyres pinch her spangled Petticoate:
You know her malice plainely, as you see
Your true discent, and lineall Pedigree.
FINIS.
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