A Medicinable Morall that is, the two Bookes of Horace his Satyres, Englyshed accordyng to the prescription of saint Hierome. The Wailynges of the Prophet Hieremiah, done into Englyshe verse. Also Epigrammes. T. Drant |
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The fourth Satyre.
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 | A Medicinable Morall |  |
The fourth Satyre.
HE DEFENDETH HIMSELFE, againste those who had reported him to haue ben slaunderouse, sharpe, and corrosiue: He toucheth Lusilius not to condemne his doings, but to haue thē amended. He professeth to speake againste no man, vppon superfluitie or disease of the braine, but vpon a mere francknesse, & libertye of the mynde: specially, he rebuketh them, which will kycke & resiste when they should be cured.
Eupolis, and Cratyne,
And auncients moe, whose interludes,
are sauste, with sayinges fyne,
If any person were mislyude,
in thefte, or leachers lore,
Or were a roisting quareller,
they woulde display him sore,
Hence, Lusill boroud all his vaine,
those presidents, he tooke
The matter sharpe, the feete, but chaungde,
the forme, full sleke, did looke.
In deed, the sence was too to tarte,
within an howers space,
Two hundreth verses he woulde make,
thoughte he, a gifte of grace.
And woulde not moue his foote withall,
But, huddle he would roule,
To halfe, mighte wellbene scummed of
an ydle chatting soule.
A milke sop long to pen a woorke,
much more to pen it well,
The lengthe is not materiall,
the scapes he muste expell.
with finger, doth me call,
And darreins combats, if I dare,
should Crispine me appall?
Nay, thers my gloue, geue velom here,
geue iudges tyme and place,
Lets see which one can more indyte,
and with a better grace.
Well haue the godds appointed me,
of no corragious witte,
And speakynge seelde that I ne shoulde,
confounde the foule with it.
But thou (syr Crispine) in thy mynde,
assembles fansyes ofte,
As bellowes sup and beltch out wyndes,
to make the yron softe.
O learne not so to puffe and blowe,
saincte Fannie followe well,
That thou bestowde in surlye tombe
thy statues here may dwel
As for my workes obliuion.
will raze them out of minde:
A fewe or none that will, or dare,
behoulde them can I fynde.
Wote you not why? corrosyue style,
is corsey to the eye.
They dreame a thing that blamed here,
their counterfette should lye.
They dreame a truth for fynde me one,
amongste the sonnes of men:
But loue of goods, or loue of rule,
doth fonde him now and then.
Sum, lyue catesnd in cupids chaines,
and sum loue blasinge golde,
And sum a sum of syluer whyte,
or curraunte metall woulde.
and sore vpon the Seas:
Toste and retoste, (lyke wherlywynde duste)
ekynge theyr owne disease,
For mainteynaunce, of gotten stocke,
or els to make it more.
All these do stande in awe, of rymes,
and hate the Poets sore.
The Poets proyne, beware (say they)
that they may ieste their fill,
They spare no speache, they spare no frende
fooles lauishe, and to ill.
And if their toyes, in letters lymde
be printed once in booke:
Then all the worlde muste take the vewe
and all sortes on them looke,
If this be true: then harke againe,
I am no Poet, I.
No Poet, such as is discryude,
am not I so? and why?
Not he a Poet, that can make
an haltinge hudlynge verse:
Nor he in paltrye daylie talke
that can his tale reherse.
Him Poet dub, whose wit is sharpe,
whose mynd doth mounte on hye
Whose throat is shyrle in trumpet wyse,
to coutche mennes acts in skye.
Therfore demaunde hath once bene made,
if comedies myghte be
A poecye, sythence in them
the spirit puffes not free.
No gorgiouse sounde in worde or sence,
saue that in verse it runs:
From prose in differs but by foote,
but (lo) the father burns
on wantons madded is,
And leaues a spouse of noble dowre
this breedes a tempeste, this.
And that with torche in twylightinge
he treades the romye streets.
How say you haue not comedies
theyr vigors, and their spreets.
Olde Pomponie, if he had lyude,
what stirre now woulde he keepe,
(Thinge comicall because his sonne,
is drente in debte so deepe?
And what thoughe father Pomponie,
should grate his gaule in twaine,
Affection makes no poecye,
but lustye, loftye vayne.
Its not inough to pen a verse,
in vernishde wordes and pure,
Eche worde alone, muste haue his sounde,
and seme not to demure.
Those simple wordes, playmakers vse,
those vse Lusille and I.
So nyse, so neate, so numberouse,
that alls not worthe a flye.
Disorder but the glydinge gate,
the wordes appeareth tame,
No glose there is of maiestie,
not such as in this same.
Foule moodie Mars broke brasen bars,
bare boulstred boulwarkes backe.
These wordes transposde, yet eche one hath
of Poesye a smacke:
And thus much now an other tyme
if rymes allowde may be.
But now, why shoulde this kynde of style,
be so suspecte in me.
and vse to woorke much woe,
Accusynge and molestyng men,
wheresoeuer they do goe.
Feared, and muche addrad of theues,
and losels loose of lyfe,
Not fearde, of those that pilfer not,
nor broche no brabling stryfe
Admit, thou warte a naughtie packe,
as dyuers other be,
I am not one that doth promote,
why arte thou frayde of me?
My verses geue no gase from walls,
ne yet in tauernes flye,
Not Tygille nor such alecunners
my woorkes do ouerprye.
I shew them but to veray frendes,
and at their greate requeste:
Not to eche hobb, nor euery where.
sum be that thincke it beste,
Their quaynte deuyses to proclame,
in market fayre, and marte:
To reade them graue, & sounde them braue,
and to vnfoulde their arte.
Such pleasure, haue pryde practisers,
who do it not to mende,
Nor learne a decencie in thinges,
for no such honest ende.
A malliperte, a merchaunte I
of mallyce (thou wilte say)
I vse this talke: whence issude this,
gainste me that thou doste lay?
Or which of my companions
hath this instilde to the?
Who pincheth at his frende, not preste,
or if he burdned be.
who scoffes to make men smyle,
Who plyes for to be plausible,
and doth his flowtinge file.
Who can inuente things neuer mente,
who nothynge can conceale:
Such one is naughtes, beware of him,
and naughte to him reueale.
Sumtymes, at table thou shalte see,
a dosen more or lesse,
Eche seekynge eche, ortwharte the thums,
with tauntes and tearmes to dresse.
Their hoste they spare, for manner sake,
till Bacchus tyde be vp:
Then out muste all mine hoste, myne hoste
is scande at euery cup.
Rayling thou hates, yet doste thou coumpte
raylers but mery men,
Good felowes, francke and free of speache,
If I haue iested then,
A Rufills taste, Gorgonies smell,
(two paragons of pryde)
I am no freatinge ghoste therfore,
nor slaundrouse: all things tryde.
If chaunce we talke of Petills pranckes
how he from tower stole,
A massye peece of bullion golde,
(to twyne thy tale in hole)
Thou shapes it thus: (as is thy trade)
Petille I know him well,
I haue sum cause, to speake for him,
for he and I did dwell
Of childerne little, in one house,
my fellow and my frende,
Much hath he done, for me at tymes,
I founde him euer kynde.
rub out this trespasse so.
(Lo) here a craftye postles parte,
loe here a Logille lo
Ha, false malignaunte wreaking minde,
this vyce I do expell,
As cancre freate, from hearte and booke,
moste true it is I tell,
For certaintie I lyke it not,
then lycence me the more,
To gesse aloufe, not hard to scratche
but clawe about the sore.
My father, he did vsuallie,
dehorte me from this sin,
By manifolde examples, which,
through talke, he woulde bringe in.
Still warning me not to ingrate,
nor seeke not much to lyue
But thryftylie contentedly
enioye that he would geue.
Maiste thou not see younge Albie now
how he is cumde to naughte,
Backbyting Bar most beggerlike?
Ingrayle them in thy thoughte.
Two presidents, that thou ne shouldste,
thy fathers good mispende,
But when he woulde dehorte from loue,
his talke was to this ende.
Dissemblable to Sectans sorte,
no brothelmonger be,
Kepe wedlocke chaste, let Trebons name,
be warninge vnto thee.
The wyse men with their moralls sage,
by reason coulde the guide,
Suffyseth me that I can geue,
such counsayle as I tryde.
for teacher haste thou none,
When groweth, and yeares shall make the man,
youthes shipwracke, will be gone.
Thus woulde he turne my plyant youth,
and what he wilde in worde,
For patterne, he woulde bid me marke,
the lyfe of sum good Lorde.
So, if he woulde inhibit me,
this is no godly deede
My sonne (sayth he): and here vppon,
sum foule reporte will breede.
For euen like, as when neighbours dye,
the sickmans chaunging luste,
For feare doth stay, and is contente,
to cum to dyet iuste:
So skillesse youth to see defame,
of others, may take heede,
And slip not into vyces snare,
nor listen to her reede.
Hereby I stayed my tempting age,
and did no haynouse sin
In easye crymes, and veniall
I haue bene trapped in.
And these, (no doubte) wil wayne awaye
and ebb as they did ryse,
By helpe of yeares, by frendes reproofe,
and by myne owne aduyce.
As I lye in my bed sumtymes,
on matters thus I muse,
Thrifte, would do thus, righte doth diswade,
that I shoulde thus me vse.
Thus coulde I make my chearfull frendes:
this was a foolishe parte:
Was I so fondlye ouerseene?
a foole sone flings his darte
Ere whyle at cardes I play,
(A faulte, amongste the meaner faultes)
forgeue me. Thou saieste nay.
Then Poets all, preas on, preas on
helpe at a pinche: no dreede,
We be so ryotouse a route,
who sayes but we shall speede?
As Iewes do measure all by myghte,
that none dare them forsake:
So we by number will men force.
in league with vs to take.
| A Medicinable Morall | |