The Times' Whistle Or A Newe Daunce of Seuen Satires, and other Poems: Compiled by R. C., Gent. [i.e. Richard Corbett]. Now First Edited from Ms. Y. 8. 3. in the Library of Canterbury Cathedral: With introduction, notes, and glossary, By J. M. Cowper |
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Sat[ira] 7. [AGAINST THE PASSIONS OF THE MIND.] |
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Sat[ira] 7. [AGAINST THE PASSIONS OF THE MIND.]
Argumentum.
Reginam mentis rationem, serva rebellisPassio devincit, calce tyranna premit,
Dum gerit immodicos (victa ratione) trivmphos,
Incautos homines, ad mala damna rapit.
God gave to man a reasonable soule,
That he might govern vnder his controle
All other creatures in the world beside,
Yet man wantes reason how himselfe to guide.
Reason, the soules queen, whose imperious sway
Should rule the microcosme of man, & stay
By her wise governing authority
Each insolent affections tyranny,
Is through much, too much, sufferaunce become
Slave to her subiect, who vsurps her roome.
Ambitiously aspiring passion,
Ever delighting in rebellion,
Collects her forces, meets her prince i' th' field,
Subdues her power in conflict, make[s] her yeild.
And now the tyrannesse beares all the stroke,
Clogging her suffering neck with servile yoke,
And proud insulting in her victorie,
Trivmphs o're mans base imbecillity.
Thus his owne servant, every base affection,
Keeps him in slavish t[h]raldome & subjection.
By love or hatred, by ioy, griefe, or feare,
Desire, boldenesse, anger, hope, dispaire,
Man is enthrald, & doth submitt his will
Their tyrannies & pleasures to fulfill.
That he might govern vnder his controle
All other creatures in the world beside,
Yet man wantes reason how himselfe to guide.
Reason, the soules queen, whose imperious sway
Should rule the microcosme of man, & stay
By her wise governing authority
Each insolent affections tyranny,
Is through much, too much, sufferaunce become
Slave to her subiect, who vsurps her roome.
Ambitiously aspiring passion,
Ever delighting in rebellion,
Collects her forces, meets her prince i' th' field,
Subdues her power in conflict, make[s] her yeild.
And now the tyrannesse beares all the stroke,
Clogging her suffering neck with servile yoke,
And proud insulting in her victorie,
Trivmphs o're mans base imbecillity.
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Keeps him in slavish t[h]raldome & subjection.
By love or hatred, by ioy, griefe, or feare,
Desire, boldenesse, anger, hope, dispaire,
Man is enthrald, & doth submitt his will
Their tyrannies & pleasures to fulfill.
The Amoretto, pearc'd with Cupides stroke,
Must straight submitt his neck vnto the yoke
Of peevish love. Either his mistrisse haire,
Or else her forehead is beyond compare;
Her eyes are starres, & her cheekes roses be,
Her lips pure rubies, her teeth ivorie,
Her breath perfume, her voice sweet harmonie
Passing Threician Orpheus melody;
The path between her brestes a whiter way
Then that celestiall via lactea;
Her veines pure azure, or what colour 's best,
Her skin sleek sattin or the cygnettes brest;
A Venus in whom all good partes doe hitt,
More then a second Pallas in her witt;
In stately pace and dazeling maiestie,
Another Iuno; in pure chastety
Spotlesse Diana. Thus is all her feature
Beyond the fashion of a humane creature.
Then what “ay mees!” what crossing of his armes,
What sighs, what teares, what love-compelling charmes
He vseth, would enforce a sicke man smile!
Yet all the paines he takes is to beguile
His sillie soule; for having once enioyed
The thing, for which he erst was soe anoyde,
The tide is turnd, the saint doth seem a devill,
And he repentes that soule-bewitching evill
Which once his fancy as a good adorde;—
His mistresse love, I mean, is now abhorde.
Must straight submitt his neck vnto the yoke
Of peevish love. Either his mistrisse haire,
Or else her forehead is beyond compare;
Her eyes are starres, & her cheekes roses be,
Her lips pure rubies, her teeth ivorie,
Her breath perfume, her voice sweet harmonie
Passing Threician Orpheus melody;
The path between her brestes a whiter way
Then that celestiall via lactea;
Her veines pure azure, or what colour 's best,
Her skin sleek sattin or the cygnettes brest;
A Venus in whom all good partes doe hitt,
More then a second Pallas in her witt;
In stately pace and dazeling maiestie,
Another Iuno; in pure chastety
Spotlesse Diana. Thus is all her feature
Beyond the fashion of a humane creature.
Then what “ay mees!” what crossing of his armes,
What sighs, what teares, what love-compelling charmes
He vseth, would enforce a sicke man smile!
Yet all the paines he takes is to beguile
His sillie soule; for having once enioyed
The thing, for which he erst was soe anoyde,
The tide is turnd, the saint doth seem a devill,
And he repentes that soule-bewitching evill
Which once his fancy as a good adorde;—
His mistresse love, I mean, is now abhorde.
Anothers minde by hate distempered is,
Malicing whom in shew he seemes to kisse.
This base affection causeth dismall strife,
Despoileth honour, & destroyeth life.
Yet in these dayes 'tis counted pollicie
To vse dissimulation; villanie
Masqu'd vnder friendships title (worst of hate)
Makes a man liue secure & fortunate.
These Machiavillians are the men alone
That thrive i' th' world, & gett promotion.
Athenian Timon, in his hatefull moode,
Was ne're soe bad as some of this damnde broode,
This brood of Caines, these dissembling knaves,
These mankinde-haters, bloody minded slaves,
Which all the world with horrid murders fill,
Laughing one those whom they intend to kill.
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This base affection causeth dismall strife,
Despoileth honour, & destroyeth life.
Yet in these dayes 'tis counted pollicie
To vse dissimulation; villanie
Masqu'd vnder friendships title (worst of hate)
Makes a man liue secure & fortunate.
These Machiavillians are the men alone
That thrive i' th' world, & gett promotion.
Athenian Timon, in his hatefull moode,
Was ne're soe bad as some of this damnde broode,
This brood of Caines, these dissembling knaves,
These mankinde-haters, bloody minded slaves,
Which all the world with horrid murders fill,
Laughing one those whom they intend to kill.
A third ther is, which gaining some vaine toy,
Is overwhelmèd through excessive ioy.
The husbandman, if that his crops proove well,
Hath his heart fild with joy 'cause his barnes swell;
The marchant, if his gaines doe safe come in,
Is with ioy ready to leape out on 's skinne;
The vehemency of this passion 's such,
Many have died by joying overmuch.
Another, shuning comfort & reliefe,
Suffers himselfe to be subchargde with griefe,
And soe this passion doth his reason blinde
That it begettes a frenzie in his minde.
Another, if that fear doe him assaile,
Doth suffer that affection to prevaile,
And doth bring him [in]to such franticke fittes,
As you would judge him to be out on 's wittes.
Each bush doth fright him, & each flying bird,
Yea his owne shadowe maketh him afeard.
Is overwhelmèd through excessive ioy.
The husbandman, if that his crops proove well,
Hath his heart fild with joy 'cause his barnes swell;
The marchant, if his gaines doe safe come in,
Is with ioy ready to leape out on 's skinne;
The vehemency of this passion 's such,
Many have died by joying overmuch.
Another, shuning comfort & reliefe,
Suffers himselfe to be subchargde with griefe,
And soe this passion doth his reason blinde
That it begettes a frenzie in his minde.
Another, if that fear doe him assaile,
Doth suffer that affection to prevaile,
And doth bring him [in]to such franticke fittes,
As you would judge him to be out on 's wittes.
Each bush doth fright him, & each flying bird,
Yea his owne shadowe maketh him afeard.
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Desire in others sheweth forth his mighte,
Making them follow brutish appetite.
Desire of honour fires th' ambitious minde;
Desire of wealth the covetous doth blinde;
The lecher cannot lustfull thoughtes withstand:
Reason 's controlde by passions that commaund.
Another, rash & indiscreetly bolde,
Hazardes himselfe in dangers manifolde,
Yet thinks himselfe (mislead by his temerity)
To vse true valour & dexterity;
When folly his companion is assignde,
For “who soe bolde as bayard that is blynde?
With rashnesse is conioynèd impudence,
With which my Muse in noe case can dispence.
His talke is bawdry, he doth rather choose
His soule then a prophane conceite to loose.
Making them follow brutish appetite.
Desire of honour fires th' ambitious minde;
Desire of wealth the covetous doth blinde;
The lecher cannot lustfull thoughtes withstand:
Reason 's controlde by passions that commaund.
Another, rash & indiscreetly bolde,
Hazardes himselfe in dangers manifolde,
Yet thinks himselfe (mislead by his temerity)
To vse true valour & dexterity;
When folly his companion is assignde,
For “who soe bolde as bayard that is blynde?
With rashnesse is conioynèd impudence,
With which my Muse in noe case can dispence.
His talke is bawdry, he doth rather choose
His soule then a prophane conceite to loose.
Mischiefe-procurer anger rules another,
That knowes not friend from foe; stranger or brother,
All 's one to him; for in his bedlem fitt,
Which quite deprives him of his litle witt,
He cares not whom he strikes, or what vile wordes
That cutt like razors, or sharp edgèd swordes,
Flie from his hasty tongue. This passion swaies
And rules over too many now adayes,
For each vaine toy stirreth vp man to furie,
When he in patience greatest wrongs should burie.
That knowes not friend from foe; stranger or brother,
All 's one to him; for in his bedlem fitt,
Which quite deprives him of his litle witt,
He cares not whom he strikes, or what vile wordes
That cutt like razors, or sharp edgèd swordes,
Flie from his hasty tongue. This passion swaies
And rules over too many now adayes,
For each vaine toy stirreth vp man to furie,
When he in patience greatest wrongs should burie.
Hope & affection is that doth least harme
Vnto the soule of man; for it doth arme
With constancy in trouble to endure
The worst of evill that sad fates procure.
It makes the prisoner, bound in gives of steele,
In expectation of release, to feele
Noe torment in his bondage; cures the sicke
Of his diseases; makes the halfe dead quicke.
Yet is this good conioynèd with some evill;
To hope on God is good, but from the devill
To expect healp, as they doe which attend
With expectation of a happy end
To some ill act, is diabolicall,
And not by Christians to be vsde at all.
Vnto the soule of man; for it doth arme
With constancy in trouble to endure
The worst of evill that sad fates procure.
It makes the prisoner, bound in gives of steele,
In expectation of release, to feele
Noe torment in his bondage; cures the sicke
Of his diseases; makes the halfe dead quicke.
Yet is this good conioynèd with some evill;
To hope on God is good, but from the devill
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With expectation of a happy end
To some ill act, is diabolicall,
And not by Christians to be vsde at all.
But when I come to think vpon dispaire
(Which to withstand the rediest meanes is praier)
I muse to think it should soe much bewitch
The minde of man, making the soule (like pitch)
Commit such deeds of darkenesse, such damnd ill,
As with our owne handes our owne lives to spill.
(Which to withstand the rediest meanes is praier)
I muse to think it should soe much bewitch
The minde of man, making the soule (like pitch)
Commit such deeds of darkenesse, such damnd ill,
As with our owne handes our owne lives to spill.
Farre be it from me all passion to exclude
Out of mans soule, my meaning 's not so rude;
For 'tis an axiome not to be withstood,
“He that is void of passion 's voide of good.”
Love of that love deserving Diety,
Which doth produce effectes of charity,
And kindles in mans heart devotion,
Once to extenuate were a sinfull motion
Of a pestiferous braine; noe, I desire
To ad more fewell to that holy fire.
Nor can I but commend of godlie hate,
Detesting sinne, that doth commaculate
The soule of man; this passion 's worth commending,
That hates the offence, yet loves the man offending.
Neither will I restraine the heart from joy
Soe that with moderation we imploy
This passion to good vses; hartes rejoyce,
But let the cause be singuler & choice.
Grief likewise must abounde in every man
That will indeed be a true Christian,
Sorrow the badge of true repentance weares,
Sinne must be purgde by a whole flood of teares.
To filial feare I likewise doe assent,
That 's awd from sinne by love, not punishment.
Salvations hope, celestiall ioyes desire,
Vertuous boldenesse, with religious ire,
Are heavenly passions not to be denide,
But as occasion serves, to be applide
To their true endes. Affectiones of such kinde
Mie Muse disclaimes not; but all such as blinde
The eyes of reason, & doe quite pervert
The soule, mans better intellectuall part,
That keep him from the path of his salvation,
And lead the way which brings vnto damnation,
These, these they be, on which I doe engage
My vexèd Muse to wreck her spleenfull rage.
Out of mans soule, my meaning 's not so rude;
For 'tis an axiome not to be withstood,
“He that is void of passion 's voide of good.”
Love of that love deserving Diety,
Which doth produce effectes of charity,
And kindles in mans heart devotion,
Once to extenuate were a sinfull motion
Of a pestiferous braine; noe, I desire
To ad more fewell to that holy fire.
Nor can I but commend of godlie hate,
Detesting sinne, that doth commaculate
The soule of man; this passion 's worth commending,
That hates the offence, yet loves the man offending.
Neither will I restraine the heart from joy
Soe that with moderation we imploy
This passion to good vses; hartes rejoyce,
But let the cause be singuler & choice.
Grief likewise must abounde in every man
That will indeed be a true Christian,
Sorrow the badge of true repentance weares,
Sinne must be purgde by a whole flood of teares.
To filial feare I likewise doe assent,
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Salvations hope, celestiall ioyes desire,
Vertuous boldenesse, with religious ire,
Are heavenly passions not to be denide,
But as occasion serves, to be applide
To their true endes. Affectiones of such kinde
Mie Muse disclaimes not; but all such as blinde
The eyes of reason, & doe quite pervert
The soule, mans better intellectuall part,
That keep him from the path of his salvation,
And lead the way which brings vnto damnation,
These, these they be, on which I doe engage
My vexèd Muse to wreck her spleenfull rage.
Philautus with his very soule doth love
A wench as faire as Venus milck white dove;
He loves his hunting-horse, his hauke, his hound,
His meat & drink, his morning sleeps profound;
He loves to follow each new-fangled fashion,
He loves to hear men speake his commendation,
He loves his landes, that bring him store of pelfe,
But above all thinges he doth love himselfe.
In all this love noe love of God I finde,
Noe love of goodnesse, but a love confinde
To sensuall delights, to sinne & ease,
A love to others soe himselfe to please.
Thou impious worldling, leave this vaine affection,
Which only on thy selfe hath a reflection;
This sinne relinquish, lest incensèd Iove
Doe iustly plague thy misapplyèd love.
A wench as faire as Venus milck white dove;
He loves his hunting-horse, his hauke, his hound,
His meat & drink, his morning sleeps profound;
He loves to follow each new-fangled fashion,
He loves to hear men speake his commendation,
He loves his landes, that bring him store of pelfe,
But above all thinges he doth love himselfe.
In all this love noe love of God I finde,
Noe love of goodnesse, but a love confinde
To sensuall delights, to sinne & ease,
A love to others soe himselfe to please.
Thou impious worldling, leave this vaine affection,
Which only on thy selfe hath a reflection;
This sinne relinquish, lest incensèd Iove
Doe iustly plague thy misapplyèd love.
I saw (a sight that made me much affraide)
Amorphus kisse his mothers kitchin-maide.
Me thought as both their heades together came,
I saw the devill kissing of his dam:
And yet this foole 's in love with her 'bove measure,
Calls her the mistresse of his ioy & pleasure;
Sweares that faire roses grow vpon her cheekes,
When I'le be sworne 'tis fitter place for leekes;
Saies her sweet breath his amarous fires increase,
When she smelles filthy strong of durt & grease.
“But like to like, the collier & the devill,”
He & his wench; she stammers, he doth drivell;
He squints, & she doth gogle wondrous faire;
His botle-nose is red, soe is her haire;
She hath a crooked backe, he a polte foote;
His face is blacke, & hers begrimd'e with soote;
A loving lovely couple most divine,
Pitty it were that they should not combine.
Amorphus kisse his mothers kitchin-maide.
Me thought as both their heades together came,
I saw the devill kissing of his dam:
And yet this foole 's in love with her 'bove measure,
Calls her the mistresse of his ioy & pleasure;
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When I'le be sworne 'tis fitter place for leekes;
Saies her sweet breath his amarous fires increase,
When she smelles filthy strong of durt & grease.
“But like to like, the collier & the devill,”
He & his wench; she stammers, he doth drivell;
He squints, & she doth gogle wondrous faire;
His botle-nose is red, soe is her haire;
She hath a crooked backe, he a polte foote;
His face is blacke, & hers begrimd'e with soote;
A loving lovely couple most divine,
Pitty it were that they should not combine.
Pamphila is in love with every man
That comes within her sight, & if she can
Will prostitute her body to his will,
And never leave till she her lust fullfill.
That comes within her sight, & if she can
Will prostitute her body to his will,
And never leave till she her lust fullfill.
Stepmother Phœdra woos her husbandes sonne,
Hypolitus, but he with care doth shunne
Her odious lust, loathing a sinne soe vile
As his sires bed with incest to defile;
But still she sues, & still he doth denie,
Till vrgde to farre, he doth her presence flie.
Lust thus by verteous chastetie withstood
Is turnd to hate, & hate thirsts after blood;
And his hartes blood it is this thirst must ease;
Only his death can her fell hate appease.
Hypolitus, but he with care doth shunne
Her odious lust, loathing a sinne soe vile
As his sires bed with incest to defile;
But still she sues, & still he doth denie,
Till vrgde to farre, he doth her presence flie.
Lust thus by verteous chastetie withstood
Is turnd to hate, & hate thirsts after blood;
And his hartes blood it is this thirst must ease;
Only his death can her fell hate appease.
True Machiavillian Cæcilius
With hate doth prosecute Honorius,
Because his vertues did deserve more love,
And he i' th' Court respected was above
His high aspiring selfe. Yet till the end
In outward shew he seemd to be his friend.
But when that Fortune had once turnd her wheele
He was the first that did his furie feele;
For then his rage burst forth, & it is thought
This one mans hate his sad destruction wrought.
With hate doth prosecute Honorius,
Because his vertues did deserve more love,
And he i' th' Court respected was above
His high aspiring selfe. Yet till the end
In outward shew he seemd to be his friend.
But when that Fortune had once turnd her wheele
He was the first that did his furie feele;
For then his rage burst forth, & it is thought
This one mans hate his sad destruction wrought.
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Misotochus (which his hand will sooner lend
To bring his neighbour to vntimely end
Then save his life) hath horded vp his corne,
Ready to burst his garners with the horne
Of his aboundance, & doth hope his seed
Kept from the market will a famine breed;
And therfore will not sell a graine this year,
Nor to sustaine his householde thresh an eare;
But lives one rootes like a Diogenes,
With poor thin drink, & course bread mad[e] of pease.
What though the poore doe want, begge, starve, & dye,
They get from him noe healp in miserie.
Their hunger feeds him fat, he ioyes to see
Their death-procuring sad calamity.
Thou hateful cynick-dog, belov'd of none,
Because none loving, not thy selfe alone!
Inhuman devill! think some fatall hower
Will bring huge troupes of vermine, to devoure
Thy graine & thee; or that from heaven will fall
Consuming fyer & destroy it all.
Looke for some fearfull vengeance to be sent,
Some plague vnheard of, some straunge punnishment;
For such damnd hatred, iust revenging God
Will scourge thy sinne with some vnusuall rodde.
To bring his neighbour to vntimely end
Then save his life) hath horded vp his corne,
Ready to burst his garners with the horne
Of his aboundance, & doth hope his seed
Kept from the market will a famine breed;
And therfore will not sell a graine this year,
Nor to sustaine his householde thresh an eare;
But lives one rootes like a Diogenes,
With poor thin drink, & course bread mad[e] of pease.
What though the poore doe want, begge, starve, & dye,
They get from him noe healp in miserie.
Their hunger feeds him fat, he ioyes to see
Their death-procuring sad calamity.
Thou hateful cynick-dog, belov'd of none,
Because none loving, not thy selfe alone!
Inhuman devill! think some fatall hower
Will bring huge troupes of vermine, to devoure
Thy graine & thee; or that from heaven will fall
Consuming fyer & destroy it all.
Looke for some fearfull vengeance to be sent,
Some plague vnheard of, some straunge punnishment;
For such damnd hatred, iust revenging God
Will scourge thy sinne with some vnusuall rodde.
Nænius hath with much officious labour
Recoverèd his mistrisses lost favour,
For the which act the foole 's soe overioyde
That through excesse therof he is annoide.
When she vouchsafte that he might kiss her hand,
The asse had much adoe on 's feet to stand,
He was soe inly ravisht with delight
Of that rare pleasure: such another fight
Twixt reason & his passion would have sent
A foolish soule to Plutoes regiment.
When Carthaginian Hanniball, that stout
And politicke captaine, which soe often fought
With Roman Consuls in their native soile,
And their best forces many times did foile,
It is recorded by cronologers
And excellent histriographers,
In that vnluckie Cannas overthrowe,
When few or none escapte deaths fatall blowe,
A certaine woman dwelling then at Rome
Heard her two sonnes had their eternall doome;
For which (as nature would) she did lament,
Her eyes (bare witnesse) all with teares besprent.
But the young men scaping by flight their foe
Recover Rome & to their mother goe;
She hearing both alive returnèd were
And bid her former sorrow to forbeare,
Will not beleeve reporte, but trust her eyes,
When sodainly opprest with ioy she dies.
Recoverèd his mistrisses lost favour,
For the which act the foole 's soe overioyde
That through excesse therof he is annoide.
When she vouchsafte that he might kiss her hand,
The asse had much adoe on 's feet to stand,
He was soe inly ravisht with delight
Of that rare pleasure: such another fight
Twixt reason & his passion would have sent
A foolish soule to Plutoes regiment.
When Carthaginian Hanniball, that stout
And politicke captaine, which soe often fought
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And their best forces many times did foile,
It is recorded by cronologers
And excellent histriographers,
In that vnluckie Cannas overthrowe,
When few or none escapte deaths fatall blowe,
A certaine woman dwelling then at Rome
Heard her two sonnes had their eternall doome;
For which (as nature would) she did lament,
Her eyes (bare witnesse) all with teares besprent.
But the young men scaping by flight their foe
Recover Rome & to their mother goe;
She hearing both alive returnèd were
And bid her former sorrow to forbeare,
Will not beleeve reporte, but trust her eyes,
When sodainly opprest with ioy she dies.
Mopsa, they say, o'recome with joy lies dead,
But how? i' th' act of her lost mayden head!
A fearfull end, to die in act of sinne,
And in this death a second death beginne,
A dayly living death, yet dying paine
Which shall in perpetuity remaine.
But how? i' th' act of her lost mayden head!
A fearfull end, to die in act of sinne,
And in this death a second death beginne,
A dayly living death, yet dying paine
Which shall in perpetuity remaine.
Luctantia, cease thy lamentation!
Thou mone'st thy puppies death with greater passion
Then the offences that thou dost committe
'Gainst thy Creatour; which iust ne're a whit
Grieve thy seard conscience; noe remorse for sinne
On[e] tear enforceth, but for every pinne,
For every trifle else, that doth distast
Thy foolish liking, thou dost even wast
Thy selfe in sorrow. Wash thy blubbered eyes,
And cry no more for shame! If thou be wise
See that hence forth thou keep thy fludgates dry,
And weep for nothing but iniquity.
Thou mone'st thy puppies death with greater passion
Then the offences that thou dost committe
'Gainst thy Creatour; which iust ne're a whit
Grieve thy seard conscience; noe remorse for sinne
On[e] tear enforceth, but for every pinne,
For every trifle else, that doth distast
Thy foolish liking, thou dost even wast
Thy selfe in sorrow. Wash thy blubbered eyes,
And cry no more for shame! If thou be wise
See that hence forth thou keep thy fludgates dry,
And weep for nothing but iniquity.
Mutius, why art thou thus opprest with griefe?
Take comfort man, & thou shalt finde reliefe;
Be not dejected, bear a constant minde:
What though the tempest of an [a]dverse winde
Hath blowne thy fortunes downe, ruind thy state?
Wilt thou for this accuse the god of fate,
And yeild to sorrow? Doe not soe; beware,
'Twas mercy in him then thy life to spare.
When he destroide thy goods, had 't been his pleasure
He might have ruinde thee & them together.
But now thy substaunce & thy wealth is lost,
Thou art vndone, & all thy hopes are crost;
Ther is noe meanes to rise: who once doth fall
Is still kept downe, & cannot climbe at all.
Fear not, Antæus more couragious grew,
And by his fall did still his strength renew.
Be thou like him; may be this misery
Was pre-ordainde for thy felicity.
Grieve not at all, ther 's blessing still in store,
And he that tooke thy goodes can give thee more.
Take comfort man, & thou shalt finde reliefe;
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What though the tempest of an [a]dverse winde
Hath blowne thy fortunes downe, ruind thy state?
Wilt thou for this accuse the god of fate,
And yeild to sorrow? Doe not soe; beware,
'Twas mercy in him then thy life to spare.
When he destroide thy goods, had 't been his pleasure
He might have ruinde thee & them together.
But now thy substaunce & thy wealth is lost,
Thou art vndone, & all thy hopes are crost;
Ther is noe meanes to rise: who once doth fall
Is still kept downe, & cannot climbe at all.
Fear not, Antæus more couragious grew,
And by his fall did still his strength renew.
Be thou like him; may be this misery
Was pre-ordainde for thy felicity.
Grieve not at all, ther 's blessing still in store,
And he that tooke thy goodes can give thee more.
Ther 's three ill feares (to one good filiall)
A worldly, servile, & a naturall:
A wordly feare is when some worldly gaine
Makes vs doe evill, or from good abstaine;
When for our proffit, pleasure, & our ease,
We doe not good, but men fear to displease.
There is a worldly fear, a fear to lacke
Things necessary for the maw or backe,
Which hath in nature greater confidence,
Then in Gods all-foreseeing providence.
Naturall fear is a distraction
Of mind & senses, by th' iniection
Of some moste eminent danger; & this passion
Is great where faith doth want his operation.
A servile fear 's a fear of punnishment
Vnto the reprobate coincident,
Whom oftentimes vnto good actes doth drawe,
Not fear of God, but fear of humane lawe.
A worldly, servile, & a naturall:
A wordly feare is when some worldly gaine
Makes vs doe evill, or from good abstaine;
When for our proffit, pleasure, & our ease,
We doe not good, but men fear to displease.
There is a worldly fear, a fear to lacke
Things necessary for the maw or backe,
Which hath in nature greater confidence,
Then in Gods all-foreseeing providence.
Naturall fear is a distraction
Of mind & senses, by th' iniection
Of some moste eminent danger; & this passion
Is great where faith doth want his operation.
A servile fear 's a fear of punnishment
Vnto the reprobate coincident,
Whom oftentimes vnto good actes doth drawe,
Not fear of God, but fear of humane lawe.
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Letia doth fear to play the whore with any,
And yet she loves the sport as well as many
That act the sinne; what hinders her intent?
O she's afraide of shame & punnishment.
Irus is poore, yet feares to play the theefe,
And yet his fingers itch to get reliefe,
“But the burnt childe (we say) doth dread the fire;”—
Hee 's burnt i' th' hand, the next is halters hire.
Romanus keeps his monthly residence
At church, although against his conscience;
He would refraine (because he doth abhor it)
But that he feares to be presented for it.
Bellina, tost in a tempestuous sea,
Fears drowning much, & fear doth make her pray.
And yet her prayers, which doe seeme profounde,
Are but lip-labour & a hollow sound;
For set a shore, vnlesse apparent evill
Affright her much, she fears nor God nor devill.
Phorbus, what makes thee looke soe like a ghoast?
Thy face is pale, thy sences are quite lost,
Thy haire vpon thy head doth stand vpright
As if thou hadst been haunted with a spright.
Why soe thou hast, thou thinkst; what, hast thou soe?
How scapdst thou from him? would he let thee goe?
Sure 'twas a very honest devill, friend,
Wer he hobgoblin, fairie, elve, or fiend.
Thou fearfull idiot! looke, it was a catt,
That frights thee thus, I sawe her wher she satt;
But thou with conscience guilty of much evill
Dost deeme the cat to be a very devill.
Caligula, creepst vnderneath thy bed?
That 's a poore shelter to defend thy head
'Gainst Ioves feard thunderbolte; huge Atlas hill
Cannot preserve thee, when he meanes to kill.
And yet she loves the sport as well as many
That act the sinne; what hinders her intent?
O she's afraide of shame & punnishment.
Irus is poore, yet feares to play the theefe,
And yet his fingers itch to get reliefe,
“But the burnt childe (we say) doth dread the fire;”—
Hee 's burnt i' th' hand, the next is halters hire.
Romanus keeps his monthly residence
At church, although against his conscience;
He would refraine (because he doth abhor it)
But that he feares to be presented for it.
Bellina, tost in a tempestuous sea,
Fears drowning much, & fear doth make her pray.
And yet her prayers, which doe seeme profounde,
Are but lip-labour & a hollow sound;
For set a shore, vnlesse apparent evill
Affright her much, she fears nor God nor devill.
Phorbus, what makes thee looke soe like a ghoast?
Thy face is pale, thy sences are quite lost,
Thy haire vpon thy head doth stand vpright
As if thou hadst been haunted with a spright.
Why soe thou hast, thou thinkst; what, hast thou soe?
How scapdst thou from him? would he let thee goe?
Sure 'twas a very honest devill, friend,
Wer he hobgoblin, fairie, elve, or fiend.
Thou fearfull idiot! looke, it was a catt,
That frights thee thus, I sawe her wher she satt;
But thou with conscience guilty of much evill
Dost deeme the cat to be a very devill.
Caligula, creepst vnderneath thy bed?
That 's a poore shelter to defend thy head
'Gainst Ioves feard thunderbolte; huge Atlas hill
Cannot preserve thee, when he meanes to kill.
Votarius wisheth for a great estate,
And saith the poore should then participate
Of all his blessings; yet doth nothing give
Although he be exceeding well to live,
And might healp others, till his substaunce grew;
But the olde proverbe is exceeding true,
“That these great wishers, & these common woulders,
Are never (for the moste part) good householders.”
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Of all his blessings; yet doth nothing give
Although he be exceeding well to live,
And might healp others, till his substaunce grew;
But the olde proverbe is exceeding true,
“That these great wishers, & these common woulders,
Are never (for the moste part) good householders.”
Timophila her part of heaven would sell
To be a ladie, she so much doth swell
With this ambitious longing, to be cald
Madam at every word; to be enstalde
In such a chaire of state, were heaven it selfe.
Ambitious woman, high aspiring elfe!
All thy desires are wicked, thou vnblest,
Vnlesse Godes Spirit, working in thy brest,
Change thy desire from vaine & earthly toies
To covet truely after heavenly ioyes.
To be a ladie, she so much doth swell
With this ambitious longing, to be cald
Madam at every word; to be enstalde
In such a chaire of state, were heaven it selfe.
Ambitious woman, high aspiring elfe!
All thy desires are wicked, thou vnblest,
Vnlesse Godes Spirit, working in thy brest,
Change thy desire from vaine & earthly toies
To covet truely after heavenly ioyes.
Chremes is troubled with the greedy minde
Of golde-desiring Midas; he doth finde
Noe comfort but in gaping after gaine.
Would to his wish awarded were the paine
That Midas felt; who, thirsting after golde,
Wishd that what e're he touchd might change the mould
Into that purer mettall. Phœbus graunt
Comfirmd the misers wish, but soone did daunt
The wretches minde; for all the foode he tooke
To comfort nature, cleane his forme forsooke
And turnd to golde. The asse had surely starvde
Had not Apolloes power his life preservde
By taking of his wish. May the intent
Of Chremes meet with the like punnishment;
Or, since that Midas greedy minde he beares,
May he with Midas wear the asses eares.
Of golde-desiring Midas; he doth finde
Noe comfort but in gaping after gaine.
Would to his wish awarded were the paine
That Midas felt; who, thirsting after golde,
Wishd that what e're he touchd might change the mould
Into that purer mettall. Phœbus graunt
Comfirmd the misers wish, but soone did daunt
The wretches minde; for all the foode he tooke
To comfort nature, cleane his forme forsooke
And turnd to golde. The asse had surely starvde
Had not Apolloes power his life preservde
By taking of his wish. May the intent
Of Chremes meet with the like punnishment;
Or, since that Midas greedy minde he beares,
May he with Midas wear the asses eares.
Dame Polupragma, gossip Title-tatle,
Suffers her tongue, let loose at randome, pratle
Of all occurrentes; comes to publike feastes
Without invitement, 'mongst the worthiest guestes
Takes vp her roome at table, where, more bolde
Then truely welcome, she discourse will holde
Of state affaires, talke of divinity
As moves the hearers to deride her folly,
But grieves me to the heart, that thinges soe holy,
Things which in greatest estimation stand,
Should by her foolish lips be soe prophande.
But Betterice let me thee this lesson teach,
To leave those thinges that are above thy reach.
Suffers her tongue, let loose at randome, pratle
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Without invitement, 'mongst the worthiest guestes
Takes vp her roome at table, where, more bolde
Then truely welcome, she discourse will holde
Of state affaires, talke of divinity
As moves the hearers to deride her folly,
But grieves me to the heart, that thinges soe holy,
Things which in greatest estimation stand,
Should by her foolish lips be soe prophande.
But Betterice let me thee this lesson teach,
To leave those thinges that are above thy reach.
Temerus, which i' th' warre had borne a launce,
Vpon some great exploite would needes advaunce
His high attempting minde, & doe some act,
To make the world applaud his worthy fact.
Then (ne're regarding what might him befall)
He takes in hand to kill the generall
Of the foes armie; but his vaine intent
Met with as ill successe; care did prevent
His desperate boldenesse, ere he could come nigh
His wishèd end; for, taken for a spie,
And brought to th' racke, torture did him compell
The truth of his straunge stratagem to tell;
For which the wretch in horrid torment lies,
Being iustly plagu'de for his rash enterprise.
Vpon some great exploite would needes advaunce
His high attempting minde, & doe some act,
To make the world applaud his worthy fact.
Then (ne're regarding what might him befall)
He takes in hand to kill the generall
Of the foes armie; but his vaine intent
Met with as ill successe; care did prevent
His desperate boldenesse, ere he could come nigh
His wishèd end; for, taken for a spie,
And brought to th' racke, torture did him compell
The truth of his straunge stratagem to tell;
For which the wretch in horrid torment lies,
Being iustly plagu'de for his rash enterprise.
Anaidus, art soe clean devoide of grace?
Hast thou soe impudent a brasen face,
Not only to act sinne with greedinesse,
But to make boast of thy damnde wickednesse?
Was 't not enough with wordes to have beguild
Thy mothers maide & gotten her with childe,
But that thou must most shamefully beginne
To make a iest of this thy hellish sinne
'Mongst thy companions? Thou perhaps dost think,
Because thy law-perverting cursèd chink
Hath freed thee from the standing in a sheet
(A punnishment for thy offence moste meet)
That there remaines noe more? Yes, ymp of hell,
There is a Iudge which in the heavens doth dwell,
An vncorrupted Iudge, that will award
Damnation for thy sinne, vnlesse regard
Of that vnhappy state wherin thou art,
Softning (I fear) thy vnrelenting heart,
Shew thee thy soules deformity, & in
Repentaunce fountaine make thee purge thy sinne.
Hast thou soe impudent a brasen face,
Not only to act sinne with greedinesse,
But to make boast of thy damnde wickednesse?
Was 't not enough with wordes to have beguild
Thy mothers maide & gotten her with childe,
But that thou must most shamefully beginne
To make a iest of this thy hellish sinne
'Mongst thy companions? Thou perhaps dost think,
Because thy law-perverting cursèd chink
Hath freed thee from the standing in a sheet
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That there remaines noe more? Yes, ymp of hell,
There is a Iudge which in the heavens doth dwell,
An vncorrupted Iudge, that will award
Damnation for thy sinne, vnlesse regard
Of that vnhappy state wherin thou art,
Softning (I fear) thy vnrelenting heart,
Shew thee thy soules deformity, & in
Repentaunce fountaine make thee purge thy sinne.
Looke vpon Adrus in his furious ire!
He seemes to burne like some red cole of fire;
How his eyes flame! how his limbs shake with rage!
How his voice thunders, as he ment to wage
Warre against heaven! Surely the cause is great
That makes him in this sort himselfe forget;
It cannot but be matter of much consequence,
That moves the man to this impatience?
Faith no, you are deceivde; the cause was smale,
A better man then he would put vp all,
Were the disgrace more hainous, which is none
But that his cholericke humour makes it one.
This asse (which for the wagging of a straw
His dagger vpon any man will drawe)
Walking i' th' street, was iustled from the wall
Downe almost to the channell; this is all
That puttes him in this fume! Would you surmise,
A man that hath the vse of reasons eyes
To guide himselfe, should for a cause soe light,
Soe smale a matter, be in such a plight?
Ready to frett himselfe to death, to sweare,
To curse, & banne, as if [he] meant to teare
The earth in sunder, only for this end,
Because he knowes not vpon whom to bend
The furie of his rage! Thou irefull foole!
Vse henceforth to frequent the learned schoole
Of sacred vertue, which will thee inspire
With patience to moderat thine ire.
He seemes to burne like some red cole of fire;
How his eyes flame! how his limbs shake with rage!
How his voice thunders, as he ment to wage
Warre against heaven! Surely the cause is great
That makes him in this sort himselfe forget;
It cannot but be matter of much consequence,
That moves the man to this impatience?
Faith no, you are deceivde; the cause was smale,
A better man then he would put vp all,
Were the disgrace more hainous, which is none
But that his cholericke humour makes it one.
This asse (which for the wagging of a straw
His dagger vpon any man will drawe)
Walking i' th' street, was iustled from the wall
Downe almost to the channell; this is all
That puttes him in this fume! Would you surmise,
A man that hath the vse of reasons eyes
To guide himselfe, should for a cause soe light,
Soe smale a matter, be in such a plight?
Ready to frett himselfe to death, to sweare,
To curse, & banne, as if [he] meant to teare
The earth in sunder, only for this end,
Because he knowes not vpon whom to bend
The furie of his rage! Thou irefull foole!
Vse henceforth to frequent the learned schoole
Of sacred vertue, which will thee inspire
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Good Mistriss Orgia, holde your hasty handes!
Because your maides have not pind in your bandes
According to your minde, must the stick flie
About their shoulders straight? Should they replie
In your owne language to you, you were servde
According as your rage had well deservde.
But this is nothing with this furious dame,
Ther 's other matters that deserve more blame.
She will not stick to breake her husbandes head,
Revile him to his face & wish him dead
In most reproachfull manner; he, good man,
Dares not replie a worde, but gettes him gone
Till her fit 's past, & doth with patience
Endure his wives outragious insolence.
Thou furious vixen, learne to rule thy passion,
And vse thy husband in a better fashion,
Or I will have thy name to be enrolde
For a moste shamelesse & notorious scolde!
Because your maides have not pind in your bandes
According to your minde, must the stick flie
About their shoulders straight? Should they replie
In your owne language to you, you were servde
According as your rage had well deservde.
But this is nothing with this furious dame,
Ther 's other matters that deserve more blame.
She will not stick to breake her husbandes head,
Revile him to his face & wish him dead
In most reproachfull manner; he, good man,
Dares not replie a worde, but gettes him gone
Till her fit 's past, & doth with patience
Endure his wives outragious insolence.
Thou furious vixen, learne to rule thy passion,
And vse thy husband in a better fashion,
Or I will have thy name to be enrolde
For a moste shamelesse & notorious scolde!
Manlius hath a very mean estate,
Yet lives in longing hope of better fate;
He hath an vnkle above measure rich,
And cares not much if he lay dead i' th' ditch;
Hopes he cannot last long because hee 's olde;
And then he hopes to seaze vpon his golde.
Foole, how dost know that thou shalt him outlive?
'Twere better for thee, did he something give
Now while thy wanttes desire reliefe; “one thrush
I' th' hand is worth more then are two i' th' bush;”
And “he that hopes to put one dead mens shoos,
It often comes to passe he barefoote goes.”
Yet lives in longing hope of better fate;
He hath an vnkle above measure rich,
And cares not much if he lay dead i' th' ditch;
Hopes he cannot last long because hee 's olde;
And then he hopes to seaze vpon his golde.
Foole, how dost know that thou shalt him outlive?
'Twere better for thee, did he something give
Now while thy wanttes desire reliefe; “one thrush
I' th' hand is worth more then are two i' th' bush;”
And “he that hopes to put one dead mens shoos,
It often comes to passe he barefoote goes.”
Elpinas, which with seas doth traffique holde,
Hath made a ship out for West Indian golde,
And all his hopes doe in this venture lie:
Should she miscarry sure the man would die;
But hope, which holds him like a violent fever,
Flatters him still he shalbe made for ever
At her returne; & since she first began
To cut the billowes of the ocean
With her swift keel, his minde, more swift then she,
Followes her in the voyage, & doth see
With eyes of selfe-delighting fantasie
(Which sometime wrap him in an extasie)
Her prosperous traffique. If the day be faire
He hopes that homeward she doth then repaire;
If stormes obscure the brightnesse of the skie,
He hopes she doth in safest harbour lie.
The time which slowlie seemes to passe away
Vnto his longing hopes, he day by day
Telles o're in minutes; not a puffe of winde
Blowes, but that straight his advantageous minde
Carries it to his ship. Sometime his thought
Runnes on the gold wherwith his ship is fraught,
Imagining in his still working braine,
How to imploy it to his best of gaine.
Thou greedy minded slave! whose hopes are fixd
Only on wealth, with pleasure inte[r]mixt,
And ne're hop'st after heaven, how canst thou thinke
But that iust Iove should in the ocean sinke
All thy fond hopes, & drive thee to dispaire,
Which ne're implorst his ayde by hearty praier?
Returne at last, and fix thy hopes one him,
Whose only power can make thee sink or swimme.
Hath made a ship out for West Indian golde,
And all his hopes doe in this venture lie:
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But hope, which holds him like a violent fever,
Flatters him still he shalbe made for ever
At her returne; & since she first began
To cut the billowes of the ocean
With her swift keel, his minde, more swift then she,
Followes her in the voyage, & doth see
With eyes of selfe-delighting fantasie
(Which sometime wrap him in an extasie)
Her prosperous traffique. If the day be faire
He hopes that homeward she doth then repaire;
If stormes obscure the brightnesse of the skie,
He hopes she doth in safest harbour lie.
The time which slowlie seemes to passe away
Vnto his longing hopes, he day by day
Telles o're in minutes; not a puffe of winde
Blowes, but that straight his advantageous minde
Carries it to his ship. Sometime his thought
Runnes on the gold wherwith his ship is fraught,
Imagining in his still working braine,
How to imploy it to his best of gaine.
Thou greedy minded slave! whose hopes are fixd
Only on wealth, with pleasure inte[r]mixt,
And ne're hop'st after heaven, how canst thou thinke
But that iust Iove should in the ocean sinke
All thy fond hopes, & drive thee to dispaire,
Which ne're implorst his ayde by hearty praier?
Returne at last, and fix thy hopes one him,
Whose only power can make thee sink or swimme.
Alston, whose life hath been accounted evill,
And therfore cal'de by many the blew devill,
S[t]ruck with remorse of his ill gotten pelfe,
Would in dispaire have made away himselfe,
One while by drowning, when that would not be,
He drew his knife to worke his tragedie,
Intending with that fatall instrument
To cut his owne throte. Fearfull punnishment
Of a dispairing minde! O, who can tell
The pangs that in a guilty conscience dwell?
Had not the gracious mercy of the Lord
Restraind him from a sinne soe much abhord,
With his owne handes he would have stopt his breath
And with his bodie sent his soule to death.
Thrice happie mortall, which this grace didst finde,
Soe that henceforth thou bear a better minde,
And let thy actions to his glorie tende
That savde thy life from such a fearfull end.
Returne thankesgiving, & desire in praier
His grace to sheild thee from forlorne dispaire.
And therfore cal'de by many the blew devill,
S[t]ruck with remorse of his ill gotten pelfe,
Would in dispaire have made away himselfe,
One while by drowning, when that would not be,
He drew his knife to worke his tragedie,
Intending with that fatall instrument
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Of a dispairing minde! O, who can tell
The pangs that in a guilty conscience dwell?
Had not the gracious mercy of the Lord
Restraind him from a sinne soe much abhord,
With his owne handes he would have stopt his breath
And with his bodie sent his soule to death.
Thrice happie mortall, which this grace didst finde,
Soe that henceforth thou bear a better minde,
And let thy actions to his glorie tende
That savde thy life from such a fearfull end.
Returne thankesgiving, & desire in praier
His grace to sheild thee from forlorne dispaire.
Latro did act a damnèd villanie,
Adding blacke murder to his robbery,
Yet 'cause 'twas closely done he might conceale it,
For, save himselfe, none living could reveale it.
But see the iust revenge for this offence;—
After the deed, his guilty conscience
Torturing his soule, enforc'd him still to think
The act disclosde, & he in dangers brinke.
He thought the birds still in their language said it;
He thought the whistling of the winde bewraide it;
He cald to minde that murder was forbidden,
And though a while, it could not long be hidden.
Destract in minde, & fearfull in his place,
Having noe power to call to God for grace,
The devill doth suborne him to dispaire,
Tells him 'tis pitty he should breath this aire
Which hath been such a villaine; thrusts him on
To worke his owne death & confusion.
He, though he had the murderous hand to spill
Anothers blood, himselfe yet durst not kill,
And was afraide of others. What e're stirres
He iudgeth to be men & officers
Come to attache him, & his sight vnstable
Takes every bush to be a constable.
Thus plagud & torturde with dispaire & feare,
Out must the fact, he can noe more forbeare;
For which according to the course of lawe
Deaths heavy sentence one him he doth drawe;
And being brought vnto the place of death,
There in dispaire yeildes vp his latest breath.
Adding blacke murder to his robbery,
Yet 'cause 'twas closely done he might conceale it,
For, save himselfe, none living could reveale it.
But see the iust revenge for this offence;—
After the deed, his guilty conscience
Torturing his soule, enforc'd him still to think
The act disclosde, & he in dangers brinke.
He thought the birds still in their language said it;
He thought the whistling of the winde bewraide it;
He cald to minde that murder was forbidden,
And though a while, it could not long be hidden.
Destract in minde, & fearfull in his place,
Having noe power to call to God for grace,
The devill doth suborne him to dispaire,
Tells him 'tis pitty he should breath this aire
Which hath been such a villaine; thrusts him on
To worke his owne death & confusion.
He, though he had the murderous hand to spill
Anothers blood, himselfe yet durst not kill,
And was afraide of others. What e're stirres
He iudgeth to be men & officers
Come to attache him, & his sight vnstable
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Thus plagud & torturde with dispaire & feare,
Out must the fact, he can noe more forbeare;
For which according to the course of lawe
Deaths heavy sentence one him he doth drawe;
And being brought vnto the place of death,
There in dispaire yeildes vp his latest breath.
Thus each affection like a tyrant raignes
Over mans soule, which letteth loose the reines
Vnto selfe will, in which soe slavish state,
Mans sence captivd'e, his reason subiugate,
Makes the soule clogd, a massie lump of sinne,
Which following his creation should have been
Like his Creator pure;—soules were made free,
Not to be held in base captivitie
By every passion, but with reasons bitte
To checke affections from all things vnfitt.
He therfore that intends to live vpright
Let him in time curbe hedstrong appetite.
Over mans soule, which letteth loose the reines
Vnto selfe will, in which soe slavish state,
Mans sence captivd'e, his reason subiugate,
Makes the soule clogd, a massie lump of sinne,
Which following his creation should have been
Like his Creator pure;—soules were made free,
Not to be held in base captivitie
By every passion, but with reasons bitte
To checke affections from all things vnfitt.
He therfore that intends to live vpright
Let him in time curbe hedstrong appetite.
| The Times' Whistle | |