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93

THE SCOVRGE OF Villanie.

Three Bookes of Satyres.

Nec scompros metuentia carmina, nec thus.
PERSEVS.

94

To his most esteemed, and best beloued Selfe, DAT DEDICATQVE.
95

To Detraction I present my Poesie.

Foule canker of faire vertuous action,
Vile blaster of the freshest bloomes on earth,
Enuies abhorred childe, Detraction,
I heare expose, to thy all-taynting breath
The issue of my braine, snarle, raile, barke, bite,
Know that my spirit scornes Detractions spight.
Know that the Genius, which attendeth on,
And guides my powers intellectuall,
Holds in all vile repute Detraction.
My soule an essence metaphisicall,
That in the basest sort scornes Critickes rage,
Because he knowes his sacred parentage.
My spirit is not huft vp with fatte fume
Of slimie Ale, nor Bacchus heating grape.
My minde disdaines the dungie muddy scum
Of abiect thoughts, and Enuies raging hate.
True iudgement, slight regards Opinion,
A sprightly wit, disdaines Detraction.
A partiall praise shall neuer eleuate
My setled censure, of mine owne esteeme.
A cankered verdit of malignant Hate
Shall nere prouoke me, worse my selfe to deeme.
Spight of despight, and rancors villanie,
I am my selfe, so is my poesie.
96

In Lectores prorsus indignos.

Fy Satyre fie, shall each mechanick slaue,
Each dunghill pesant, free perusall haue
Of thy well labor'd lines? Each sattin sute,
Each quaint fashion-monger, whose sole repute
Rests in his trim gay clothes, lye slauering
Taynting thy lines with his lewd censuring?
Shall each odd puisne of the Lawyers Inne,
Each barmy-froth, that last day did beginne
To reade his little, or his nere a whit,
Or shall some greater auncient, of lesse wit,
(That neuer turnd but browne Tobacco leaues
Whose sences some damn'd Occupant bereaues)
Lye gnawing on thy vacant times expence?
Tearing thy rimes, quite altering the sence?
Or shall perfum'd Castilio censure thee?
Shall he oreview thy sharpe-fang'd poesie?
(Who nere read farther then his Mistris lips)
Nere practiz'd ought, but som spruce capring skips
Nere in his life did other language vse,
But, Sweete Lady, faire Mistres, kind hart, deare couse,
Shall this Fantasma, this Colosse peruse
And blast with stinking breath, thy budding Muse?
Fye, wilt thou make thy wit a Curtezan
For euery broking hand-crafts artizan?
Shall brainles Cyterne heads, each iubernole,
Poket the very Genius of thy soule?
I Phylo, I, I'le keepe an open hall,
A common, and a sumptuous festiuall,
Welcome all eyes, all eares, all tongues to me,
97

Gnaw pesants on my scraps of poesie.
Castilios, Cyprians, court-boyes, spanish blocks,
Ribanded eares, granado-netherstocks,
Fidlers, Scriueners, pedlers, tynkering knaues,
Base blew-coats, tapsters, brod-cloth minded slaues,
Welcome I-fayth, but may you nere depart,
Till I haue made your gauled hides to smart.
Your gauled hides? avaunt base muddy scum.
Thinke you a Satyres dreadfull sounding drum
Will brace it selfe? and daine to terrefie,
Such abiect pesants basest rogary?
No, no, passe on ye vaine fantasticke troupe
Of puffie youthes; Know I doe scorne to stoupe
To rip your liues. Then hence lewd nags, away,
Goe read each post, view what is plaid to day.
Then to Priapus gardens. You Castilio,
I pray thee let my lines in freedome goe,
Let me alone, the Madams call for thee
Longing to laugh at thy wits pouertie.
Sirra, liuorie cloake, you lazie slipper slaue,
Thou fawning drudge, what would'st thou Satyres haue?
Base mind away, thy master calls, begon,
Sweet Gnato let my poesie alone.
Goe buy some ballad of the Faiery King,
And of the begger wench, some rogie thing
Which thou maist chaunt vnto the chamber-maid
To some vile tune, when that thy Maister's laid.
But will you needs stay? am I forc'd to beare,
The blasting breath of each lewd Censurer?
Must naught but clothes, and images of men
98

But sprightles truncks, be Iudges of my pen?
Nay then come all, I prostitute my Muse,
For all the swarme of Idiots to abuse.
Reade all, view all, euen with my full consent,
So you will know that which I neuer meant;
So you will nere conceiue, and yet dispraise,
That which you nere conceiu'd, & laughter raise:
Where I but striue in honest seriousnes,
To scourge some soule-poluting beastlines.
So you will raile, and finde huge errors lurke
In euery corner of my Cynick worke.
Proface, reade on, for your extreamst dislikes
Will add a pineon, to my praises flights.
O, how I bristle vp my plumes of pride,
O, how I thinke my Satyres dignifi'd,
When I once heare some quaint Castilio,
Some supple mouth'd slaue, some lewd Tubrio,
Some spruce pedant, or some span-new come fry
Of Innes a-court, striuing to vilefie
My darke reproofes. Then doe but raile at me,
No greater honor craues my poesie.

1

But yee diuiner wits, celestiall soules,
Whose free-borne mindes no kennel thought controules,
Ye sacred spirits, Mayas eldest sonnes.

2

Yee substance of the shadowes of our age,
In whom all graces linke in marriage,
To you how cheerfully my poeme runnes.
99

3

True iudging eyes, quick sighted censurers,
Heauens best beauties, wisedoms treasurers,
O how my loue embraceth your great worth.

4

Yee Idols of my soule, yee blessed spirits,
How shold I giue true honor to your merrits,
Which I can better thinke, then here paint forth.
You sacred spirits, Maias eldest sonnes,
To you how cheerfully my poeme runnes.
O how my loue, embraceth your great worth,
Which I can better think, then here paint forth.
O rare!
102

[SATY: Liber primus.]

PROEMIVM IN librum primum.

I beare the scourge of iust Rhamnusia,
Lashing the lewdnes of Britania.
Let others sing as their good Genius moues,
Of deepe desines, or else of clipping loues.
Faire fall them all, that with wits industry,
Doe cloath good subiects in true poesie.
But as for me, my vexed thoughtfull soule,
Takes pleasure, in displeasing sharp controule.
Thou nursing Mother of faire wisedoms lore,
Ingenuous Melancholy, I implore
Thy graue assistance, take thy gloomie seate,
Inthrone thee in my blood; Let me intreate
Stay his quicke iocond skips, and force him runne
A sadde pac'd course, vntill my whips be done.
Daphne, vnclip thine armes from my sad brow,
Blacke Cypresse crowne me whilst I vp do plow
The hidden entrailes of ranke villanie.
Tearing the vaile from damn'd Impietie.
Quake guzzell dogs, that liue on putred slime,
Skud from the lashes of my yerking rime.
103

SATYRE. I. Fronti nulla fides.

Marry God forfend, Martius swears he'le stab,
Phrigeo, feare not, thou art no lying drab.
What though dagger hack'd mouthes of his blade sweares
It slew as many as figures of yeares
Aqua fotis eate in't, or as many more,
As methodist Musus, kild with Hellebore
In autumne last, yet he beares the male lye
With as smooth calme, as Mecho riualrie.
How ill his shape, with inward forme doth fage,
Like Aphrogenias ill-yok'd marriage.
Fond Physiognomer, complexion
Guides not the inward disposition,
Inclines I yeeld. Thou saist Law Iulia,
Or Catoes often curst Scatinia
Can take no hold on simpring Lesbia,
True, not on her eye, yet Allom oft doth blast,
The sprouting bud that faine would longer last.
Chary Casca, right pure or Rhodanus,
Yet each night drinkes in glassie Priapus.
Yon Pine is fayre, yet fouly doth it ill
To his owne sprouts, marke, his rank drops distill
Foule Naples canker in their tender rinde;
Woe worth when trees drop in their proper kinde!
Mystagogus, what meanes this prodegie?
When Hiadolgo speakes gainst vsurie.
When Verres railes gainst thieues. Mylo doth hate
Murder, Clodius coockolds, Marius the gate
104

Of squinting Ianus shuts? runne beyond bound
of Nil vltra, and hang me when on's found
Will be himselfe. Had Nature turn'd our eyes
Into our proper selues, these curious spies
Would be asham'd, Flauia would blush to flout
When Oppia calls Lucina helpe her out.
If she did thinke, Lynceus did know her ill,
How Nature, Art, how Art, doth Nature spill.
God pardon me, I often did auer
Quod gratis, grate, the Astronomer
An honest man, but I'le doe so no more,
His face deceau'd me; but now since his whore
And sister are all one, his honestie
Shall be as bare as his Anatomie,
To which hee bound his wife, ô packstaffe rimes!
Why not, when court of starrs shal see these crimes?
Rodds are in pisse, I for thee Empericke,
That twenty graines of Oppium wilt not sticke
To minister to babes. Here's bloody dayes,
When with plaine hearbes, Mutius more men slaies
Then ere third Edwards sword. Sooth in our age,
Mad Coribantes neede not to enrage
The peoples mindes. You Ophiogine
Of Hellespont, with wrangling villanie
The swolne world's inly stung, then daine a touch,
If that your fingers can effect so much.
Thou sweet Arabian Panchaia,
Perfume this nastie age, smugge Lesbia
Hath stinking lunges, although a simpring grace,
105

A muddy inside, though a surphul'd face.
O for some deepe-searching Corycean,
To ferret out yon lewd Cynedian.
How now Brutus, what shape best pleaseth thee?
All Protean formes, thy wife in venery
At thy inforcement takes; well goe thy way,
Shee may transforme thee ere thy dying day.
Hush, Gracchus heares, that hath retaild more lyes,
Broch'd more slaunders, done more villanies,
Then Fabius perpetuall golden coate
(Which might haue Semper idem for a mott)
Hath beene at feasts, and led the measuring
At Court, and in each marriage reueling.
Writ Palæphatus, comment on those dreames,
That Hylus takes, mid'st dung-pit reeking steames
Of Athos hote house. Gramercie modest smyle.
Chremes a sleepe. Paphia, sport the while.
Lucia, new set thy ruffe, tut thou art pure,
Canst thou not lispe, (good brother) look demure?
Fye Gallus, what, a skeptick Pyrrhomist?
When chast Dictinna, breakes the Zonelike twist?
Tut, hang vp Hieroglyphickes. Ile not faine
Wresting my humor, from his natiue straine.
106

SATYRE. II. Difficile est Satyram non scribere. Iuve.

I cannot hold, I cannot I indure
To view a big womb'd foggie clowde immure
The radiant tresses of the quickning sunne.
Let Custards quake, my rage must freely runne.
Preach not the Stoickes patience to me,
I hate no man, but mens impietie.
My soule is vext, what power will'th desist?
Or dares to stop a sharpe fangd Satyrist?
Who'le coole my rage? who'le stay my itching fist
But I will plague and torture whom I list?
If that the three-fold walls of Babilon
Should hedge my tongue, yet I should raile vpon
This fustie world, that now dare put in vre
To make IEHOVA but a couerture,
To shade ranck filth, loose conscience is free,
From all conscience, what els hath libertie?
As't please the Thracian Boreas to blow,
So turnes our ayerie conscience, to, and fro.
What icye Saturnist, what northerne pate
But such grosse lewdnes would exasperate?
I thinke the blind doth see, the flame God rise
From Sisters couch, each morning to the skies:
Glowing with lust. Walke but in duskie night,
With Linceus eyes, and to thy piercing sight
Disguised Gods will show, in pesants shape,
107

Prest to commit some execrable rape.
Here Ioues lust pander, Maias iugling sonne,
In clownes disguise, doth after milk-maides runne.
And fore he'le loose his brutish lechery,
The truls shall tast sweet Nectars surquedry.
There Iunos brat, forsakes Neries bed,
And like a swaggerer, lust fiered,
Attended onely with his smock sworne page,
Pert Gallus, slilie slippes along, to wage
Tilting incounters, with some spurious seede
Of marrow pies, and yawning Oystars breede.
O damn'd!
Who would not shake a Satyres knottie rod?
When to defile the sacred seate of God
Is but accounted gentlemens disport?
To snort in filth, each hower to resort
To brothell pits: alas a veniall crime,
Nay, royall, to be last in thirtith slime.
Ay me, hard world for Satyrists beginne
To sette vp shop, when no small petty sinne
Is left vnpurg'd, once to be pursie fat
Had wont be cause that life did macerate.
Marry the iealous Queene of ayre doth frowne,
That Ganimede is vp, and Hebe downe.
Once Albion liu'd in such a cruell age
That men did hold by seruile villenage.
Poore brats were slaues, of bond-men that were borne,
And marted, sold, but that rude law is torne,
And disanuld, as too too inhumane,
That Lords ore pesants should such seruice straine.
108

But now, (sad change!) the kennell sinck of slaues,
Pesant great Lords, and seruile seruice craues.
Bondslaues sonnes had wont be bought & sold,
But now Heroes heires (if they haue not told
A discreet number, fore theyr dad did die)
Are made much of, how much from merchandie?
Tail'd, and retail'd, till to the pedlers packe,
The fourth-hand ward-ware comes, alack, alack,
Would truth did know I lyde, but truth, and I,
Doe know that fence is borne to miserie.
Oh would to God, this were their worst mischance,
Were not theyr soules sold to darke ignorance.
Faire goodnes is foule ill if mischiefes wit
Be not represt from lewd corrupting it.
O what dry braine melts not sharp mustard rime
To purge the snottery of our slimie time?
Hence idle Cave, vengeance pricks me on,
When mart is made of faire Religion,
Reform'd bald Trebus swore in Romish quiere
He sold Gods essence, for a poore denier.
The Egyptians adored Onions,
To Garlicke yeelding all deuotions.
O happy Garlick, but thrice happy you,
Whose senting gods, in your large gardens grew.
Democritus, rise from thy putrid slime
Sport at the madnes of that hotter clime.
Deride their frenzie, that for policie
Adore Wheate dough, as reall deitie.
109

Almighty men, that can their Maker make,
And force his sacred body to forsake
The Cherubines, to be gnawne actually,
Deuiding indiuiduum, really.
Making a score of Gods with one poore word,
I, so I thought, in that you could afford,
So cheape a penny-worth. O ample fielde,
In which a Satyre may iust weapon weelde.
But I am vext, when swarmes of Iulians
Are still manur'd by lewd Precisians.
Who scorning Church rites, take the simbole vp
As slouenly, as carelesse Courtiers slup
Their mutton gruell. Fie, who can with-hold,
But must of force make his milde Muse a scold?
When that he greeued sees, with red vext eyes,
That Athens antient large immunities,
Are eye sores to the fates; Poore cells forlorne!
Ist not enough you are made an abiect scorne
To iering Apes, but must the shadow too
Of auncient substance, be thus wrung from you?
O split my hart, least it doe breake with rage
To see th'immodest loosenes of our age.
Immodest loosenes? fie too gentle word,
When euery signe can brothelrie afford.
When lust doth sparkle from our females eyes
And modestie, is rousted in the skies.
Tell me Galliottæ, what meanes this signe
When impropriat gentiles will turne Capuchine?
Sooner be damn'd. O stuffe Satyricall?
When rapine feedes our pomp, pomp ripes our fall.
110

When the guest trembles at his hosts swart looke,
The sonne, doth feare his stepdame, that hath tooke
His mothers place for lust, the twin-borne brother
Malinges his mate, that first came from his mother.
When to be huge, is to be deadly sick,
When vertuous pesants, will not spare to lick
The deuils taile for poore promotion.
When for neglect, slubbred Deuotion
Is wan with greefe. When Rufus, yawnes for death
Of him that gaue him vndeserued breath.
When Hermus makes a worthy question,
Whether of Wright, as Paraphonalion
A siluer pispot fits his Lady dame?
Or i'st too good? a pewter best became.
When Agrippina poysons Claudius sonne,
That all the world to her own brat might run.
When the husband, gapes that his stale wife would die,
That he might once be in by curtesie.
The big paunch'd wife, longs for her loth'd mates death,
That she might haue more ioyntures here on earth.
When tenure for short yeeres, (by many a one)
Is thought right good be turn'd forth Littleton,
All to be headdie, or free hold at least
When tis all one, for long life be a beast,
A slaue, as haue a short term'd tenancie
When dead's the strength of Englands yeomanrie,
When invndation of luxuriousnes,
Fatts all the world with such grosse beastlines.
Who can abstaine? what modest braine can hold,
But he must make his shamefac'd Muse a scold?
111

SATYRE. III. Redde, age, quæ deinceps risisti.

It's good be warie whilst the sunne shines cleere
(Quoth that old chuffe that may dispend by yere
Three thousand pound) whilst hee of good pretence
Commits himselfe to Fleet to saue expence.
No Countries Christmas: rather tarry heere,
The Fleet is cheap, the Country hall too deere.
But Codrus, harke, the world expects to see
Thy bastard heire rotte there in misery.
What? will Luxurio keepe so great a hall
That he will proue a bastard in his fall?
No, come on fiue, S. George, by heauen at all,
Makes his catastrophe, right tragicall;
At all, till nothing's left, Come on, till all comes off,
I haire and all, Luxurio, left a scoffe
To leaprous filthes: ô stay, thou impious slaue,
Teare not the lead from off thy Fathers graue,
To stop base brokage, sell not thy fathers sheete,
His leaden sheete, that strangers eyes may greete
Both putrefaction of thy greedie Sire,
And thy abhorred viperous desire.
But wilt thou needes shall thy Dads lackie brat
Weare thy Sires halfe-rot finger in his hat?
Nay then Luxurio waste in obloquie,
And I shall sport to heare thee faintly cry,
A die, a drab, and filthy broking knaues,
Are the worlds wide mouthes, all deuouring graues.
112

Yet Samus keepes a right good house I heare;
No, it keepes him, and free'th him from chill feare
Of shaking fitts; How then shall his smug wench,
How shall her bawd, (fit time) assist her quench
Her sanguine heate? Linceus, canst thou sent?
Shee hath her Monkey, & her instrument
Smooth fram'd at Vitrio. O greeuous misery!
Luscus hath left his female luxurie.
I, it left him; No, his old Cynick Dad
Hath forc'd him cleane forsake his Pickhatch drab.
Alack, alack, what peece of lustfull flesh
Hath Luscus left, his Priape to redresse?
Grieue not good soule, he hath his Ganimede,
His perfum'd shee-goate, smooth kembd & high fed.
At Hogsdon now his monstrous lust he feasts,
For there he keepes a baudy-house of beasts.
Paphus, let Luscus haue his Curtezan,
Or we shall haue a monster of a man.
Tut, Paphus now detaines him from that bower,
And claspes him close within his brick-built tower.
Diogenes, th'art damn'd for thy lewd wit,
For Luscus now hath skill to practise it.
Fayth, what cares he for faire Cynedian boyes?
Veluet cap'd Goates, duch Mares? tut common toies.
Detaine them all, on this condition
He may but vse the Cynick friction.
O now yee male stewes, I can giue pretence
For your luxurious incontinence.
Hence, hence, yee falsed, seeming, Patriotes,
Returne not with pretence of saluing spots,
When here yee soyle vs with impuritie,
113

And monstrous filth, of Doway seminary.
What though Iberia yeeld you libertie,
To snort in source of Sodom vilanie?
What though the bloomes of young nobilitie,
Committed to your Rodons custodie,
Yee Nero like abuse? yet nere approch,
Your newe S. Homers lewdnes heere to broch.
Tainting our Townes, and hopefull Accademes,
With your lust-bating most abhorred meanes.
Valladolid, our Athens gins to tast
Of thy ranck filth, Camphire and Lettuce chast,
Are cleane casheird, now Sophi Ringoes eate,
Candid Potatoes, are Athenians meate.
Hence Holy-thistle, come sweet marrow pie,
Inflame our backs to itching luxurie.
A Crabs bak'd guts, a Lobsters buttered thigh,
I heare them sweare is blood for venerie.
Had I some snout faire brats, they should indure
The new found Castilian callenture:
Before some pedant-Tutor, in his bed
Should vse my frie, like Phrigian Ganimede.
Nay then chast cells, when greasie Aretine
For his ranck Fico, is surnam'd diuine:
Nay then come all yee veniall scapes to me,
I dare well warrant you'le absolued be.
Rufus, I'le terme thee but intemperate,
I will not once thy vice exaggerate,
Though that each howre thou lewdly swaggerest,
And all the quarter day, pay'st interest
114

For the forbearance of thy chalked score.
Though that thou keep'st a tally with thy whore.
Since Nero keepes his mother Agrippine,
And no strange lust can satiate Messaline.
Tullus goe scotfree, though thou often bragg'st
That for a false French-crowne, thou vaulting hadst
Though that thou know'st for thy incontinence
Thy drab repay'd thee, true French pestilence.
But tush, his boast I beare, when Tegeran
Brags that he foystes his rotten Curtezan
Vpon his heire, that must haue all his lands:
And them hath ioyn'd in Hymens sacred bands.
Ile wincke at Robrus, that for vicenage
Enters commen, on his next neighbors stage,
When Ioue maintaines his sister, and his whore:
And she incestuous, iealous euermore,
Least that Europa on the Bull should ride:
Woe worth when beasts for filth are deified!
Alacke poore rogues, what Censor interdicts
The veniall scapes of him that purses picks?
When some slie, golden-slopt Castilio
Can cut a manors strings at Primero?
Or with a pawne, shall giue a Lordship mate,
In statute staple chaining fast his state?
What Accademick starued Satyrist
Would gnaw rez'd Bacon, or with inke black fist
would tosse each muck-heap for som outcast scraps
Of halfe-dung bones to stop his iawning chaps?
Or with a hungry hollow halfe pin'd iaw
115

Would once a thrice-turn'd bone-pick'd subiect gnaw
When swarmes of Mountebancks, & Bandeti
Damn'd Briareans, sincks of villanie,
Factors for lewdnes, brokers for the deuill,
Infect our soules with all polluting euill.
Shal Lucea scorne her husbands luke-warme bed?
(Because her pleasure being hurried
In ioulting Coach, with glassie instrument,
Doth farre exceede the Paphian blandishment)
Whilst I (like to some mute Pythagoran)
Halter my hate, and cease to curse and ban
Such brutish filth? Shall Matho raise his name,
By printing pamphlets in anothers name,
And in them praise himselfe, his wit, his might.
All to be deem'd his Countries Lanthorne light?
Whilst my tongue's ty'de with bonds of blushing shame
For feare of broching my concealed name?
Shall Balbus, the demure Athenian,
Dreame of the death of next Vicarian?
Cast his natiuitie? marke his complexion?
Waigh well his bodies weake condition?
That with guilt sleight he may be sure to get
The Planets place, when his dim shine shall set?
Shall Curio streake his lims on his dayes couch,
In Sommer bower? and with bare groping touch
Incense his lust, consuming all the yeere
In Cyprian dalliance, and in Belgick cheere?
Shall Faunus spend a hundred gallions,
Of Goates pure milke, to laue his stallions,
As much Rose iuyce? O bath! ô royall, rich
To scower Faunus, and his salt proude bitch!
116

And when all's cleans'd, shall the slaues inside stinck
worse then the new cast slime of Thames ebb'd brink?
Whilst I securely let him ouerslip?
Nere yerking him with my Satyrick whip?
Shall Crispus with hipocrisie beguile,
Holding a candle, to some fiend a while?
Now Iew, then Turke, then seeming Christian,
Then Athiest, Papist, and straight Puritan,
Now nothing, any thing, euen what you list,
So that some guilt may grease his greedy fist?
Shall Damas vse his third-hand ward as ill,
As any iade that tuggeth in the mill?
What, shall law, nature, vertue, be reiected,
Shall these world Arteries be soule infected,
With corrupt blood? Whilst I shal Martia taske?
Or some young Villius, all in choller aske,
How he can keepe a lazie waiting man,
And buy a hoode, & siluer-handled fan
With fortie pound? Or snarle at Lollios sonne?
That with industrious paines hath harder wonne
His true got worship, and his gentries name
Then any Swine-heards brat, that lousie came
To luskish Athens, and with farming pots,
Compiling bedds, & scouring greazie spots,
By chaunce (when he can like taught Parrat cry
Dearely belou'd, with simpering grauitie)
Hath got the Farme of some gelt Vicary,
And now on cock-horse, gallops iollilie
Tickling with some stolne stuffe his sencelesse cure,
117

Belching lewd termes gainst all sound littrature.
Shall I with shaddowes fight? taske bitterly
Romes filth? scraping base channell rogarie?
Whilst such huge Gyants shall affright our eyes
With execrable, damn'd impieties?
Shall I finde trading Mecho, neuer loath
Frankly to take a damning periur'd oath?
Shall Furia broke her sisters modestie,
And prostitute her soule to brothelrie?
Shall Cossus make his well-fac'd wife a stale,
To yeeld his braided ware a quicker sale?
Shall cock-horse, fat-paunch'd Milo staine whole stocks
Of well borne soules, with his adultering spots?
Shall broking pandars sucke Nobilitie?
Soyling fayre stems with foule impuritie?
Nay, shall a trencher slaue extenuate,
Some Lucrece rape? and straight magnificate
Lewd Iouian lust? Whilst my satyrick vaine
Shall muzled be, not daring out to straine
His tearing paw? No gloomie Iuvenall,
Though to thy fortunes I disastrous fall.
118

SATYRE. IIII. CRAS.

I marry Sir, here's perfect honestie:
When Martius will forsweare all villanie:
(All damn'd abuse, of payment in the warres
All filching from his Prince, and Souldiers)
When once he can but so much bright durt gleane,
As may mainetaine, one more White-friers queane.
One drab more, faith then farewell villanie,
He'le cleanse himselfe to Shoreditch puritie.
As for Stadius, I thinke he hath a soule,
And if he were but free from sharpe controule
Of his sower host, and from his Taylors bill,
He would not thus abuse his riming skill,
Iading our tyred eares with fooleries,
Greasing great slaues, with oylie flatteries,
Good fayth I thinke, he would not striue to sute
The backe of humorous Time, (for base repute
Mong dunghill pesants) botching vp such ware,
As may be salable in Sturbridge fare.
If he were once but freed from specialtie,
But sooth, till then, beare with his ballatry.
I ask'd lewd Gallus when he'le cease to sweare,
And with whole culuering raging othes to teare
The vault of heauen, spetting in the eyes
Of natures Nature, lothsome blasphemies.
To morrow he doth vow he will forbeare:
119

Next day I meete him, but I heare him sweare
Worse then before, I put his vow in minde,
He aunswers me, to morrow, but I finde
He sweares next day, farre worse then ere before:
Putting me of with (morrow) euermore.
Thus when I vrge him, with his sophistrie
He thinkes to salue his damned periurie.
Sylenus now is old, I wonder I
He doth not hate his triple venery,
Cold, writhled Eld, his liues-wet almost spent,
Me thinkes a vnitie were compotent:
But ô fayre hopes! He whispers secretly,
When it leaues him, he'le leaue his lecherie.
When simpring Flaccus (that demurely goes
Right neatly tripping on his new blackt toes)
Hath made rich vse of his Religion,
Of God himselfe, in pure deuotion:
When that the strange Ideas in his head
(Broch'd mong curious sotts, by shaddowes led)
Hath furnish'd him, by his hote auditors
Of fayre demeanes, and goodly rich mannors,
Sooth then he will repent, when's treasurie
Shall force him to disclaime his heresie.
What will not poore need force? but being sped,
God for vs all, the gurmonds paunch is fed.
His minde is chang'd, but when will he doe good?
To morrow, (I, to morrow by the rood.)
Yet Ruscus sweares, he'le cease to broke a sute:
120

By peasant meanes striuing to get repute
Mong puffie Spunges, when the Fleet's defrayd
His reuell tier, and his Laundresse payd.
There is a crew which I too plaine could name
If so I might without th'Aquinians blame,
That lick the tayle of greatnes with their lips:
Laboring with third-hand iests, and Apish skips,
Retayling others wit, long barrelled
To glib some great mans eares, till panch be fed,
Glad if themselues, as sporting fooles be made,
To get the shelter of some high-growne shade.
To morrow yet these base tricks thei'le cast off,
And cease for lucar be a iering scoffe.
Ruscus will leaue, when once he can renue
His wasted clothes, that are asham'd to view
The worlds proude eyes. Drusus wil cease to fawne
when that his Farme, that leakes in melting pawne
Some Lord-applauded iest hath once set free.
All will to morrow leaue their roguerie.
When fox-furd Mecho (by damn'd vsurie,
Cutthrote deceit, and his crafts villanie)
Hath rak'd together some foure thousand pound,
To make his smug gurle, beare a bumming sound
In a young merchants eare, fayth then (may be)
He'le ponder if there be a Deitie?
Thinking, if to the parrish pouertie,
At his wisht death, be dol'd a halfe-penny,
A worke of Supererogation,
A good filth-cleansing strong purgation.
121

Aulus will leaue begging Monopolies,
When that mong troupes of gaudie Butter-flies,
He is but able iet it iollily,
In pie-bauld sutes, of proude Court brauerie.
To morrow doth Luxurio promise me,
He will vnline himselfe from bitcherie.
Marry Alcides thirteenth act must lend
A glorious period, and his lust-itch end.
When once he hath froth-foming Ætna past
At one and thirtie being alwayes last.
If not to Day (quoth that Nasonian)
Much lesse to morrow, Yes saith Fabian,
For ingrain'd Habites, died with often dips,
Are not so soone discoloured, young slips
New set, are easily mou'd, and pluck'd away,
But elder rootes, clip faster in the clay.
I smile at thee, and at the Stagerite,
Who holds the liking of the appetite,
Beeing fedde with actions often put in vre
Hatcheth the soule, in qualitie impure,
Or pure. May be in vertue, but for vice,
That comes by inspiration, with a trice
Young Furius scarce fifteene yeres of age
But is straight-wayes, right fit for marriage
Vnto the deuill, for sure they would agree,
Betwixt their soules there is such sympathie,
O where's your sweatie habite, when each Ape,
That can but spy the shadow of his shape,
122

That can no sooner ken what's vertuous,
But will auoyde it, and be vicious,
Without much doe, or farre fetch'd habiture.
In earnest thus, it is a sacred cure
To salue the soules dread wounds; Omnipotent
That Nature is, that cures the impotent,
Euen in a moment; Sure Grace is infus'd
By diuine fauour, not by actions vs'd.
Which is as permanent as heauens blisse
To them that haue it, then no habite is.
To morrow, nay to day, it may be got:
So please that gracious Power clense thy spot.
Vice, from priuation of that sacred Grace,
which God with-drawes, but puts not vice in place.
Who sayes the sunne is cause of vgly night?
Yet when he vailes our eyes from his faire sight,
The gloomie curtaine of the night is spred.
Yee curious sotts, vainly by Nature led,
Where is your vice or vertuous habite now?
For Sustine pro nunc doth bend his brow,
And old crabb'd Scotus on th'organon
Pay'th me with snaphaunce, quick distinction,
Habites that intellectuall termed be,
Are got, or els infus'd from Deitie.
Dull Sorbonist, flie contradiction.
Fye, thou oppugn'st the definition.
If one should say, Of things term'd rationall,
Some reason haue, others meere sensuall.
Would not some freshman reading Porphirie,
123

Hisse, and deride such blockish foolerie?
Then vice nor vertue haue from habite place,
The one from want, the other sacred grace.
Infus'd, displac'd, not in our will or force,
But as it please Iehoua haue remorce.
I will, cryes Zeno, ô presumption!
I can, thou maist, dogged opinion
Of thwarting Cynicks. To day vicious,
List to their precepts, next day vertuous.
Peace Seneca, thou belchest blasphemy.
To liue from God, but to liue happily
(I heare thee boast,) from thy Phylosophie,
And from thy selfe, ô rauing lunacie!
Cynicks, yee wound your selues, for Destenie
Ineuitable Fate, Necessitie,
You hold doth sway the acts spirituall,
As well as parts of that we mortall call,
Where's then (I will?) wher's that strong Deitie,
You doe ascribe to your Phylosophie?
Confounded Natures brats, can will and Fate,
Haue both theyr seate, & office in your pate?
O hidden depth of that dread Secrecie,
Which I doe trembling touch in Poetrie!
To day, to day, implore obsequiously,
Trust not to morrowes will, least vtterly
Yee be attach'd with sad confusion,
In your Grace-tempting lewd presumption.
But I forget; why sweat I out my braine,
124

In deepe designes, to gay boyes lewd, and vaine?
These notes were better sung, mong better sort,
But to my pamphlet, few saue fooles resort.
Libri primi, finis.
125

SATY: Liber secundus.

127

Proemium in librum secundum.

I cannot quote a mott Italienate.
Or brand my Satyres with som Spanish terme.
I cannot with swolne lines magnificate,
Mine owne poore worth, or as immaculate
Task others rimes, as if no blot did staine,
No blemish soile, my young Satyrick vaine.
Nor can I make my soule a merchandize,
Seeking conceits to sute these Artlesse times.
Or daine for base reward to Poetize:
Soothing the world, with oylie flatteries.
Shall mercenary thoughts prouoke me write?
Shall I for lucar be a Parasite?
Shall I once pen for vulgar sorts applause?
To please each hound? each dungie Scauenger?
To fit some Oystar-wenches yawning iawes?
With tricksey tales of speaking Cornish dawes?
First let my braine (bright hair'd Latonas sonne)
Be cleane distract with all confusion.
What though some Iohn-á-stile will basely toile,
Onely incited with the hope of gaine,
Though roguie thoughts doe force some iade-like Moile
Yet no such filth my true-borne Muse will soile.
O Epictetus, I doe honour thee,
To thinke how rich thou wert in pouertie.
128

Ad Rithmum.

Come prettie pleasing symphonie of words,
Yee wel-match'd twins (whose like-tun'd tongs affords
Such musicall delight,) come willingly
And daunce Leuoltoes in my poesie.
Come all as easie, as spruce Curio will,
In some court hall to showe his capring skill.
As willingly come meete & iumpe together,
As new ioyn'd loues, when they doe clip each other.
As willingly, as wenches trip a round,
About a May-pole, after bagpipes sound.
Come riming numbers, come and grace conceite,
Adding a pleasing close, with your deceit
Inticing eares. Let not my ruder hand
Seeme once to force you in my lines to stand,
Be not so fearefull (pretty soules) to meete,
As Flaccus is the Sergiants face to greete.
Be not so backward loth to grace my sence,
As Drusus is, to haue intelligence
His Dad's aliue; but come into my head
As iocondly, as when his wife was dead
Young Lelius to his home. Come like-fac'd rime,
In tunefull numbers keeping musicks time.
But if you hange an arse, like Tubered,
When Chremes dragg'd him from his brothell bed,
Then hence base ballad stuffe, my poetrie
Disclaimes you quite, for know my libertie
129

Scornes riming lawes; Alas poore idle sound,
Since I first Phœbus knew, I neuer found
Thy interest in sacred Poesie.
Thou to Invention add'st but surquedry,
A gaudie ornature, but hast no part,
In that soule-pleasing high infused art.
Then if thou wilt clip kindly in my lines,
Welcome thou friendly ayde of my designes.
If not? No title of my sence let change
To wrest some forced rime, but freely range.
Yee scrupulous obseruers, goe & learne
Of Æsops dogge; meate from a shade discerne.
130

SATYRE. V. Totum in toto.

Hange thy selfe Drusus, hast nor arms nor brain?
Some Sophy say, the gods sell all for paine,
Not so.
Had not that toyling Thebans steled back
Dread poysned shafts, liu'd he now, he should lack.
Spight of his farming Oxe-staules. Themis selfe
Would be casheir'd from one poore scrap of pelfe.
If that she were incarnate in our time
Shee might lusk scorned in disdained slime,
Shaded from honor by some enuious mist
Of watry foggs, that fill the ill-stuft list
Of faire Desert, ielous euen of blind darke,
Least it should spie, and at their lamenes barke.
Honors shade, thrusts honors substance from his place.
Tis strange, when shade the substance can disgrace?
Harsh lines cryes Curus, whose eares nere reioyce
But at the quauering of my Ladies voyce.
Rude limping lines fits this leud halting age,
Sweet senting Curus, pardon then my rage,
When wisards sweare plaine vertue neuer thriues,
None but Priapus by plaine dealing wiues.
Thou subtile Hermes, are the Destinies
Enamor'd on thee? then vp mount the skies.
Aduance, depose, doe euen what thou list,
So long as Fates doe grace thy iugling fist.
131

Tuscus, hast Beuclarkes armes and strong sinewes,
Large reach, full fedde vaines, ample reuenewes?
Then make thy markets by thy proper arme,
O, brawnie strength is an all-canning charme!
Thou dreadlesse Thracean, hast Hallirrhotius slaine?
What? ist not possible thy cause maintaine
Before the dozen Areopagites?
Come Enagonian, furnish him with slights.
Tut, Plutos wrath, Proserpina can melt,
So that thy sacrifice be freely felt.
What cannot Iuno force in bed with Ioue?
Turne and returne a sentence with her loue.
Thou art too duskie. Fie thou shallow Asse,
Put on more eyes, and marke me as I passe.
Well plainely thus, Sleight, Force, are mighty things,
From which, much, (if not most) earths glory springs.
If Vertues selfe, were clad in humane shape,
Vertue without these, might goe beg and scrape.
The naked truth is, a well clothed lie,
A nimble quick-pate mounts to dignitie.
By force, or fraude, that matters not a iot,
So massie wealth may fall vnto thy lot.
I heard old Albius sweare, Flavus should haue
His eldest gurle, for Flavus was a knaue.
A damn'd deep-reaching villaine, & would mount
He durst well warrant him to great account.
What though he laid forth all his stock & store
Vpon some office, yet he'le gaine much more,
Though purchast deere. Tut, he will trebble it
In some fewe termes, by his extorting wit.
132

When I in simple meaning went to sewe
For tonge-tide Damus, that would needs go wooe,
I praysd him for his vertue, honest life,
By God, cryes Flora, Ile not be his wife.
He'le nere come on. Now I sweare solemlie,
When I goe next, I'le prayse his villanie.
A better field to range in now a dayes,
If vice be vertue, I can all men praise.
What though pale Maurus paid huge symonies
For his half-dozen gelded vicaries.
Yet with good honest cut-throate vsurie,
I feare he'le mount to reuerent dignitie.
O sleight! all-canning sleight! all-damning sleight!
The onely gally-ladder vnto might.
Tuscus is trade falne, yet great hope he'le rise,
For now he makes no count of periuries.
Hath drawne false lights from pitch-black loueries,
Glased his braided ware. Cogs, sweares, and lyes.
Now since he hath the grace, thus gracelesse be
His neighbors sweare, he'le swell with treasurie.
Tut who maintaines, such goods ill got, decay.
No, they'le stick by thy soule, they'le nere away.
Luscus my Lords perfumer had no sale
Vntill he made his wife a brothell stale.
Absurd, the gods sell all for industrie?
When, what's not got by hell-bred villanie?
Codrus my well-fac'd Ladies taile-bearer,
(He that some-times play'th Flauias vsherer)
I heard one day complaine to Linceus,
133

How vigilant, how right obsequious
Modest in carriage, how true in trust,
And yet (alas) nere guerdond with a crust.
But now I see, he findes by his accounts
That sole Priapus by plaine dealing mounts.
How now? what droupes the new Pegasian Inne?
I feare mine host is honest. Tut, beginne
To set vp whore-house. Nere too late to thriue
By any meanes at Porta Rich' ariue;
Goe vse some sleight, or liue poore Irus life,
Straight prostitute thy daughter, or thy wife,
And soone be wealthy, but be damn'd with it,
Hath not rich Mylo then deepe reaching wit?
Faire age!
When tis a high, and hard thing t'haue repute
Of a compleat villaine, perfect, absolute,
And roguing vertue brings a man defame.
A packstaffe Epethite, and scorned name.
Fie how my wit flaggs, how heauily
Me thinks I vent dull sprightlesse poesie.
What cold black frost congeales my nummed brain?
What enuious power stops a Satyres vaine?
O now I know, the iugling God of sleights,
With Caduceus nimble Hermes fights,
And mists my wits. Offended that my rimes
Displaie his odious, world-abusing crimes.
O be propitious, powerfull God of Arts,
I sheathe my weapons and doe breake my darts,
134

Be then appeas'd, I'le offer to thy shrine,
An Heccatombe, of many spotted kine.
Myriades of beastes shall satisfie thy rage,
Which doe prophane thee in this Apish age.
Infectious blood, yee goutie humors quake
Whilst my sharp Razor doth incision make.
135

SATYRE. VI. Hem nosti'n.

Cvrio , know'st me? why thou bottle-ale,
Thou barmy froth! O stay me, least I raile
Beyond Nil vltra, to see this Butterflie,
This windie bubble taske my balladry
With sencelesse censure. Curio, know'st my spright?
Yet deem'st that in sad seriousnes I write
Such nastie stuffe as is Pigmalion?
Such maggot-tainted lewd corruption?
Ha, now he glauers with his fawning snowte,
And swears, he thought, I meant but faintly flowte,
My fine smug ryme. O barbarous dropsie noule!
Think'st thou that Genius that attends my soule,
And guides my fist to scourge Magnifico's
Wil daigne my mind be ranck'd in Paphian showes?
Think'st thou, that I, which was create to whip
Incarnate fiends, will once vouchsafe to trip
A Pauins trauerse? or will lispe (sweet loue)
Or pule (Aye me) some female soule to moue?
Think'st thou, that I in melting poesie
Will pamper itching sensualitie?
(That in the bodyes scumme all fatally
Intombes the soules most sacred faculty.)
Hence thou misiudging Censor, know I wrot
Those idle rimes to note the odious spot
And blemish that deformes the lineaments
136

Of moderne Poesies habiliments.
Oh that the beauties of Invention,
For want of Iudgements disposition
Should all be soyl'd, ô that such treasurie,
Such straines of well-conceited poesie,
Should moulded be, in such a shapelesse forme,
That want of Art, should make such wit a scorne.
Here's one must invocate some lose-legg'd dame,
Some brothell drab, to helpe him stanzaes frame,
Or els (alas) his wits can haue no vent
To broch conceits industrious intent.
Another yet dares tremblingly come out,
But first he must invoke good Colyn Clout.
Yon's one hath yean'd a fearefull prodigie,
Some monstrous mishapen Balladry,
His guts are in his braines, huge Iobbernoule,
Right Gurnets-head, the rest without all soule.
Another walkes, is lazie, lyes him downe,
Thinkes, reades, at length some wonted sleep doth crowne
His new falne lids, dreames, straight tenne pound to one,
Out steps some Fayery with quick motion,
And tells him wonders, of some flowrie vale,
Awakes straight, rubs his eyes, and prints his tale.
Yon's one, whose straines haue flowne so high a pitch
That straight he flags, & tumbles in a ditch.
His sprightly hote high-soring poesie
Is like that dreamed of Imagerie,
Whose head was gold, brest siluer, brassie thigh,
Lead leggs, clay feete; ô faire fram'd poesie.
137

Here's one, to get an vndeseru'd repute
Of deepe deepe learning, all in fustian sute
Of ill-plac'd farre-fetch'd words attiereth
His period, that all sence forsweareth.
Another makes old Homer, Spencer cite
Like my Pigmalion, where, with rare delight
He cryes, O Ouid. This caus'd my idle quill,
The worlds dull eares with such lewd stuffe to fill,
And gull with bumbast lines, the witlesse sence
Of these odde naggs; whose pates circumference
Is fild with froth! O these same buzzing Gnats
That sting my sleeping browes, these Nilus Rats,
Halfe dung, that haue their life from putrid slime,
These that doe praise my loose lasciuious rime:
For these same shades I seriously protest
I slubber'd vp that Chaos indigest,
To fish for fooles, that stalke in goodly shape,
What though in veluet cloake, yet still an Ape.
Capro reads, sweares, scrubs, and sweares againe,
Now by my soule an admirable straine,
Strokes vp his haire, cryes passing passing good,
Oh, there's a line incends his lustfull blood.
Then Muto comes with his new glasse-set face,
And with his late kist-hand my booke dooth grace,
Straight reades, then smyles & lisps (tis prety good)
And praiseth that he neuer vnderstood.
But roome for Flaccus, he'le my Satyres read.
Oh how I trembled straight with inward dread!
But when I saw him read my fustian,
138

And heard him sweare I was a Pythian,
Yet straight recald, & sweares I did but quote
Out of Xilinum to that margents note,
I scarce could hold, & keepe my selfe conceal'd,
But had well-nigh my selfe and all reueal'd.
Then straight comes Friscus, that neat gentleman,
That newe discarded Academian,
Who for he could cry (Ergo) in the schoole,
Straight-way, with his huge iudgement dares controle
What so'ere he viewes, that's prety, prety good,
That Epethite hath not that sprightly blood
Which should enforce it speake, that's Persius vaine,
That's Iuvenals, heere's Horace crabbed straine,
Though he nere read one line in Iuvenall,
Or in his life his lazie eye let fall
On duskie Persius. O indignitie
To my respectlesse free-bred poesie.
Hence ye big-buzzing-little-bodied Gnats,
Yee tatling Ecchoes, huge tongu'd pigmy brats,
I meane to sleepe, wake not my slumbring braine
With your malignant weake detracting vaine.
What though the sacred issue of my soule
I heare expose to Ideots controule?
What though I bare to lewd Opinion
Lay ope to vulgar prophanation
139

My very Genius. Yet know my poesie
Doth scorne your vtmost, rank'st indignitie.
My pate was great with child, & here tis eas'd,
Vexe all the world, so that thy selfe be pleas'd.
140

SATYRE. VII. A Cynicke Satyre.

A man , a man, a kingdome for a man.
Why how now currish mad Athenian?
Thou Cynick dogge, see'st not streets do swarme
With troupes of men? No, no, for Circes charme
Hath turn'd them all to swine: I neuer shall
Thinke those same Samian sawes authenticall,
But rather I dare sweare, the soules of swine
Doe liue in men, for that same radiant shine,
That lustre wherewith natures Nature decked
Our intellectuall part, that glosse is soyled
With stayning spots of vile impietie,
And muddy durt of sensualitie,
These are no men, but Apparitions,
Ignes fatui, Glowormes, Fictions,
Meteors, Ratts of Nilus, Fantasies,
Colosses, Pictures, Shades, Resemblances.
Ho Linceus!
Seest thou yon gallant in the sumptuous clothes,
How brisk, how spruce, how gorgiously he showes,
Note his French-herring bones, but note no more,
Vnlesse thou spy his fayre appendant whore
That lackyes him. Marke nothing but his clothes,
His new stampt complement, his Cannon oathes.
Marke those, for naught but such lewd viciousnes
Ere graced him, saue Sodom beastlines.
141

Is this a Man? Nay, an incarnate deuill,
That struts in vice, and glorieth in euill.
A man, a man: peace Cynick, yon is one,
A compleat soule, of all perfection.
What? mean'st thou him that walks al open brested?
Drawne through the eare with Ribands, plumy crested?
He that doth snort in fat-fed luxury,
And gapes for some grinding Monopoly?
He that in effeminate inuention,
In beastly source of all pollution,
In ryot, lust, and fleshly seeming sweetnes,
Sleepes sound secure, vnder the shade of greatnes?
Mean'st thou that sencelesse, sensuall Epicure?
That sinck of filth, that guzzell most impure?
What he? Linceus on my word thus presume,
He's nought but clothes, & senting sweet perfume.
His very soule, assure thee Linceus,
Is not so big as is an Atomus:
Nay, he is sprightlesse, sence or soule hath none,
Since last Medusa turn'd him to a stone.
A man, a man, Loe yonder I espie
The shade of Nestor in sad grauitie;
Since old Sylenus brake his Asses back,
He now is forc'd his paunch, and gutts to pack
In a fayre Tumbrell. Why sower Satirist
Canst thou vnman him? Here I dare insist
And soothly say, he is a perfect soule,
Eates Nectar, drinks Ambrosia, saunce controule.
An invndation of felicitie
Fats him with honor, and huge treasurie.
Canst thou not Linceus cast thy searching eye
142

And spy his immynent Catastrophe?
He's but a spunge, and shortly needs must leese
His wrong got iuyce, when greatnes fist shal squeese
His liquor out. Would not some shallow head,
That is with seeming shadowes onely fed,
Sweare yon same Damaske-coat, yon garded man,
Were some graue sober Cato Vtican?
When let him but in iudgements sight vncase,
He's naught but budge, old gards, browne foxe-fur face.
He hath no soule, the which the Stagerite
Term'd rationall, for beastly appetite,
Base dunghill thoughts, and sensuall action,
Hath made him loose that faire creation.
And now no man, since Circes magick charme
Hath turn'd him to a maggot, that doth swarme
In tainted flesh, whose foule corruption
Is his fayre foode, whose generation
Anothers ruine. O Canaans dread curse
To liue in peoples sinnes. Nay farre more worse
To muck ranke hate. But sirra, Linceus,
Seest thou that troope that now affronteth vs?
They are naught but Eeles, that neuer will appeare,
Till that tempestuous winds or thunder teare
Their slimie beds. But prithee stay a while,
Looke, yon comes Iohn-á-noke and Iohn-a-stile,
They'are naught but slow-pac'd, dilatory pleas,
Demure demurrers, still striuing to appease
Hote zealous loue. The language that they speake,
Is the pure barbarous blacksaunt of the Geate,
143

Their onely skill rests in Collusions,
Abatements, stopples, inhibitions.
Heauy-pac'd Iades, dull pated Iobernoules,
Quick in delayes, checking with vaine controules
Faire Iustice course, vile necessary euils,
Smooth seeme-Saints, yet damn'd incarnate deuils.
Farre be it from my sharpe Satirick Muse,
Those graue, and reuerent legists to abuse,
That ayde Astrea, that doe further right:
But these Megera's that inflame despight,
That broch deepe ranchor, that doe studie still
To ruine right, that they their panch may fill
With Irus blood; these Furies I doe meane,
These Hedge-hogs, that disturbe Astreas Scean.
A man, a man: peace Cynick, yon's a man,
Behold yon sprightly dread Mauortian.
With him I stop thy currish barking chops.
what? meanst thou him, that in his swaggering slops
Wallowes vnbraced all along the streete?
He that salutes each gallant he doth meete,
With farewell sweet Captaine, kind hart, adew.
He that last night, tumbling thou didst view
From out the great mans head, and thinking still
He had beene Sentinell of warlike Brill,
Cryes out Que va la? zownds Que? and out doth draw
His transformd ponyard, to a Syrrenge straw,
And stabs the Drawer. What that Ringo roote?
Mean'st thou that wasted leg, puffe bumbast boote?
What he that's drawne, and quartered with lace?
That Westphalian gamon Cloue-stuck face?
144

Why, he is naught but huge blaspheming othes,
Swart snowt, big lookes, mishapen Swizers clothes,
Weake meager lust hath now consumed quite,
And wasted cleane away his martiall spright,
Infeebling ryot, all vices confluence,
Hath eaten out that sacred influence
Which made him man.
That diuine part is soak'd away in sinne,
In sensuall lust, and midnight bezeling.
Ranke invndation of luxuriousnes,
Haue tainted him with such grosse beastlines,
That now the seate of that celestiall essence
Is all possest with Naples pestilence.
Fat peace, and dissolute impietie,
Haue lulled him in such securitie,
That now, let whirlewinds and confusion teare
The Center of our state, let Giants reare
Hill vpon hill, let westerne Termagant
Shake heauens vault, he with his Occupant,
Are cling'd so close, like dew-wormes in the morne,
That he'le not stir, till out his gutts are torne
With eating filth. Tubrio snort on, snort on,
Till thou art wak'd with sad confusion.
Now raile no more at my sharpe Cynick sound
Thou brutish world, that in all vilenes drown'd
Hast lost thy soule, for naught but shades I see,
Resemblances of men inhabite thee.
Yon Tissue slop, yon Holy-crossed pane,
Is but a water-spaniell that will faune
And kisse the water whilst it pleasures him,
145

But being once arriued at the brim,
He shakes it off.
Yon in the capring cloake, a Mimick Ape
That onely striues to seeme an others shape.
Yon's Æsops Asse, yon sad ciuilitie,
Is but an Oxe, that with base drugerie
Eares vp the Land, whilst some gilt Asse doth chaw
The golden wheat; he well apay'd with straw.
Yons but a muckhill ouer-spred with snow,
Which with that vaile doth euen as fairely show
As the greene meades, whose natiue outward faire
Breathes sweet perfumes into the neighbour ayre.
Yon effeminate sanguine Ganimede,
Is but a Beuer, hunted for the bed.
Peace Cynick, see what yonder doth approach,
A cart, a tumbrell? no a Badged coach.
What's in't? some man. No, nor yet woman kinde,
But a celestiall Angell, faire refinde.
The deuill as soone. Her maske so hinders mee
I cannot see her beauties deitie.
Now that is off, shee is so vizarded,
So steep'd in Lemons-iuyce, so surphuled
I cannot see her face, vnder one hood
Too faces, but I neuer vnderstood
Or saw, one face vnder two hoods till now,
Tis the right semblance of old Ianus brow.
Her mask, her vizard, her loose-hanging gowne
For her loose lying body, her bright spangled crown
Her long slit sleeue, stiffe busk, puffe verdingall,
146

Is all that makes her thus angelicall.
Alas, her soule struts round about her neck,
Her seate of sence is her rebato set,
Her intellectuall is a fained nicenes
Nothing but clothes, & simpering precisenes.
Out on these puppets, painted Images,
Haberdashers shops, torch-light maskeries,
Perfuming pans, Duch antients, Glowe wormes bright
That soile our soules, and dampe our reasons light:
Away, away, hence Coach-man, goe inshrine
Thy new glas'd puppet in port Esqueline.
Blush Martia, feare not, or looke pale, all's one,
Margara keepes thy set complexion.
Sure I nere thinke those axioms to be true,
That soules of men, from that great soule ensue,
And of his essence doe participate
As't were by pypes, when so degenerate,
So aduerse is our natures motion,
To his immaculate condition:
That such foule filth, from such faire puritie,
Such sensuall acts from such a Deitie,
Can nere proceed. But if that dreame were so,
Then sure the slime that from our soules doe flow,
Haue stopt those pipes by which it was conuai'd,
And now no humane creatures, once disrai'd
Of that fayre iem.
Beasts sence, plants growth, like being as a stone,
But out alas, our Cognisance is gone.
Finis libri Secundi.
147

SATY: Liber Tertius.

149

Proemium in librum tertium.

In serious iest, and iesting seriousnes
I striue to scourge poluting beastlines.
I invocate no Delian Deitie,
Nor sacred of-spring of Mnemosyne:
I pray in ayde of no Castalian Muse,
No Nimph, no femall Angell to infuse
A sprightly wit to raise my flagging wings,
And teach me tune these harsh discordant strings:
I craue no Syrens of our Halcion times,
To grace the accents of my rough-hew'd rimes;
But grim Reproofe, stearne Hate of villanie,
Inspire and guide a Satyres poesie.
Faire Detestation of foule odious sinne,
In which our swinish times lye wallowing,
Be thou my conduct and my Genius,
My wits inciting sweet breath'd Zephirus.
O that a Satyres hand had force to pluck
Some fludgate vp, to purge the world from muck:
Would God I could turne Alpheus riuer in
To purge this Augean oxstaule from foule sin.
Well, I will try, awake impuritie,
And view the vaile drawne from thy villanie.
150

SATYRE. VIII. Inamorato Curio.

Cvrio , aye me! thy mistres Monkey's dead,
Alas, alas, her pleasures buried.
Goe womans slaue, performe his exequies,
Condole his death in mournfull Elegies.
Tut, rather Peans sing Hermaphrodite,
For that sad death giues life to thy delight.
Sweet fac'd Corinna, daine the riband tie
Of thy Cork-shooe, or els thy slaue will die:
Some puling Sonnet toles his passing bell,
Some sighing Elegie must ring his knell,
Vnlesse bright sunshine of thy grace reuiue
His wambling stomack, certes he will diue
Into the whirle-poole of deuouring death,
And to some Mermaid sacrifice his breath.
Then oh, oh then, to thy eternall shame,
And to the honour of sweet Curios name,
This Epitaph vpon the Marble stone,
Must fayre be grau'd of that true louing one;
Heere lyeth hee, hee lyeth heere,
that bounc'd, and pitty cryed,
The doore not op'd, fell sicke alas,
alas fell sicke, and dyed.
What Mirmidon, or hard Dolopian,
What sauage minded rude Cyclopian,
But such a sweet pathetique Paphian
Would force to laughter? Ho Amphitrion,
Thou art no Cuckold, what though Ioue dallied
151

During thy warres, in faire Alckmenas bed,
Yet Hercules true borne, that imbecilitie
Of corrupt nature all apparantly
Appeares in him, ô foule indignitie,
I heard him vow himselfe a slaue to Omphale,
Puling (aye mee) ô valours obloquie!
Hee that the inmost nookes of hell did know,
Whose nere craz'd prowesse all did ouer-throw,
Lies streaking brawnie limmes in weakning bed,
Perfum'd, smooth kemb'd, new glaz'd, faire surphuled,
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be subiected to such base controule!
Big limm'd Alcides, doffe thy honors crowne
Goe spin huge slaue least Omphale should frowne.
By my best hopes, I blush with greefe and shame
To broach the peasant basenes of our name.
O now my ruder hand begins to quake,
To thinke what loftie Cedars I must shake:
But if the canker fret the barkes of Oakes,
Like humbler shrubs shal equall beare the stroakes
Of my respectlesse rude Satyrick hand,
Vnlesse the Destin's adamantine band
Should tie my teeth, I cannot choose but bite
To view Mauortius metamorphiz'd quite
To puling sighes, & into (aye me's) state,
With voyce distinct, all fine articulate
Lisping, Fayre saint, my woe compassionate,
By heauen thine eye is my soule-guiding fate.
The God of wounds, had wont on Cyprian couch
To streake himselfe, and with incensing touch
152

To faint his force onely when wrath had end:
But now, mong furious garboiles, he doth spend
His feebled valour, in tilt and turneing,
With wet turn'd kisses, melting dallying.
A poxe apon't, that Bacchis name should be
The watch-word giuen to the soulderie.
Goe troupe to fielde, mount thy obscured fame,
Cry out S. George, invoke thy Mistres name;
Thy Mistres, and S. George, alarum cry,
Weake force, weake ayde that sprouts from luxurie.
Thou tedious workmanship of lust-stung Ioue,
Downe from thy skies, enioy our females loue,
Some fiftie more Beotian gerles will sue
To haue thy loue, (so that thy back be true.)
O now me thinks I heare swart Martius cry
Souping along in warrs fain'd maskerie,
By Lais starrie front he'le forth-with die
In cluttred blood, his Mistres liuorie.
Her fancies colours waues vpon his head,
O well fenc'd Albion, mainly manly sped,
When those that are Soldadoes in thy state,
Doe beare the badge of base, effeminate,
Euen on their plumie crests, brutes sensuall,
Hauing no sparke of intellectuall.
Alack, what hope? when some ranck nasty wench
Is subiect of their vowes and confidence?
Publius hates vainely to idolatries,
And laughs that Papists honor Images,
And yet (ô madnes) these mine eyes did see
153

Him melt in mouing plaints, obsequiously
Imploring fauour, twining his kind armes,
Vsing inchauntments, exorcismes, charmes.
The oyle of Sonnets, wanton blandishment,
The force of teares, & seeming languishment,
Vnto the picture of a painted lasse:
I saw him court his Mistres looking-glasse,
Worship a busk-poynt, (which in secrecie
I feare was conscius of strange villanie.)
I saw him crouch, deuote his liuelihood,
Sweare, protest, vow pesant seruitude
Vnto a painted puppet, to her eyes
I heard him sweare his sighes to sacrifice.
But if he get her itch-allaying pinne,
O sacred relique, straight he must beginne
To raue out-right, then thus. Celestiall blisse,
Can heauen grant so rich a grace as this?
Touch it not (by the Lord Sir) tis diuine,
It once beheld her radiant eyes bright shine:
Her haire imbrac'd it, ô thrice happie prick
That there was thron'd, and in her haire didst sticke.
Kisse, blesse, adore it Publius, neuer linne,
Some sacred vertue lurketh in the pinne.
O frantick fond pathetique passion!
Ist possible such sensuall action
Should clip the wings of contemplation?
O can it be the spirits function,
The soule not subiect to dimension,
Should be made slaue to reprehension
Of craftie natures paint? Fie, can our soule
Be vnderling to such a vile controule?
Saturio wish'd him selfe his Mistres buske,
154

That he might sweetly lie, and softly luske
Betweene her pappes, then must he haue an eye
At eyther end, that freely might discry
Both hills and dales. But out on Phrigio,
That wish'd he were his Mistres dog, to goe
And licke her milke-white fist, ô prettie grace,
That prettie Phrigio begs but Pretties place.
Parthenophell, thy wish I will omit,
So beastly tis I may not vtter it.
But Punicus, of all I'le beare with thee,
That faine would'st be thy Mistres smug Munkey,
Here's one would be a flea, (iest comicall)
Another his sweet Ladies verdingall
To clip her tender breech; Another he
Her siluer-handled fanne would gladly be,
Here's one would be his Mistres neck-lace faine,
To clip her faire, and kisse her azure vaine.
Fond fooles, well wish'd, and pittie but should bee,
For beastly shape to brutish soules agree.
If Lauras painted lip doe daine a kisse
To her enamor'd slaue, ô heauens blisse
(Straight he exclaimes) not to be match'd with this!
Blaspheming dolt, goe three-score sonnets write
Vpon a pictures kisse, ô rauing spright!
I am not saplesse, old, or rumatick,
No Hipponax mishapen stigmatick,
That I should thus inueigh gainst amorous spright
Of him whose soule doth turne Hermaphrodite,
But I doe sadly grieue, and inly vexe
To view the base dishonors of our sexe.
155

Tush, guiltles Doues, when Gods to force foule rapes,
Will turne themselues to any brutish shapes.
Base bastard powers, whom the world doth see
Trans-form'd to swine for sensuall luxurie;
The sonne of Saturne is become a Bull,
To crop the beauties of some female trull.
Now, when he hath his first wife Metim sped,
And fairely chok'd, least foole gods should be bred
Of that fond Mule. Themis his second wife
Hath turn'd away, that his vnbrideled life
Might haue more scope. Yet last his sisters loue
Must satiate the lustfull thoughts of Ioue.
Now doth the lecher in a Cuckowes shape
Commit a monstrous and incestuous rape.
Thrice sacred gods, and ô thrice blessed skies
Whose orbes includes such vertuous deities!
What should I say? Lust hath confounded all,
The bright glosse of our intellectuall
Is fouly soyl'd. The wanton wallowing
In fond delights, and amorous dallying,
Hath dusk'd the fairest splendour of our soule:
Nothing now left, but carkas, lothsome, foule.
For sure, if that some spright remained still,
Could it be subiect to lewd Lais will?
Reason by prudence in her function
Had wont to tutor all our action.
Ayding with precepts of philosophy
Our feebled natures imbecilitie:
But now affection, will, concupiscence,
Haue got o're Reason chiefe preheminence.
156

Tis so, els how, how should such basenes taint
As force it be made slaue to natures paint?
Me thinkes the spirits Pegase Fantasie
Should hoise the soule from such base slauery,
But now I see, and can right plainly show
From whence such abiect thoughts & actions grow.
Our aduerse body, beeing earthly, cold,
Heauie, dull, mortall, would not long infold
A stranger inmate, that was backward still
To all his dungie, brutish, sensuall will:
Now here-vpon our Intellectuall,
Compact of fire all celestiall,
Invisible, immortall, and diuine,
Grewe straight to scorne his Land-lordes muddy slime.
And therefore now is closely slunke away
(Leauing his smoakie house of mortall clay)
Adorn'd with all his beauties lineaments
And brightest iemms of shining ornaments.
His parts diuine, sacred, spirituall
Attending on him, leauing the sensuall
Base hangers on, lusking at home in slime,
Such as wont to stop port Esqueline.
Now doth the body ledde with sencelesse will,
(The which in reasons absence ruleth still)
Raue, talke idlie, as't were some deitie
Adoring female painted puppetry
Playing at put-pin, doting on some glasse
(Which breath'd but on his falsed glosse doth passe)
Toying with babies, and with fond pastime
157

Some childrens sport, deflowring of chast time,
Imploying all his wits in vaine expence,
Abusing all his organons of sence.
Returne, returne, sacred Synderesis,
Inspire our truncks, let not such mud as this
Pollute vs still. Awake our lethargie,
Raise vs from out our brain-sicke foolerie.
158

SATYRE. IX. Here's a toy to mocke an Ape indeede.

Grim-fac'd Reproofe, sparkle with threatning eye
Bend thy sower browes in my tart poesie.
Auant yee curres, houle in some cloudie mist,
Quake to behold a sharp-fang'd Satyrist.
O how on tiptoes proudly mounts my Muse,
Stalking a loftier gate then Satyres vse.
Me thinkes some sacred rage warmes all my vaines,
Making my spright mount vp to higher straines
Then wel beseemes a rough-tongu'd Satyres part,
But Art curbs Nature, Nature guildeth Art.
Come downe yee Apes, or I will strip you quite,
Baring your bald tayles to the peoples sight.
Yee Mimick slaues, what are you percht so high?
Downe Iack an Apes from thy fain'd roialtie.
What furr'd with beard, cas'd in a Satin sute
Iudiciall Iack? how hast thou got repute
Of a sound censure? O ideot times,
When gawdy Monkeyes mowe ore sprightly rimes!
O world of fooles, when all mens iudgement's set
And rests vpon some mumping Marmuset!
Yon Athens Ape (that can but simperingly
Yaule auditores humanissimi,
Bound to some seruile imitation,
Can with much sweat patch an Oration,)
Now vp he comes, and with his crooked eye
Presumes to squint on some faire Poesie;
159

And all as thanklesse as vngratefull Thames
He slinkes away, leauing but reeching steames
Of dungie slime behind, all as ingrate
He vseth it, as when I satiate
My spaniels paunch, who straight perfumes the roome,
With his tailes filth: so this vnciuill groome,
Ill-tutor'd pedant, Mortimers numbers
With muck-pit esculine filth bescumbers.
Now th'Ape chatters, and is as malecontent
As a bill-patch'd doore, whose entrailes out haue sent
And spewd theyr tenant.
My soule adores iudiciall schollership,
But when to seruile imitatorship
Some spruce Athenian pen is prentized,
Tis worse then Apish. Fie, bee not flattered
With seeming worth, fond affectation
Befits an Ape, and mumping Babilon.
O what a tricksie lerned nicking straine
Is this applauded, sencles, modern vain!
When late I heard it from sage Mutius lips
How il me thought such wanton Iigging skips
Beseem'd his grauer speech. Farre flie thy fame
Most, most, of me belou'd, whose silent name
One letter bounds. Thy true iudiciall stile
I euer honour, and if my loue beguile
Not much my hopes, then thy vnvalued worth
Shall mount faire place, when Apes are turned forth.
I am too milde, reach me my scourge againe,
160

O yon's a pen speakes in a learned vaine.
Deepe, past all sence. Lanthorne & candle light,
Here's all invisible, all mentall spright.
What hotchpotch, giberidge, doth the Poet bring?
How strangely speakes? yet sweetly doth he sing.
I once did know a tinckling Pewterer,
That was the vildest stumbling stutterer
That euer hack'd and hew'd our natiue tongue,
Yet to the Lute if you had heard him sung,
Iesu how sweet he breath'd. You can apply.
O sencelesse prose, iudiciall poesie,
How ill you'r link'd. This affectation,
To speake beyond mens apprehension,
How Apish tis. When all in fusten sute
Is cloth'd a huge nothing, all for repute
Of profound knowledge, when profoundnes knowes
There's nought containd, but only seeming showes.
Old Iack of Parris-garden, canst thou get
A faire rich sute, though fouly runne in debt?
Looke smug, smell sweet, take vp commodities,
Keepe whores, fee baudes, belch impious blasphemies,
Wallow along in swaggering disguise,
Snuffe vp smoak whiffs, & each morne fore she rise
Visite thy drab? Canst vse a false cut Die
With a cleane grace, and glib facilitie?
Canst thunder cannon oathes, like th'ratling
Of a huge, double, full-charg'd culuering?
Then Iack troupe mong our gallants, kisse thy fist,
And call them brothers. Say a Satyrist
Sweares they are thine in neere affinitie.
161

All coosin germaines, saue in villanie.
For (sadly truth to say) what are they els
But imitators of lewd beastlines?
Farre worse then Apes; for mow, or scratch your pate,
It may be some odde Ape will imitate.
But let a youth that hath abus'd his time,
In wronged trauaile, in that hoter clime,
Swoope by old Iack, in clothes Italienate:
And I'le be hang'd if he will imitate
His strange fantastique sute shapes.—
Or let him bring or'e beastly luxuries,
Some hell-deuised lustfull villanies,
Euen Apes & beasts would blush with natiue shame,
And thinke it foule dishonour to their name,
Their beastly name, to imitate such sin
As our lewd youths doe boast and glory in.
Fie, whether doe these Monkeys carry mee?
Their very names doe soile my poesie.
Thou world of Marmosets and mumping Apes,
Vnmaske, put of thy fained borrowed shapes.
Why lookes neate Curus all so simperingly?
Why babbles thou of deepe Diuinitie?
And of that sacred testimoniall?
Liuing voluptuous like a Bacchanall?
Good hath thy tongue: but thou ranke Puritan,
I'le make an Ape as good a Christian.
I'le force him chatter, turning vp his eye
Looke sad, goe graue. Demure ciuilitie
Shall seeme to say, Good brother, sister deere,
As for the rest, to snort in belly cheere,
To bite, to gnaw, and boldly intermell
162

With sacred things, in which thou doost excell,
Vnforc'd he'le doe. O take compassion
Euen on your soules, make not religion
A bawde to lewdnes. Ciuill Socrates,
Clip not the youth of Alcebiades
With vnchast armes. Disguised Messaline,
I'le teare thy maske, and bare thee to the eyne
Of hissing boyes, if to the Theaters
I finde thee once more come for lecherers
To satiate? Nay, to tyer thee with the vse
Of weakning lust. Yee fainers, leaue t'abuse
Our better thoughts with your hipocrisie,
Or by the euer-liuing Veritie,
I'le stryp you nak'd, and whyp you with my rimes,
Causing your shame to liue to after times.
163

[SATIRE X]
SATYRA NOVA. Stultorum plena sunt omnia.

To his very friend, maister E.G.

From out the sadnes of my discontent,
Hating my wonted iocund merriment,
(Onely to giue dull Time a swifter wing)
Thus scorning scorne of Ideot fooles, I sing.
I dread no bending of an angry brow,
Or rage of fooles that I shall purchase now.
Who'le scorne to sitte in ranke of foolery
When I'le be maister of the company?
For pre-thee Ned, I pre-thee gentle lad,
Is not he frantique, foolish, bedlam mad,
That wastes his spright, that melts his very braine
In deepe designes, in wits darke gloomie straine?
That scourgeth great slaues with a dreadlesse fist,
Playing the rough part of a Satyrist,
To be perus'd by all the dung-scum rable
Of thin-braind Ideots, dull, vncapable?
For mimicke apish schollers, pedants, gulls,
Perfum'd Inamoratoes, brothell trulls?
Whilst I (poore soule) abuse chast virgin Time,
Deflowring her with vnconceiued rime.
Tut, tut, a toy of an idle empty braine,
Some scurrill iests, light gew-gawes, fruitlesse, vaine.
Cryes beard-graue Dromus, when alas, God knowes,
164

His toothles gums nere chaw but outward showes.
Poore Budgeface, bowcase sleeue, but let him passe,
Once fur and beard shall priuiledge an Asse.
And tell me Ned, what might that gallant be,
Who to obtaine intemperate luxurie,
Cuckolds his elder brother, gets an heire,
By which his hope is turned to dispaire?
In fayth, (good Ned) he damn'd himselfe with cost,
For well thou know'st full goodly land was lost.
I am too priuate. Yet mee thinkes an Asse,
Rimes well with VIDERIT VTILITAS.
Euen full as well, I boldly dare auer
As any of that stinking Scauenger
Which from his dunghill hee bedaubed on
The latter page of old Pigmalion.
O that thys brother of hypocresie,
(Applauded by his pure fraternitie)
Should thus be puffed, and so proud insist,
As play on mee the Epigramatist.
Opinion mounts this froth vnto the skies,
Whom iudgements reason iustly vilefies.
For, (shame to the Poet,) reade Ned, behold
How wittily a Maisters-hoode can scold.

An Epigram which the Authour Vergidemiarum, caused to bee pasted to the latter page of euery Pigmalion that came to the stacioners of Cambridge.

I ask'd Phisitions what theyr counsell was
For a mad dogge, or for a mankind Asse?
They told mee though there were confections store,
165

Of Poppy-seede, and soueraine Hellebore,
The dog was best cured by cutting &

Mark the witty allusion to my name.

kinsing,
The Asse must be kindly whipped for winsing.
Nowe then S.K. I little passe
Whether thou be a mad dog, or a mankind Asse.
Medice cura teipsum.
Smart ierke of wit, did euer such a straine
Rise from an Apish schoole-boyes childish braine?
Doost thou not blush (good) Ned, that such a sent
Should rise from thence where thou hadst nutriment?
Shame to Opinion, that perfumes his dung,
And streweth flowers rotten bones among,
Iugling Opinion, thou inchaunting witch,
Paint not a rotten post with colours rich.
But now this Iugler with the worlds consent
Hath halfe his soule; the other, Compliment,
Mad world the whilst. But I forget mee I,
I am seduced with this poesie:
And madder then a Bedlam spend sweet time
In bitter numbers, in this idle rime,
Out on this humour. From a sickly bed,
And from a moodie minde distempered,
I vomit foorth my loue, now turn'd to hate,
Scorning the honour of a Poets state.
Nor shall the kennell route of muddy braines,
Rauish my Muses heyre, or heare my straines
Once more. No nittie pedant shall correct
Ænigmaes to his shallow Intelect.
166

Inchauntment, Ned hath rauished my sence
In a Poetick vaine circumference.
Yet thus I hope, (God shield I now should lie)
Many more fooles, and most more wise then I.
VALE.
167

[SATIRE XI]
Humours.

Sleep grim Reproofe, my iocond Muse dooth sing
In other keyes, to nimbler fingering.
Dull sprighted Melancholy, leaue my braine
To hell Cimerian night, in liuely vaine
I striue to paint, then hence all darke intent
And sullen frownes, come sporting meriment,
Cheeke dimpling laughter, crowne my very soule
With iouisance, whilst mirthfull iests controule
The goutie humours of these pride-swolne dayes,
Which I doe long vntill my pen displaies.
O I am great with mirth, some midwifrie,
Or I shall breake my sides at vanitie.
Roome for a capering mouth, whose lips nere stur,
But in discoursing of the gracefull slur:
Who euer heard spruce skipping Curio
Ere prate of ought, but of the whirle on toe.
The turne aboue ground, Robrus sprauling kicks,
Fabius caper, Harries tossing tricks?
Did euer any eare, ere heare him speake
Vnlesse his tongue of crosse-poynts did intreat?
His teeth doe caper whilst he eates his meate,
His heeles doe caper, whilst he takes his seate,
His very soule, his intellectuall
Is nothing but a mincing capreall.
He dreames of toe-turnes, each gallant hee doth meete
He fronts him with a trauers in the streete,
Prayse but Orchestra, and the skipping art,
168

You shall commaund him, faith you haue his hart
Euen capring in your fist. A hall, a hall,
Roome for the Spheres, the Orbes celestiall
Will daunce Kemps Iigge. They'le reuel with neate iumps
A worthy Poet hath put on their Pumps?
O wits quick trauers, but sance ceo's slow,
Good faith tis hard for nimble Curio.
Yee gracious Orbs, keepe the old measuring,
All's spoyld if once yee fall to capering.
Luscus what's playd to day? faith now I know
I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow
Naught but pure Iuliat and Romio.
Say, who acts best? Drusus, or Roscio?
Now I haue him, that nere of ought did speake
But when of playes or Plaiers he did treate.
H'ath made a common-place booke out of plaies,
And speakes in print, at least what ere he sayes
Is warranted by Curtaine plaudeties,
If ere you heard him courting Lesbias eyes;
Say (Curteous Sir) speakes he not mouingly
From out some new pathetique Tragedie?
He writes, he railes, he iests, he courts, what not,
And all from out his huge long scraped stock
Of well penn'd playes.
Oh come not within distance, Martius speakes,
Who nere discourseth but of fencing feates,
Of counter times, finctures, slye passataes,
Stramazones, resolute Stoccataes,
Of the quick change, with wiping mandritta,
169

The carricado, with th'enbrocata,
Oh, by Iesu Sir, (me thinks I heare him cry)
The honourable fencing mistery,
Who doth not honor? Then fals he in againe,
Iading our eares, and some-what must be saine
Of blades, and Rapier-hilts, of surest garde,
Of Vincentio, and the Burgonians ward.
This bumbast foile-button I once did see
By chaunce, in Liuias modest companie,
When after the God-sauing ceremonie,
For want of talke-stuffe, falls to foinerie,
Out goes his Rapier, and to Liuia
He showes the ward by puncta reuersa.
The incarnata. Nay, by the blessed light,
Before he goes, he'le teach her how to fight
And hold her weapon. Oh I laught amaine,
To see the madnes of this Martius vaine.
But roome for Tuscus, that iest-mounging youth,
Who nere did ope his Apish gerning mouth
But to retaile and broke anothers wit.
Discourse of what you will, he straight can fit
Your present talke, with, Sir, I'le tell a iest,
(Of some sweet Lady, or graund Lord at least)
Then on he goes. And nere his tongue shall lye
Till his ingrossed iests are all drawne dry;
But then as dumbe as Maurus, when at play
H'ath lost his crownes, and paun'd his trim array.
He doth naught but retaile iests, breake but one
Out flies his table-booke, let him alone,
He'le haue't i-fayth; Lad, hast an Epigram,
170

Wilt haue it put into the chaps of Fame?
Giue Tuscus coppies, sooth as his owne wit
His propper issue he will father it.
O that this Eccho, that doth speake, spet, write
Naught but the excrements of others spright,
This ill-stuft truncke of iests, whose very soule
Is but a heape of Iibes, should once inroule
His name mong creatures termed rationall,
whose cheefe repute, whose sence, whose soule & al
Are fedde with offall scrapes, that sometimes fal
From liberall wits, in their large festiuall.
Come a loft Iack, roome for a vaulting skip,
Roome for Torquatus, that nere op'd his lip
But in prate of pummado reuersa,
Of the nimble tumbling Angelica.
Now on my soule, his very intelect
Is naught but a curuetting Sommerset.
Hush, hush, cryes (honest Phylo) peace, desist,
Doost thou not tremble sower Satyrist
Now iudiciall Musus readeth thee?
He'le whip each line, he'le scourge thy balladry,
Good fayth he will. Phylo I prethee stay
Whilst I the humour of this dogge display:
He's naught but censure, wilt thou credite me,
He neuer wrote one line in poesie,
But once at Athens in a theame did frame
A paradox in prayse of Vertues name,
Which still he huggs, and lulls as tenderly
As cuckold Tisus his wifes bastardie.
Well, here's a challenge, I flatly say he lyes
171

That heard him ought but censure Poesies.
Tis his discourse, first hauing knit the brow,
Stroke vp his fore-top, champing euery row,
Belcheth his slauering censure on each booke
That dare presume euen on Medusa looke.
I haue no Artists skill in simphonies,
Yet when some pleasing Diapason flies
From out the belly of a sweet touch'd Lute,
My eares dares say tis good, or when they sute
Some harsher seauens for varietie,
My natiue skill discernes it presently.
What then? Will any sottish dolt repute
Or euer thinke me Orpheus absolute?
Shall all the world of Fidlers follow me,
Relying on my voyce in musickrie?
Musus here's Rhodes, let's see thy boasted leape,
Or els avaunt lewd curre, presume not speake,
Or with thy venome-sputtering chapps to barke
Gainst well-pend Poems, in the tongue-tied darke.
O for a humour, looke who yon doth goe,
The meager lecher, lewd Luxurio,
Tis he that hath the sole monopolie
By patent, of the Suburbe lecherie.
No new edition of drabbs comes out,
But seene and allow'd by Luxurios snout.
Did euer any man ere heare him talke
But of Pick-hatch, or of some Shorditch baulke,
Aretines filth, or of his wandring whore,
Of some Cynedian, or of Tacedore,
Of Ruscus nastie lothsome brothell rime,
That stincks like Aiax froth, or muck-pit slime.
The newes he tells you, is of some new flesh,
172

Lately broke vp, spanne new, hote piping fresh;
The curtesie he showes you, is some morne
To giue you Venus fore her smock be on.
His eyes, his tongue, his soule, his all is lust,
Which vengeance and confusion follow must.
Out on this salt humour, letchers dropsie,
Fie, it doth soyle my chaster poesie.
O spruce! How now Piso, Aurelius Ape,
What strange disguise, what new deformed shape
Doth hold thy thoughts in contemplation?
Faith say, what fashion art thou thinking on?
A stitch'd Taffata cloake, a payre of slops
Of Spanish leather? O who heard his chops
Ere chew of ought, but of some strange disguise.
This fashion-mounger, each morne fore he rise
Contemplates sute shapes, & once from out his bed,
He hath them straight full liuely portraied.
And then he chukes, and is as proud of this,
As Taphus when he got his neighbours blisse.
All fashions since the first yeare of this Queene,
May in his studdie fairely drawne be seene,
And all that shall be to his day of doome,
You may peruse within that little roome.
For not a fashion once dare show his face,
But from neate Pyso first must take his grace.
The long fooles coat, the huge slop, the lugg'd boot
From mimick Piso, all doe claime their roote.
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be coop'd vp in fashioning some roule!
But ô, Suffenus, (that dooth hugge, imbrace
His propper selfe, admires his owne sweet face,
Prayseth his owne faire limmes proportion,
173

Kisseth his shade, recounteth all alone
His owne good parts) who enuies him? not I,
For well he may, without all riualrie.
Fie, whether's fledde my sprights alacritie?
How dull I vent this humorous poesie.
In fayth I am sad, I am possest with ruth,
To see the vainenes of fayre Albions youth;
To see their richest time euen wholy spent
In that which is but Gentries ornament.
Which beeing meanely done, becomes them well,
But when with deere times losse they doe excell,
How ill they doe things well. To daunce & sing,
To vault, to fence, & fairely trot a ring
With good grace, meanely done. O what repute
They doe beget, but beeing absolute,
It argues too much time, too much regard
Imploy'd in that which might be better spard,
Then substance should be lost. If one should sew
For Lesbias loue, hauing two dayes to woe
And not one more, & should imploy those twaine
The fauour of her wayting-wench to gaine,
Were he not mad? Your apprehension,
Your wits are quicke in application.
Gallants,
Me thinks your soules should grudge, & inly scorne
To be made slaue, to humors that are borne
In slime of filthy sensualitie.
That part not subiect to mortalitie
(Boundlesse discursiue apprehension
Giuing it wings to act his function)
174

Me thinks should murmure, when you stop his course,
And soile his beauties in some beastly source,
Of brutish pleasures. But it is so poore,
So weake, so hunger bitten, euermore
Kept from his foode, meagar for want of meate,
Scorn'd and reiected, thrust from out his seate,
Vpbray'd by Capons greace, consumed quite
By eating stewes, that waste the better spright.
Snib'd by his baser parts, that now poore Soule,
(Thus pesanted to each lewd thoughts controule)
Hath lost all hart, bearing all iniuries,
The vtmost spight, and rank'st indignities
With forced willingnes. Taking great ioy
If you will daine his faculties imploy
But in the mean'st ingenious qualitie.
(How proude he'le be of any dignitie?)
Put it to musick, dauncing, fencing schoole,
Lord how I laugh to heare the pretty foole
How it will prate, his tongue shall neuer lie,
But still discourse of his spruce qualitie;
Egging his maister to proceed from this,
And get the substance of celestiall blisse.
His Lord straight calls his parliament of sence,
But still the sensuall haue preheminence.
The poore soules better part so feeble is,
So cold and dead is his Synderisis,
That shadowes by odde chaunce somtimes are got,
But ô the substance is respected not.
Here ends my rage, though angry brow was bent,
Yet I haue sung in sporting merriment.
FINIS.
175

To euerlasting Obliuion.

Thou mighty gulfe, insatiat cormorant,
Deride me not, though I seeme petulant
To fall into thy chops. Let others pray
For euer their faire Poems flourish may.
But as for mee, hungry Obliuion
Deuoure me quick, accept my orizon:
My earnest prayers, which doe importune thee,
With gloomie shade of thy still Emperie,
To vaile both me and my rude poesie.
Farre worthier lines in silence of thy state
Doe sleepe securely free from loue or hate,
From which this liuing, nere can be exempt,
But whilst it breathes will hate and furie tempt.
Then close his eyes with thy all-dimming hand,
Which not right glorious actions can with-stand.
Peace hatefull tongues, I now in silence pace,
Vnlesse some hound doe wake me from my place,
I with this sharpe, yet well meant poesie,
Will sleepe secure, right free from iniurie
Of cancred hate, or rankest villanie.
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