University of Virginia Library

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,
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
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.

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.