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The fourthe Satyre.

THE POETE COMMONETH with the Epicure Catius, who reueleth vnto hym a great companie of scholetrickes of that secte. The poet nyppeth hym floutyngly, as he dyd els where the precisde Stoike, and suche the lyke fondlyges.

Horace.
From whence, and whether Catius?

Catius.
I haue no tyme, farewell,
To teache a schoole of newe preceptes,
not suche as doo excelle,
Pythagoras, or Socrates,
or lettred Dan Plato.

Hor.
I graunt my gylte, at yll aspecte,
to speake vnto you so:
Nathelesse, I hope your maystershyppe,
Wyll beare with me thys ones,
Some dayntie doctrine of your secte,
and nouell for the nones
Propounde, of nature, or of arte,
for you in bothe doo passe.

Cati.
Yea syr, to speake of matters all,
that aye my commynge was:
And for to speake accordyngly,
of rude and homely matter.


Horace.
A Romayne, nor an Alyen,
that taughte you so to clatter?

Catius.
I wyll disclose his mysteries,
but not bewray his name:
Least some, myslykyng his preceptes,
the author selfe myght blame.

The Epicure his schoole.
Egges longe and whyte, be nutritiue
muche better then the rounde:
Egges rosted harde, be costiue, yea
vnholsome and vnsounde.
The gardeyne herbes be not so swete,
As those on mountaynes bee:
The watrye soyle, the vertue slakes,
that it is not so free.
The moushrom that doth spring in meades,
or in a supple grounde:
Is beste, for suche as growe els where,
moste noysome haue ben founde.
If guestes come to thee at vnwares,
in water myxte with wyne,
Souse thou thy henne, she wyll become,
shorte, tender, neshe, and fyne.
Who after meate, eates Mulberies,
soone ryped of the sonne:
Shall lyue in health and iolytie,
whylste many sommers ronne.
Aufidius, myxt heddy wyne,

Aufidius, an yll scholer for the Epicure his dyete.
and honey all in one,
No craftesman he: for symple wynes
doo breede a force alone,
A louely force in symple wynes:
Meathe, vrine doothe prouoke,
The Muge fushe, and the Muscles cheape,
In purgynge beare a stroke.
So Coos wyne, with sorell meynt,
hath vertue to expell.

Shelfyshe, in growynge of the moone,
is beste to eate or sell:
Not euery sea, hath fyshe a lyke:
Pelore in Lucrin growes,
The Murer fishe from Baiæ cums,
whence purple coloure flowes
From Circes choppynge oysters newe,
From Micen vrchen fishe,
Of sealed Scalop, Tarento
bragges, as her proper dyshe.
To furnyshe well a feast, is harde,
a thynge not learnde in haste:
He that woulde doo it gorgious,
must haue a practisde taste.
Its not enough to fraight the boorde
with sea fyshe out of measure:
There muste be brothe for squaymous folke,
and spices all of pleasure.
In Vmbria the maste fedde bores,
doo charge the vessels greate:
Uessells, whiche haue not in them borne,
the common sortes of meate.
The bore is yll in Laurente soyle,
that feedes on reakes and reeds,
Somtymes, frome goodly pleasant vine,
a sower tendrell speedes.

The Epicure a Benefactor to the Calat.

Who lykes to eate the fruitfull hare,
her forepartes are the beste,
The choyce and vse of fyshe and fleshe
by me fyrste were expreste.
I made them so delicious,
so welcome to the taste:
Some can vouchesafe theyr wittes and paynes
in pastrye for to waste:
It is not muche commendable,
to knowe a knacke or twayne:

As if in brewinge spyced wynes,
thou shouldst bestow muche paine:
And sauce thy meate with foystie oyles,
thy gesse wooulde the disdaine.
If thou wilte purge mounteflascon wynes,
and make them pure and cleare,
Set them abrode in open ayre,
when many starres appeare.
The greuouse smell, by force of ayre,
will passe and fade away:
Through streyning of them through a clofhe,
the good smell woulde decay.
To mingle in thyne egge at meales,
a litle sacke and saulte,
Doth mende the yelke or whyte therof,
if it haue anye faulte.
With Africke cocles or with shrimpes,
he that is cloyed may,
Be freshe againe: in stomacke sharpe,
the lettise it doth play.
The stronge may eate good looshiouse meate,
in kytchins whiche be dreste,
The kitchin phisicke, is for them,
simplye, the very beste.
It is behouable to knowe,
of sauce a double kynde,
The one, of simple olyue oyle,
as we in arte do fynde.
The compounde hath that goes therto,
Constantinoble bryne,
Herbes shred, and minced very thicke,
some kynde of compounde wyne:
An oyle from Uenefratuum broughte,
(Lo) that is passinge fyne.
Moste commonly, that fruite is beste,
that lyketh best the eye.

Some grapes may be conserude by meanes,
some pressed by and by,
I taught the waye, to kepe them greene,
without all ylde or faulte,
To eate hearryng with iuyce of grapes,
white pepper, and blacke saulte.
All those I badde, for to be borne,
In vessels of greate pryde.
A fayre brode fishe muste aye be borne,
in vessells large and wyde.
To lashe out all, is not the beste,
it can not be denyde.
Muche thynge dothe hurte the stomake muche,
as if thy boye or mayde

The Epicure cannot fynde in his hart to eate with a pore man nor to haue hym eate or drinke in his companye.

Hathe eate in syghte, or haue thy cuppe,
With slauyshe hande assayde.
Or in some creuysse motes do stycke,
vnmoued to or fro:
Therfore broomes, napkyns, must be bought,
Wyth many trinkets mo,
It is a filthy ouersyghte,
yf all thynges be not cleane:
To rubbe thynges with thy purple cloths,
Iwis it woulde them steane.
To haue suche necessary thynges
is hansome, and lesse deare,
Seclude neatenesse, and then no waste,
Can make delitefull cheare.

Poet.
Sir Catius, for Goddes dere loue
and myne, my prayer is,
An other tyme, to leade me, where
I maye heare more of this.
Though well I wote, you coulde for skille,
haue played the maisters parte,
Yet nothyng lyke the Epicure,
the father of the arte.

Besydes his graue and modeste lookes,
and reuerent attyre,
Woulde make one heare him muche the more,
with zeale, and great desyre.
Whome you perchance esteme the lesse,
because you happie stille,
Enioye his syght: but I doo wishe
to go vnto my fill,
The christall fountaynes harde to fynde,
and there from vertues rife,
To take and practise perfecte rules,
of pure and blessed lyfe.

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