 | The poems of John Marston |  |
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.
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?
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.
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.
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
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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.
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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?
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,
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?
(He that some-times play'th Flauias vsherer)
I heard one day complaine to Linceus,
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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.
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.
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,
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.
I sheathe my weapons and doe breake my darts,
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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.
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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?
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.)
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
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.
Those idle rimes to note the odious spot
And blemish that deformes the lineaments
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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,
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
I heare expose to Ideots controule?
What though I bare to lewd Opinion
Lay ope to vulgar prophanation
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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.
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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.
Is this a Man? Nay, an incarnate deuill,
That struts in vice, and glorieth in euill.
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.
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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 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
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,
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.
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
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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,
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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.
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?
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.
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?
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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.
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,
But being once arriued at the brim,
He shakes it off.
Is but a water-spaniell that will faune
And kisse the water whilst it pleasures him,
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He shakes it off.
Yon in the capring cloake, a Mimick Ape
That onely striues to seeme an others shape.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
For her loose lying body, her bright spangled crown
Her long slit sleeue, stiffe busk, puffe verdingall,
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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.
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.
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.
| The poems of John Marston | |