University of Virginia Library

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.

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
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.

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?
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,
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,
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.