University of Virginia Library

LIB. 4.

SAT. 1. Che baiar Vuol, bai.

Who dares vpbraid these open rimes of mine,
With blindfold Aquines, or darke Venusine?
Or rough-hew'ne Teretisius writ in th'antique vain
Like an old Satyre, and new Flaccian?
Which who reads thrise, & rubs his rugged brow,
And deepe indenteth euery doubtfull row,
Scoring the margent with his blazing stars
And hundreth crooked interlinears,
(Like to a merchants debt-role new defac't
When some crack'd Manour crost his book at last)
Should all in rage the Curse-beat Page out-riue,
And in ech dust-heapt bury mee aliue
Stamping like Bucephall whose slackned raynes,
And bloody set-lockes fry with seuen mens braines;
More cruell then the crauon Satyres Ghost,
That bound dead-bones vnto a burning post,
Or some more strait-lac'd Iuror of the rest,
Impannel'd of an Holy Fax inquest;
Yet well bethought stoops downe, and reads a new,
The best lies low, and loaths the shallow view,
Quoth old Eudemon, when his gout-swolne fist
Gropes for his double Ducates in his chist:
Then buckle close his carelesse lyds once more,
To pose the poore-blind snake of Epidaore.
That Lyncius may be match't with Gaulards sight,
That sees not Paris for the houses height;
Or wilie Cyppus, that can winke and snort
Whiles his wife dallyes on Mæcenas skort;
Yet when hee hath my crabbed Pamphlet red:
As oftentimes as PHILIP hath beene dead,
Bids all the Furies haunt ech peeuish line
That thus haue rackt their friendly readers eyne;
Worse then the Logogryphes of later times,
Or Hundreth Riddles shak't to sleeue-lesse rimes;
Should I endure these curses and dispight
While no mans eare should glow at what I write?
Labeo is whip't, and laughs mee in the face
Why? for I smite and hide the galled-place.
Gird but the Cynicks Helmet on his head,
Cares hee for Talus, or his slayle of lead?
Long as the craftie Cuttle lieth sure
In the blacke Cloud of his thicke vomiture;
Who list complaine of wronged faith or fame
When hee may shift it to anothers name?
Caluus can scratch his elbow, and can smile,
That thrift-lesse Pontice bites his lip the while
Yet I intended in that selfe deuise,
To checke the churle for his knowne couetise.
Ech points his straight fore-finger to his friend,
Like the blind Diall on the Belfrey end,
Who turns it homeward to say, this is I,
As bolder Socrates in the Comedie?
But single out, and say once plat and plaine
That coy Matrona is a Curtizan,
Or thou false Crispus chokd'st thy welthy guest
Whiles hee lay snoring at his midnight rest,
And in thy dung-cart did'st the carkasse shrine
And deepe intombe it in Port-esquiline;
Proud Trebius liu's for all his princely gate
Or third-hand suits, and scrapings of the plate,
Titius knew not where to shroud his head
Vntill hee did a dying widow wed;
Whiles shee lay doting on her deathes bed
And now hath purchas'd lands with one nights paine
And on the morrow woes and weds againe.
Now see I fire-flakes sparkle from his eies
Like to a Comets tayle in th'angrie skies,
His pouting cheeks puff vp aboue his brow
Like a swolne Toad touch't with the Spiders blow;
His mouth shrinks sideward like a scornfull Playse
To take his tired Eares ingratefull place:
His Eares hang lauing like a new-lug'd swine
To take some counsell of his grieued eyne,
Now laugh I loud, and breake my splene to see
This pleasing pastime of my poesie,
Much better then a Paris-Garden Beare
Or prating puppet on a Theatere.
Or Mimoes whistling to his tabouret
Selling a laughter for a cold meales meat;
Go to then ye my sacred Semones;
And please mee more, the more ye doe displease;
Care we for all those bugs of ydle feare?
For Tigels grinning on the Theater,
Or scar-babe threatnings of the rascal crue,
Or wind-spent verdicts of ech Ale-knights view,
What euer brest doth freeze for such false dread;
Beshrew his base white liuer for his meede;
Fond were that pittie, and that feare were sin,
To spare wast leaues that so deserued bin:
Those tooth-lesse Toyes that dropt out by mis-hap,
Bee but as lightning to a thunder-clap:
Shall then that foule infamous Cyneds hide
Laugh at the purple wales of others side?
Not, if hee were as neere; as by report,
The stewes had wont be to the Tenis-court.
Hee that while thousands enuy at his bed,
Neighs after Bridals, and fresh-mayden head;
While slauish Iuno dares not looke awry
To frowne at such imperious riualrie,
Not tho shee sees her wedding Iewels drest
To make new Bracelets for a strumpets wrest,
Or like some strange disguised Messaline.
Hires a nights lodging of his concubine;
Whether his twilight-torch of loue doe call
To reuels of vncleanly Musicall,
Or midnight playes, or Tauerns of new wine,
Hy ye white Aprons, to your Land-Lords signe;
When all saue tooth-lesse age or infancie,
Are summon'd to the Court of Venerie.
Who list excuse? when chaster dames can hyre,
Some snout-fayre stripling to their Apple-squire:
Whom slaked vp like to some stallion-steed
They keepe with Egs and Oysters for the breed;
O Lucine! barren Caia hath an heire
After her husband's dozen yeares despayre.
And now the bribed Mid-wise sweares apace,
The bastard babe doth beare his fathers face;
But hath not Lelia past her virgine yeares?
For modest shame (God wot) or penall feares.
He tels a Merchant tidings of a prise.
That tells Cynedo of such nouelties;
Worth litle lesse then landing of a whale,
Or Gades spoyles, or a churls funerall:
Go bid the banes, and poynt the bridall-day,
His broking Baud hath got a noble prey,
A vacant tenement, an honest dowre
Can fit his pander for her paramoure,
That hee, base wretch, may clog his wit-old head
And giue him hansell of his Hymen-bed:
Ho! all ye Females that would liue vnshent
Fly from the reach of Cyneds regiment;
If Trent be drawn to dregs, and Low refuse,
Hence ye hot lechour, to the steaming stewes.
Tyber the famous sinke of Christendome
Turn thou to Thames, & Thames rūn towards Rome,
What euer damned streame but thine were meete
To quench his lusting liuers boyling heat.
Thy double draught may quench his dog-daies rage
With some stale Bacchis, or obsequious page,
When writhen Lena makes her sale-set showes:
Of wooden Venus with fayre limned browes,
Or like him more some vayled Matrones face,
Or trayned prentise trading in the place:
The close adulteresse, where her name is red
Coms crauling from her husbands luke warme bed,
Her carrion skin be daub'd with odors sweet,
Groping the postern with her bared feet.
Now play the Satyre who so list for mee,
Valentine selfe, or some as chast as hee;
In vaine shee wisheth long Alchmænas night
Cursing the hasty dawning of the light,
And with her cruell Ladie-starre vprose
Shee seekes her third roust on her silent toes.
Besmeared all with loathsome smoke of lust
Like Acherons steemes, or smoldring sulphur dust,
Yet all day sits shee simpring in her mew
Like some chast dame, or shrined saynct in shew,
While shee lies wallowing with a westy hed
And palish carkasse, on his Brothel-bed,
Till his salt bowels boyle with poysonous fire,
Right Hercules with his second Deianïre:
O Eseulape! how rife is Phisicke made
When ech Brasse-basen can professe the trade
Of ridding pocky wretches from their paine,
And doe the beastly cure for ten-grotes gaine?
All these & more, deserue some blood-drawne lines,
But my sixe Cords beene of too loose a twine,
Stay till my beard shal sweepe mine aged brest,
Then shall I seeme an awfull Satyrist;
While now my rimes rellish of the Ferule still,
Some nose-wise Pedant saith; whose deep seen skill
Hath three times construed eyther Flaccus ore
And thrise rehears'd them in his Triniall floare,
So let them taxe mee for my hote-bloodes rage,
Rather then say I doted in my age.

SAT. 2. Arcades ambo.

Old driueling Lolio drudges all he can,
To make his eldest sonne a Gentleman;
Who can despayre that sees another thriue,
By lone of twelue-pence to an Oyster-wiue?
when a craz'd scaffold, and a rotten stage,
Was all rich Næuius his heritage.
Nought spendeth he for feare, nor spares for cost,
And all he spendes and spaires beside is lost;
Himselfe goes patch'd like some bare Cottyer,
Least he might ought the future stocke appeyre.
Let giddy Cosmius change his choyce aray,
Like as the Turke his Tents thrise in a day.
And all the sun and ayre his sutes vntold
From spightfull mothes, and frets, and hoary mold,
Bearing his paune-layd lands vpon his backe
As snayles their shels, or pedlers doe their packe:
Who cannot shine in tissues and pure gold,
That hath his lands and patrimonie sold?
Loli-oes side-cote is rough Pampilian
Guilded with drops that downe the bosome ran,
White Carsy hose, patched on eyther knee,
The very Embleme of good husbandrie.
And a knit night-cap made of coursest twine,
With two long labels button'd to his chin;
So rides he mounted on the market-day
Vpon a straw-stu'st pannell, all the way;
With a Maund charg'd with houshold merchandise
With egs, or white-meat, from both Dayries:
And with that byes he rost for sunday-noone,
Proud how he made that weeks prouision;
Else is he stall-fed on the workey-day
With browne-bread crusts softened in sodden whay,
Or water-grewell, or those paups of meale
That Maro makes his Simule, and Cybeale.
Or once a weeke perhaps for nouelty,
Reez'd Bacon soords shall feast his family;
And weens this more then one egge cle'st in twaine
To feast some patrone and his chappelaine:
Or more then is some hungry gallants dole
That in a dearth runs sneaking to an hole;
And leaues his man and dog to keepe his hall
Least the wild roome should run forth of the wall;
Good man! him list not spend his idle meales
In quinsing Plouers, or in winning Quailes;
Nor toot in Cheap-side baskets earne and late
To set the first tooth in some nouell-cate
Let sweeet-mouth'd Mercia, bid what crowns she please
For halfe-red Cherries, or greene garden-pease,
Or the first Artichoks of all the yeare,
To make so lauish cost for little cheare:
When Lolio feasteth in his reueling fit
Some starued Pullen scoures the rusted spitt.
For else how should his sonne maintained bee,
At Ins of Court or of the Chancery:
There to learne law, and courtly carriage,
To make amendes for his meane parentage,
Where he vnknowne and ruffling as he can,
Goes currant ech-where for a Gentleman.
What brokers lousy wardrop cannot reach,
With tissued panes to prancke ech peasants breech?
Couldst thou but giue the wall, the cap, the knee,
To proud Sartorio that goes stradling by,
Wer't not the needle pricked on his sleeue
Doth by good hap the secret watch-word giue?
But hear'st thou Lolioes sonne, gin not thy gate,
Vntill the euening Oule or bloody-Batt.
Neuer vntill the lamps of of Paules beene light,
And niggard lanternes shade the Moon-shine night;
Then when the guiltie bankrupt in bold dread,
From his close Cabin thrusts his shrinking head,
That hath bene long in shady shelter pent
Imprisoned for feare of prisonment.
May be some russet-cote Parochian
Shall call thee cosen, friend or countryman,
And for thy hoped fist crossing the street,
Shall in thy fathers name his God-son greete,
Could neuer man worke the a worser shame
Then once to minge thy fathers odious name,
Whose mention were alike to thee as leeue
As a Catch-pols fist vnto a Bankrupts sleeue;
Or an, Hos ego, from old Petrarchs spright
Vnto a Plagiarie sonnet-wright.
There soone as he can kisse his hand in gree,
And with good grace bow it below the knee,
Or make a Spanish face with fauning cheere,
With th'Iland-Conge like a Caualier;
And shake his head, and cringe his necke and side,
Home hyes he in his fathers Farme to bide,
The Tenants wonder at their Land-Lords Sonne,
And blesse them at so sudden comming on.
More then who vies his pence to viewe some trick,
Of strange Moroccoes dumbe Arithmetike,
Or the young Elephant, or two-tayl'd steere,
Or the rigd' Camell, or the Fidling Frere.
Nay then his Hodge shall leaue the plough & waine.
And buy a booke, and to Schole againe,
Why mought not he aswell as others done:
Rise from his Festue to his Littleton.
Fooles, they may feede with words & liue by ayre,
That climbe to honor by the Pulpits stayre.
Sit seuen yeares pining in an Anchores cheyre,
To win some patched shreds of Miniuere,
And seuen more plod at a Patrons tayle,
To get a gelded Chappels cheaper sayle,
Olde Lolio sees and laugheth in his sleeue,
At the great hope they and his state do giue,
But that which glads and makes him proud'st of all,
Is when the brabling Neighbours on him call,
For counsell in some crabbed case of lawe,
Or some Indentments, or some bond to draw:
His Neighbours goose hath grazed on his Lea,
What action mought be entred in the plea,
So new falne lands haue made him in request,
That now he lookes as lofty as the best.
And well done Lolio, like a thrifty syre,
T'were pitty but thy sonne should proue a squire.
How I fore-see in many ages past,
When Lolioes caytiue name is quite defa'st,
Thine heyre, thine heyres heyre, & his heire againe
From out the loynes of carefull Lolian,
Shall climbe vp to the Chancell pewes on hie,
And rule and raigne in their rich Tenancie;
When perch't aloft to perfect their estate
They racke their rents vnto a treble rate;
And hedge in all the neighbour commonlands,
And clogge their slauish tenant with commaunds
Whiles they, poore soules, with feeling sighs cōplain
And wish old Lolio were aliue againe;
And praise his gentle soule and wish it weell
And of his friendly facts fall often tell.
His father dead, tush, no it was not hee,
He finds records of his great pedigree,
And tels how first his famous Ancestor
Did come in long since with the conquerour,
Nor hath some bribed Herald first assign'd
His quartered Armes and crest of gentle kinde,
The scottish Barnacle (if I might choose)
That of a worme doth wax a winged goose;
Nathelesse some hungry squire for hope of good
Matches the churles Sonne into gentle blood,
Whose sonne more iustly of his gentry boasts
Then who were borne at two pide-painted posts;
And had some traunting Merchant to his syre
That traufiqu'ed both by water and by fyre.
O times! since euer Rome did Kings create,
Brasse Gentlemen, and Cæsar Laureates.

SAT. 3. Fuimus Troës, VEL Vix ea nostra.

VVhat boots it Pontice, tho thou could'st discourse
Of a long golden line of Ancestors?
Or shew their painted faces gaylie drest,
From euer since before the last conquest;
Or tedious Bedroles of descended blood,
From Father Iaphet since Deucalions flood,
Or call some old Church-windowes to record,
The age of thy fayre Arms,
Or find some figures halfe Obliterate:
In rain-beat Marble neare to the Church-gate,
Vpon a Crosse-leg'd Toombe: what boots it thee
To shew the rusted Buckle that did tie,
The Garter of thy greatest Grand-sires knee.
What to reserue their reliques many yeares,
Their siluer-spurs, or spils of broken speares;
Or cite olde Oclands verse, how they did weild,
The wars in Turwin, or in Turney field;
And if thou canst in picking strawes engage
In one halfe day thy fathers heritate,
Or hide what euer treasures he thee got,
In some deepe Cock-pit; or in desperate Lot
Vpon a sixe-square peece of Iuorie,
Throw both thy selfe, and thy Posteritie?
Or if (O shame) in hired Harlots bed
Thy wealthy heyre-dome thou haue buried,
Then Pontice little boots thee to discourse,
Of a long golden line of Ancestors:
Ventrous Fortunio his farme hath sold,
And gads to Guiane land to fish for gold,
Meeting perhaps, if Orenoque denye,
Some stragling pinnace of Polonian Rie.
Then comes home floting with a silken sayle,
That Seuerne shaketh with his Canon-peale;
Wyser Raymundus in his closet pent,
Laughs at such daunger and aduenturement;
When halfe his lands are spent in golden smoke,
And nowe his second hopefull glasse is broke.
But yet if haply his third fornace hold,
Deuoteth all his pots and pans to gold;
So spend thou Pontice, if thou canst not spare,
Like some stout sea-man or Philosopher;
And were thy fathers gentle? that's their praise,
No thanke to thee by whome their name decays;
By vertue got they it, and valourous deed,
Do thou so Pontice, and be honoured:
But els looke howe their vertue was their owne,
Not capable of propagation,
Right so their titles beene, nor can be thine,
Whose ill deserts might blancke their golden line.
Tell me, thou gentle Troian; dost thou prise
Thy brute beasts worth by their dams qualities;
Say'st thou this Colt shall prooue a swift-pac'd steed,
Only because a Iennet did him breed?
Or say'st thou this same Horsse shall win the prize,
Because his dame was swiftest Trunchefice,
Or Runceuall his Syre; himselfe a Gallaway?
Whiles like a tireling Iade he lags half-waye;
Or whiles thou seest some of thy Stallion-race,
Their eyes boar'd out, masking the Millers-maze,
Like to a Scythian slaue sworne to the payle;
Or dragging froathy barrels at his tayle?
Albee wise Nature in her prouidence,
Wont in the want of reason and of sence,
Traduce the natiue vertue with the kinde,
Making all brute and senselesse things inclin'd,
Vnto their cause, or place where they were sowne;
That one is like to all, and all like one;
Was neuer Foxe but wily cubs begets,
The Beare his feirce-nesse to his brood besets;
Nor fearefull Hare fals out of Lyons seede,
Nor Eagle wont the tender Doue to breede;
Creet euer wont the Cypresse sad to beare,
Acheron banks the palish Popelare;
The Palme doth rifely rise in Iury field,
And Alpheus waters nought but Oliues wild.
Æsopus breeds big-Bul-Rushes alone,
Meander heath; Peaches by Nilus growne;
An English Wolfe, an Irish Toad to see,
Were as a chast-man nurs'd in Italie.
And now when Nature giues another guide,
To humane-kind that in his bosome bides:
Aboue instinct his reason and discourse,
His beeing better, is his life the worse?
Ah me! how seldome see we sonns succeed,
Their Fathers praise in prowesse, and great deed;
Yet, certes if the Syre be ill inclin'd
His faults befall his sonns by course of kinde;
Scaurus was couetous; his sonne not so,
But not his pared nayle will hee forgoe:
Florian the syre did women loue a life,
And so his sonne doth too; all, but his wife:
Brag of thy Fathers faults, they are thine owne;
Brag of his Lands, if those bee not for gone:
Brag of thine owne good deeds, for they are thine,
More then his life, or lands, or golden line.

SAT. 4. Plus beau que fort.

Can I not touch some vpstart carpet-sheild
Of Lolio's sonne, that neuer saw the field,
Or taxe wild Pontice for his Luxuries,
But straight they tell mee of Tiresias eyes,
Or lucklesse Collingborns feeding of the crowes,
Or hundreth Scalps which Thames still vnderflowes?
But straight Sigalion nods and knits his browes,
And winkes and wastes his warning hand for feare,
And lisps some silent letters in my eare?
Haue I not vow'd for shunning such debate
(Pardon ye Satyres) to degenerate?
And wading low in this plebeian lake
That no salt waue shall froath vpon my backe,
Let Labeo, or who else list for mee,
Go loose his eares and fall to Alchymie.
Onely, let Gallio giue me leaue a while
To schoole him once, or ere I change my style.
O lawlesse paunch the cause of much despight,
Through raunging of a currish appetite,
When splenish morsels cram the gaping Maw,
Withouten diets care, or trencher-law,
Tho neuer haue I Salerne rimes profest
To be some Ladies trencher-criticke guest;
Whiles each bitt cooleth for the Oracle
Whose sentence charms it with a ryming spell;
Touch not this Coler, that Melancholy
This bit were dry and hote, that cold and dry;
Yet can I set my Gallios dieting,
A pestle of a Larke, or Plouers wing,
And warne him not to cast his wanton eyne
On grosser Bacon, or salt Haberdine,
Or dried Fliches of some smoked Beeue,
Hang'd on a writhen with, since Martins eue,
Or burnt Larkes heeles, or Rashers raw and grene,
Or Melancholike liuer of an Hen,
Which stout Vorauo brag's to make his feast,
And claps his hand on his braue Ostrige-brest;
Then fals to praise the hardy Ianizar,
That sucks his horse side thirsting in the warre;
Lastly to seale vp all that he hath spoke,
Quaffes a whole Tunnell of Tobacco smoke:
If Martius in boystrous Buffes be drest,
Branded with Iron-plates vpon the brest,
And pointed on the shoulders, for the nonce,
As new-come from the Belgian garrisons;
What shall thou need to enuie ought as that,
When as thou smellest like a Ciuet-Cat;
When as thine oyled lookes smooth platted fall,
Shining like varnisht pictures on a wall.
When a plum'd Fanne may shade thy chalked face,
And lawny strips thy naked bosome grace:
If brabling Make-fray at ech Fayre and and Sise,
Picks quarrels for to show his valiantise,
Straight pressed for an hungry Swizzers pay,
To thrust his fist to each part of the fray,
And piping hote puffes towards the pointed plaine,
With a broad Scot, or proking spit of Spayne,
Or hoyseth sayle vp to a forraine shore,
That he may liue a lawlesse Conquerer.
If some such desperate Hackster shall deuise
To rouze thine Hares hart from her cowardise,
As idle children striuing to excell,
In blowing bubles from an emptie shell;
Oh Hercules how like to proue a man
That all so rath thy warlike life began;
Thy mother could thee for thy cradle set,
Her husbands rusty iron corselet;
Whose iargling sound might rocke her babe to rest;
That neuer playn'd of his vneasie nest
There did he dreame of drery wars at hand,
And woke, and fought, and won, ere he could stand;
But who hath seene the Lambs of Tarentine,
May gesse what Gallio his manners beene;
All soft as is the falling thistle-downe,
Soft as the fumy ball, or Morrians crowne;
Now Gallio, gines thy youthly heate to raigne
In euery vigorous limme, and swelling vaine,
Time bids thee raise thine hedstrong thoughts on hy
To valour and aduenterous chiualrie;
Paune thou no gloue for challenge of the deed,
Nor make thy Quintaine others armed head
T'enrich the waiting Herald with thy shame
And make thy losse, the scornfull scaffolds game.
Wars; God forsend; nay God defend from warre,
Soone are Sonns spent, that not soone reared are:
Gallio may pull mee Roses ere they fall,
Or in his Net entrap the Tennis-ball:
Or tend his Spar-hauke mantling in her mew,
Or yelping Begles busy heeles persue,
Or watch a sinking corke vpon the shore.
Or halter Finches through a priuy doore,
Or list he spend the time in sportfull game,
In daily courting of his louely dame,
Hang'e on her lips, melt in her wanton eye,
Dance in her hand, ioy in her iollity,
Here's little perill, and much lesser paine,
So timely Hymen doe the rest restraine:
Hy wanton Gallio and wed betime,
Why should'st thou leese the pelasures of thy prime?
Seest thou the Rose-leaues fall vngathered?
Then hy thee wanton Gallio to wed:
Let Ring and Ferule meet vpon thine hand,
And Lucines girdle with her swathing-bands,
Hy thee and giue the world yet one dwarfe more:
Such as it got when thou thy selfe wast bore:
Looke not for warning of thy bloomed chin,
Can neuer happines to soone begin;
Virginius vow'd to keepe his Mayden-head;
And eats chast Lettuce, and drinkes Poppy-seed,
And smels on Camphyre fasting: and that done
Long hath he liu'd, chast as a vayled Nunne.
Free as the new-absolued Damosell,
That Frere Cornelius shriued in his Cell,
Till now he waxt a toothlesse Bacheler
He thaw's like Chaucers frosty Ianiuere;
And sets a Months minde vpon smyling May,
And dyes his beard that did his age bewray;
Byting on Annis-seede, and Rose-marine,
Which might the Fume of his rot lungs refine,
Now he in Charons barge a Bride doth seeke,
The maydens mocke, and call him withered Leeke,
That with a greene tayle hath an hoary head,
And now he would, and now he cannot wed.

SAT. 5. Stupet Albius ære.

Would now that Matho were the Satyrist,
That some fat bribe might greaze him in the fist,
For which he neede not braule at any barre,
Nor kisse the booke to be a periurer;
Who else would scorne his silence to haue solde,
And haue his tongue tyed with stringes of gold?
Curius is dead, and buried long since,
And all that loued golden Abstinence:
Might he not well repine at his olde see,
Would he but spare to speake of vsurie?
Hirelings enow beside, can be so base,
Tho we should scorne ech bribing varlets brasse;
Yet he and I could shun ech iealous head,
Sticking our thumbs close to our girdle stead,
Tho were they manicled behinde our backe,
Anothers fist can serue our fees to take:
Yet pursy Euclio cheatly smiling prayd,
That my sharpe words might curtal their side trade;
For thousands beene in euery gouernall,
That liue by losse, and rise by others fall,
What euer sickly sheepe so secret dies,
But some foule Rauen hath bespoke his eyes?
What else makes N. when his lands are spent,
Go shaking like a threedbare male content.
Whose band-lesse Bonnet vailes his ore-grown chin,
And sullen rags be wray his Morphew'd skin;
So ships he to the woluish westerne ile,
Among the sauage Kernes in sad exile;
Or in the Turkish wars at Cæsars paye
To rub his life out till the latest day;
Another shifting Gallant to forecast,
To gull his Hostesse for a months repast;
With some gal'd Trunk ballac'd with straw & stone
Left for the paune of his prouision;
Had F. shop lyen fallow but from hence,
His doores close seal'd as in some pestilence,
Whiles his light heeles theis fearfull flight can take,
To get some badg-lesse Blew vpon his backe?
Tocullio was a welthy vsurer,
Such store of Incomes had he euery yeare,
By Bushels was he wont to meete his coyne;
As did the olde wife of Trimalcion;
Could he doe more that finds an idle roome,
For many hundreth thousands on a Toombe?
Or who reares vp foure free-schooles in his age,
Of his olde pillage, and damn'd surplusage?
Yet now he swore by that sweet Crosse he kist,
(That siluer crosse, where he had sacrific'd
His coueting soule, by his desires owne doome,
Dayly to dye the Diuels Martyrdome)
His Angels were all flowne vp to their sky,
And had forsooke his naked Tresurie,
Farewell Astræa and her weights of gold,
Vntill his lingring Calends once be told;
Nought left behind but waxe & parchment scroells
Like Lucians dreame that siluer turn'd to coles:
Shouldst thou him credit, that nould credit thee,
Yes and mayst sweare he swore the verity;
The ding-thrift heyre, his shift-got summe mispent,
Comes drouping like a pennylesse penitent,
And beats his faint fist on Tocullios doore,
It lost the last and now must call for more,
Now hath the Spider caught a wandring Flye,
And drags her captiue at her cruell thigh:
Soone is his errand red in his pale face,
Which beares dumbe Characters of euery case,
So Syneds dusky cheeke and fiery eye,
And hayre-les brow, tels where he last did lye,
So Matho doth bewray his guilty thought;
Whiles his pale face doth say, his cause is nought.
Seest thou the wary Angler trayle along,
His feeble line, soone as some Pike too strong
Hath swallowed the bayte that scornes the shore,
Yet now neare hand cannot resist no more:
So lyeth he aloofe in smooth pretence,
To hide his rough intended violence;
As he that vnder name of Christmas cheere;
Can starue his Tennants all th'ensuing yeare,
Paper and waxe (God wot) a weake repay,
For such deepe debts, and downstakt sūms as they;
Write, seale, deliuer, take, go, spend and speede,
And yet full hardly could his present need.
Part with such summe; For but as yester-late
Did Furnus offer pen-worths at easy rate,
For small disbursment; He the bankes hath broke,
And needs mote now some further playne ore looke;
Yet ere he goe fayne would he be releast:
Hy you ye Rauens, hy you to the feast;
Prouided that thy lands are left entyre,
To be redeem'd or ere thy day expyre;
Then shalt thou teare those idle paper-bonds,
That thus had fettered thy pauned lands.
Ah foole! For sooner shall thou sell the rest,
Then stake ought for thy former Intrest;
When it shall grinde thy grating gall for shame,
To see the lands that beare thy Granfires name,
Become a dunghill peasants sommer-hall,
Or lonely Hermits cage inhospitall;
A pining Gourmand, an imperious slaue,
An hors-leech, barren womb, and gaping graue,
A legall theefe, a bloud-lesse murtherer;
A feind incarnate, a false Vsurer.
Albee such mayne extort scorns to be pent,
In the clay walles of thatched Tenement,
For certes no man of a low degree,
May bid two guestes; or Gout, or Vsurie:
Vnlesse some base hedge-creeping Collybist,
Scatters his refuse scraps on whom he list,
For Easter-gloues, or for a Shroftide Hen,
Which bought to giue, he takes to sell agen:
I doe nor meane some gloking Merchants feate,
That laugheth at the cozened worlds deceipt,
When as an hundred stocks ly in his fist,
He leakes and sinkes, and breaketh when he list;
But, Nummius eas'd the needy Gallants care,
With a base bargaine of his blowen ware,
Of fusted hoppes now lost for lacke of sayle,
Or mo'ld browne-paper that could nought auaile:
Or what he cannot vtter otherwise,
May pleasure Fridoline for treble price.
Whiles his false broker lyeth in the winde,
And for a present Chapman is assign'd,
The cut-throte wretch for their compacted gaine,
Buyes all for but one quarter of the mayne;
Whiles if he chance to break his deare-bought day,
And for fait for default of due repay.
His late intangled lands: Then Fridoline,
Buy thee a wallet, and go beg or pyne.
If Mammon selfe should euer liue with men,
Mammon himselfe shalbe a Citizen.

SAT. 6. Quid placet ergo?

I wote not how the world's degenerate,
That men or know, or like not their estate:
Out from the Gades vp to the Easterne Morne,
Not one but holds his natiue state forlorne.
When comely striplings wish it weare their chance,
For Cænis distaffe to exchange their Lance;
And weare curl'd Periwigs, and chalke their face,
And still are poring on their pocket-glasse.
Tyr'd with pin'd Ruffes, and Fans, and partlet-strips
And Buskes, and Verdingales about their hips;
And tread on corked stilts a prisoners pace,
And make their Napkin for their spitting-place,
And gripe their wast within a narrow span,
Fond Cænis that would'st wish to be a man;
Whose mannish Hus-wiues like their refuse state,
And make a drudge of their vxorious mate,
Who like a Cot-queene freezeth at the rocke,
Whiles his breech't dame doth man the forrein stock.
Is't not a shame to see ech homely groome
Sit perched in an idle charriot-roome,
That were not meete some pannell to bestride
Surcingled to a galled Hackneys hide?
Ech Muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse gaine
Altho he smother vp mowes of seeuen yeares graine,
And hang'd himselfe when corn grows cheap againe;
Altho he buy whole Haruests in the spring
And foist in false strikes to the measuring:
Altho his shop be muffled from the light
Like a day-dungeon, or Cimmerian night,
Nor full nor fasting can the Carle take rest:
Whiles his George-Nobles rusten in his Chest.
He sleeps but once and dreames of burglarie,
And wakes and castes about his frighted eye,
And gropes for theeues in euery darker shade,
And if a Mouse but stir he cals for ayde.
The sturdy Plough-man doth the soldier see,
All scarfed with pide colours to the knee,
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate,
And now he gins to loath his former state:
Now doth he inly scorne his Kendall-greene,
And his patch't Cockers now despised beene.
Nor list he now go whistling to the Carre,
But sels his Teme and fetleth to the warre,
O warre to them that neuer tryde thee sweete;
When his dead mate fals groueling at his feete,
And angry Bullets whistlen at his eare,
And his dim eyes see nought but death & drere:
Oh happy Plough-mā were thy weale well known;
Oh happy all estates except his owne!
Some dronken Rimer thinks his time well spent,
If he can liue to see his name in print:
Who when he is once fleshed to the Presse,
And sees his handsell haue such fayre successe,
Sung to the wheele, and sung vnto the payle,
He sends forth thraues of Ballads to the sale.
Nor then can rest: But volumes vp bodg'd rimes,
To haue his name talk't of in future times:
The brainsicke youth that feeds his tickled eare
With sweet-sauc'd lies of some false Traueiler,
Which hath the Spanish Decades red a while;
Or whet-stone leasings of old Maundeuile,
Now with discourses breakes his mid-night sleepe,
Of his aduentures through the Indian deepe,
Of all their massy heapes of golden mines,
Or of the antique Toombs of Palestine;
Or of Damascus Magike wall of Glasse,
Of Salomon his sweating piles of Brasse,
Of the Bird Ruc that beares an Elephant:
Of Mer-maids that the Southerne seas do haunt;
Of head lesse men; of sauage Cannibals;
The fashions of their liues and Gouernals:
What monstrous Cities there erected bee,
Cayro, or the Citie of the Trinitie:
Now are they dung hill-Cocks that haue not seene
The bordering Alpes, or else the Neighbour Rhene,
And now he plyes the newes-full Grashopper,
Of voyages and ventures to enquire.
His land morgag'd, He sea-beat in the way
Wishes for home a thousand sithes a day:
And now he deemes his home-bred fare as leefe
As his parch't Bisket, or his barreld Beefe:
Mong'st all these sturs of discontented strife,
Oh let me lead an Academicke life,
To know much, and to thinke we nothing know;
Nothing to haue, yet thinke we haue enough,
In skill to want, and wanting seeke for more,
In weale nor want, nor wish for greater store;
Enuye ye Monarchs with your proud excesse:
At our low Sayle, and our hye Happinesse.