The poems of John Marston Edited by Arnold Davenport |
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| III. | SATY: Liber Tertius. |
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 | The poems of John Marston |  |
147
SATY: Liber Tertius.
149
Proemium in librum tertium.
In serious iest, and iesting seriousnesI striue to scourge poluting beastlines.
I invocate no Delian Deitie,
Nor sacred of-spring of Mnemosyne:
I pray in ayde of no Castalian Muse,
No Nimph, no femall Angell to infuse
A sprightly wit to raise my flagging wings,
And teach me tune these harsh discordant strings:
I craue no Syrens of our Halcion times,
To grace the accents of my rough-hew'd rimes;
But grim Reproofe, stearne Hate of villanie,
Inspire and guide a Satyres poesie.
Faire Detestation of foule odious sinne,
In which our swinish times lye wallowing,
Be thou my conduct and my Genius,
My wits inciting sweet breath'd Zephirus.
O that a Satyres hand had force to pluck
Some fludgate vp, to purge the world from muck:
Would God I could turne Alpheus riuer in
To purge this Augean oxstaule from foule sin.
Well, I will try, awake impuritie,
And view the vaile drawne from thy villanie.
150
SATYRE. VIII. Inamorato Curio.
Cvrio
, aye me! thy mistres Monkey's dead,
Alas, alas, her pleasures buried.
Goe womans slaue, performe his exequies,
Condole his death in mournfull Elegies.
Tut, rather Peans sing Hermaphrodite,
For that sad death giues life to thy delight.
Alas, alas, her pleasures buried.
Goe womans slaue, performe his exequies,
Condole his death in mournfull Elegies.
Tut, rather Peans sing Hermaphrodite,
For that sad death giues life to thy delight.
Sweet fac'd Corinna, daine the riband tie
Of thy Cork-shooe, or els thy slaue will die:
Some puling Sonnet toles his passing bell,
Some sighing Elegie must ring his knell,
Vnlesse bright sunshine of thy grace reuiue
His wambling stomack, certes he will diue
Into the whirle-poole of deuouring death,
And to some Mermaid sacrifice his breath.
Then oh, oh then, to thy eternall shame,
And to the honour of sweet Curios name,
This Epitaph vpon the Marble stone,
Must fayre be grau'd of that true louing one;
Heere lyeth hee, hee lyeth heere,
that bounc'd, and pitty cryed,
The doore not op'd, fell sicke alas,
alas fell sicke, and dyed.
What Mirmidon, or hard Dolopian,
What sauage minded rude Cyclopian,
But such a sweet pathetique Paphian
Would force to laughter? Ho Amphitrion,
Thou art no Cuckold, what though Ioue dallied
During thy warres, in faire Alckmenas bed,
Yet Hercules true borne, that imbecilitie
Of corrupt nature all apparantly
Appeares in him, ô foule indignitie,
I heard him vow himselfe a slaue to Omphale,
Puling (aye mee) ô valours obloquie!
Hee that the inmost nookes of hell did know,
Whose nere craz'd prowesse all did ouer-throw,
Lies streaking brawnie limmes in weakning bed,
Perfum'd, smooth kemb'd, new glaz'd, faire surphuled,
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be subiected to such base controule!
Of thy Cork-shooe, or els thy slaue will die:
Some puling Sonnet toles his passing bell,
Some sighing Elegie must ring his knell,
Vnlesse bright sunshine of thy grace reuiue
His wambling stomack, certes he will diue
Into the whirle-poole of deuouring death,
And to some Mermaid sacrifice his breath.
Then oh, oh then, to thy eternall shame,
And to the honour of sweet Curios name,
This Epitaph vpon the Marble stone,
Must fayre be grau'd of that true louing one;
Heere lyeth hee, hee lyeth heere,
that bounc'd, and pitty cryed,
The doore not op'd, fell sicke alas,
alas fell sicke, and dyed.
What Mirmidon, or hard Dolopian,
What sauage minded rude Cyclopian,
But such a sweet pathetique Paphian
Would force to laughter? Ho Amphitrion,
Thou art no Cuckold, what though Ioue dallied
151
Yet Hercules true borne, that imbecilitie
Of corrupt nature all apparantly
Appeares in him, ô foule indignitie,
I heard him vow himselfe a slaue to Omphale,
Puling (aye mee) ô valours obloquie!
Hee that the inmost nookes of hell did know,
Whose nere craz'd prowesse all did ouer-throw,
Lies streaking brawnie limmes in weakning bed,
Perfum'd, smooth kemb'd, new glaz'd, faire surphuled,
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be subiected to such base controule!
Big limm'd Alcides, doffe thy honors crowne
Goe spin huge slaue least Omphale should frowne.
By my best hopes, I blush with greefe and shame
To broach the peasant basenes of our name.
Goe spin huge slaue least Omphale should frowne.
By my best hopes, I blush with greefe and shame
To broach the peasant basenes of our name.
O now my ruder hand begins to quake,
To thinke what loftie Cedars I must shake:
But if the canker fret the barkes of Oakes,
Like humbler shrubs shal equall beare the stroakes
Of my respectlesse rude Satyrick hand,
To thinke what loftie Cedars I must shake:
But if the canker fret the barkes of Oakes,
Like humbler shrubs shal equall beare the stroakes
Of my respectlesse rude Satyrick hand,
Vnlesse the Destin's adamantine band
Should tie my teeth, I cannot choose but bite
To view Mauortius metamorphiz'd quite
To puling sighes, & into (aye me's) state,
With voyce distinct, all fine articulate
Lisping, Fayre saint, my woe compassionate,
By heauen thine eye is my soule-guiding fate.
Should tie my teeth, I cannot choose but bite
To view Mauortius metamorphiz'd quite
To puling sighes, & into (aye me's) state,
With voyce distinct, all fine articulate
Lisping, Fayre saint, my woe compassionate,
By heauen thine eye is my soule-guiding fate.
The God of wounds, had wont on Cyprian couch
To streake himselfe, and with incensing touch
To faint his force onely when wrath had end:
But now, mong furious garboiles, he doth spend
His feebled valour, in tilt and turneing,
With wet turn'd kisses, melting dallying.
A poxe apon't, that Bacchis name should be
The watch-word giuen to the soulderie.
Goe troupe to fielde, mount thy obscured fame,
Cry out S. George, invoke thy Mistres name;
Thy Mistres, and S. George, alarum cry,
Weake force, weake ayde that sprouts from luxurie.
To streake himselfe, and with incensing touch
152
But now, mong furious garboiles, he doth spend
His feebled valour, in tilt and turneing,
With wet turn'd kisses, melting dallying.
A poxe apon't, that Bacchis name should be
The watch-word giuen to the soulderie.
Goe troupe to fielde, mount thy obscured fame,
Cry out S. George, invoke thy Mistres name;
Thy Mistres, and S. George, alarum cry,
Weake force, weake ayde that sprouts from luxurie.
Thou tedious workmanship of lust-stung Ioue,
Downe from thy skies, enioy our females loue,
Some fiftie more Beotian gerles will sue
To haue thy loue, (so that thy back be true.)
Downe from thy skies, enioy our females loue,
Some fiftie more Beotian gerles will sue
To haue thy loue, (so that thy back be true.)
O now me thinks I heare swart Martius cry
Souping along in warrs fain'd maskerie,
By Lais starrie front he'le forth-with die
In cluttred blood, his Mistres liuorie.
Her fancies colours waues vpon his head,
O well fenc'd Albion, mainly manly sped,
When those that are Soldadoes in thy state,
Doe beare the badge of base, effeminate,
Euen on their plumie crests, brutes sensuall,
Hauing no sparke of intellectuall.
Alack, what hope? when some ranck nasty wench
Is subiect of their vowes and confidence?
Souping along in warrs fain'd maskerie,
By Lais starrie front he'le forth-with die
In cluttred blood, his Mistres liuorie.
Her fancies colours waues vpon his head,
O well fenc'd Albion, mainly manly sped,
When those that are Soldadoes in thy state,
Doe beare the badge of base, effeminate,
Euen on their plumie crests, brutes sensuall,
Hauing no sparke of intellectuall.
Alack, what hope? when some ranck nasty wench
Is subiect of their vowes and confidence?
Publius hates vainely to idolatries,
And laughs that Papists honor Images,
And yet (ô madnes) these mine eyes did see
Him melt in mouing plaints, obsequiously
Imploring fauour, twining his kind armes,
Vsing inchauntments, exorcismes, charmes.
The oyle of Sonnets, wanton blandishment,
The force of teares, & seeming languishment,
Vnto the picture of a painted lasse:
I saw him court his Mistres looking-glasse,
Worship a busk-poynt, (which in secrecie
I feare was conscius of strange villanie.)
I saw him crouch, deuote his liuelihood,
Sweare, protest, vow pesant seruitude
Vnto a painted puppet, to her eyes
I heard him sweare his sighes to sacrifice.
But if he get her itch-allaying pinne,
O sacred relique, straight he must beginne
To raue out-right, then thus. Celestiall blisse,
Can heauen grant so rich a grace as this?
Touch it not (by the Lord Sir) tis diuine,
It once beheld her radiant eyes bright shine:
Her haire imbrac'd it, ô thrice happie prick
That there was thron'd, and in her haire didst sticke.
Kisse, blesse, adore it Publius, neuer linne,
Some sacred vertue lurketh in the pinne.
And laughs that Papists honor Images,
And yet (ô madnes) these mine eyes did see
153
Imploring fauour, twining his kind armes,
Vsing inchauntments, exorcismes, charmes.
The oyle of Sonnets, wanton blandishment,
The force of teares, & seeming languishment,
Vnto the picture of a painted lasse:
I saw him court his Mistres looking-glasse,
Worship a busk-poynt, (which in secrecie
I feare was conscius of strange villanie.)
I saw him crouch, deuote his liuelihood,
Sweare, protest, vow pesant seruitude
Vnto a painted puppet, to her eyes
I heard him sweare his sighes to sacrifice.
But if he get her itch-allaying pinne,
O sacred relique, straight he must beginne
To raue out-right, then thus. Celestiall blisse,
Can heauen grant so rich a grace as this?
Touch it not (by the Lord Sir) tis diuine,
It once beheld her radiant eyes bright shine:
Her haire imbrac'd it, ô thrice happie prick
That there was thron'd, and in her haire didst sticke.
Kisse, blesse, adore it Publius, neuer linne,
Some sacred vertue lurketh in the pinne.
O frantick fond pathetique passion!
Ist possible such sensuall action
Should clip the wings of contemplation?
O can it be the spirits function,
The soule not subiect to dimension,
Should be made slaue to reprehension
Of craftie natures paint? Fie, can our soule
Be vnderling to such a vile controule?
Ist possible such sensuall action
Should clip the wings of contemplation?
O can it be the spirits function,
The soule not subiect to dimension,
Should be made slaue to reprehension
Of craftie natures paint? Fie, can our soule
Be vnderling to such a vile controule?
Saturio wish'd him selfe his Mistres buske,
That he might sweetly lie, and softly luske
Betweene her pappes, then must he haue an eye
At eyther end, that freely might discry
Both hills and dales. But out on Phrigio,
That wish'd he were his Mistres dog, to goe
And licke her milke-white fist, ô prettie grace,
That prettie Phrigio begs but Pretties place.
Parthenophell, thy wish I will omit,
So beastly tis I may not vtter it.
But Punicus, of all I'le beare with thee,
That faine would'st be thy Mistres smug Munkey,
Here's one would be a flea, (iest comicall)
Another his sweet Ladies verdingall
To clip her tender breech; Another he
Her siluer-handled fanne would gladly be,
Here's one would be his Mistres neck-lace faine,
To clip her faire, and kisse her azure vaine.
Fond fooles, well wish'd, and pittie but should bee,
For beastly shape to brutish soules agree.
154
Betweene her pappes, then must he haue an eye
At eyther end, that freely might discry
Both hills and dales. But out on Phrigio,
That wish'd he were his Mistres dog, to goe
And licke her milke-white fist, ô prettie grace,
That prettie Phrigio begs but Pretties place.
Parthenophell, thy wish I will omit,
So beastly tis I may not vtter it.
But Punicus, of all I'le beare with thee,
That faine would'st be thy Mistres smug Munkey,
Here's one would be a flea, (iest comicall)
Another his sweet Ladies verdingall
To clip her tender breech; Another he
Her siluer-handled fanne would gladly be,
Here's one would be his Mistres neck-lace faine,
To clip her faire, and kisse her azure vaine.
Fond fooles, well wish'd, and pittie but should bee,
For beastly shape to brutish soules agree.
If Lauras painted lip doe daine a kisse
To her enamor'd slaue, ô heauens blisse
(Straight he exclaimes) not to be match'd with this!
Blaspheming dolt, goe three-score sonnets write
Vpon a pictures kisse, ô rauing spright!
To her enamor'd slaue, ô heauens blisse
(Straight he exclaimes) not to be match'd with this!
Blaspheming dolt, goe three-score sonnets write
Vpon a pictures kisse, ô rauing spright!
I am not saplesse, old, or rumatick,
No Hipponax mishapen stigmatick,
That I should thus inueigh gainst amorous spright
Of him whose soule doth turne Hermaphrodite,
But I doe sadly grieue, and inly vexe
To view the base dishonors of our sexe.
No Hipponax mishapen stigmatick,
That I should thus inueigh gainst amorous spright
Of him whose soule doth turne Hermaphrodite,
But I doe sadly grieue, and inly vexe
To view the base dishonors of our sexe.
155
Tush, guiltles Doues, when Gods to force foule rapes,
Will turne themselues to any brutish shapes.
Base bastard powers, whom the world doth see
Trans-form'd to swine for sensuall luxurie;
The sonne of Saturne is become a Bull,
To crop the beauties of some female trull.
Now, when he hath his first wife Metim sped,
And fairely chok'd, least foole gods should be bred
Of that fond Mule. Themis his second wife
Hath turn'd away, that his vnbrideled life
Might haue more scope. Yet last his sisters loue
Must satiate the lustfull thoughts of Ioue.
Now doth the lecher in a Cuckowes shape
Commit a monstrous and incestuous rape.
Thrice sacred gods, and ô thrice blessed skies
Whose orbes includes such vertuous deities!
Will turne themselues to any brutish shapes.
Base bastard powers, whom the world doth see
Trans-form'd to swine for sensuall luxurie;
The sonne of Saturne is become a Bull,
To crop the beauties of some female trull.
Now, when he hath his first wife Metim sped,
And fairely chok'd, least foole gods should be bred
Of that fond Mule. Themis his second wife
Hath turn'd away, that his vnbrideled life
Might haue more scope. Yet last his sisters loue
Must satiate the lustfull thoughts of Ioue.
Now doth the lecher in a Cuckowes shape
Commit a monstrous and incestuous rape.
Thrice sacred gods, and ô thrice blessed skies
Whose orbes includes such vertuous deities!
What should I say? Lust hath confounded all,
The bright glosse of our intellectuall
Is fouly soyl'd. The wanton wallowing
In fond delights, and amorous dallying,
Hath dusk'd the fairest splendour of our soule:
Nothing now left, but carkas, lothsome, foule.
For sure, if that some spright remained still,
Could it be subiect to lewd Lais will?
The bright glosse of our intellectuall
Is fouly soyl'd. The wanton wallowing
In fond delights, and amorous dallying,
Hath dusk'd the fairest splendour of our soule:
Nothing now left, but carkas, lothsome, foule.
For sure, if that some spright remained still,
Could it be subiect to lewd Lais will?
Reason by prudence in her function
Had wont to tutor all our action.
Ayding with precepts of philosophy
Our feebled natures imbecilitie:
But now affection, will, concupiscence,
Haue got o're Reason chiefe preheminence.
Tis so, els how, how should such basenes taint
As force it be made slaue to natures paint?
Me thinkes the spirits Pegase Fantasie
Should hoise the soule from such base slauery,
But now I see, and can right plainly show
From whence such abiect thoughts & actions grow.
Had wont to tutor all our action.
Ayding with precepts of philosophy
Our feebled natures imbecilitie:
But now affection, will, concupiscence,
Haue got o're Reason chiefe preheminence.
156
As force it be made slaue to natures paint?
Me thinkes the spirits Pegase Fantasie
Should hoise the soule from such base slauery,
But now I see, and can right plainly show
From whence such abiect thoughts & actions grow.
Our aduerse body, beeing earthly, cold,
Heauie, dull, mortall, would not long infold
A stranger inmate, that was backward still
To all his dungie, brutish, sensuall will:
Now here-vpon our Intellectuall,
Compact of fire all celestiall,
Invisible, immortall, and diuine,
Grewe straight to scorne his Land-lordes muddy slime.
And therefore now is closely slunke away
(Leauing his smoakie house of mortall clay)
Adorn'd with all his beauties lineaments
And brightest iemms of shining ornaments.
His parts diuine, sacred, spirituall
Attending on him, leauing the sensuall
Base hangers on, lusking at home in slime,
Such as wont to stop port Esqueline.
Now doth the body ledde with sencelesse will,
(The which in reasons absence ruleth still)
Raue, talke idlie, as't were some deitie
Adoring female painted puppetry
Playing at put-pin, doting on some glasse
(Which breath'd but on his falsed glosse doth passe)
Toying with babies, and with fond pastime
Some childrens sport, deflowring of chast time,
Imploying all his wits in vaine expence,
Abusing all his organons of sence.
Heauie, dull, mortall, would not long infold
A stranger inmate, that was backward still
To all his dungie, brutish, sensuall will:
Now here-vpon our Intellectuall,
Compact of fire all celestiall,
Invisible, immortall, and diuine,
Grewe straight to scorne his Land-lordes muddy slime.
And therefore now is closely slunke away
(Leauing his smoakie house of mortall clay)
Adorn'd with all his beauties lineaments
And brightest iemms of shining ornaments.
His parts diuine, sacred, spirituall
Attending on him, leauing the sensuall
Base hangers on, lusking at home in slime,
Such as wont to stop port Esqueline.
Now doth the body ledde with sencelesse will,
(The which in reasons absence ruleth still)
Raue, talke idlie, as't were some deitie
Adoring female painted puppetry
Playing at put-pin, doting on some glasse
(Which breath'd but on his falsed glosse doth passe)
Toying with babies, and with fond pastime
157
Imploying all his wits in vaine expence,
Abusing all his organons of sence.
Returne, returne, sacred Synderesis,
Inspire our truncks, let not such mud as this
Pollute vs still. Awake our lethargie,
Raise vs from out our brain-sicke foolerie.
Inspire our truncks, let not such mud as this
Pollute vs still. Awake our lethargie,
Raise vs from out our brain-sicke foolerie.
158
SATYRE. IX. Here's a toy to mocke an Ape indeede.
Grim-fac'd
Reproofe, sparkle with threatning eye
Bend thy sower browes in my tart poesie.
Auant yee curres, houle in some cloudie mist,
Quake to behold a sharp-fang'd Satyrist.
O how on tiptoes proudly mounts my Muse,
Stalking a loftier gate then Satyres vse.
Me thinkes some sacred rage warmes all my vaines,
Making my spright mount vp to higher straines
Then wel beseemes a rough-tongu'd Satyres part,
But Art curbs Nature, Nature guildeth Art.
Bend thy sower browes in my tart poesie.
Auant yee curres, houle in some cloudie mist,
Quake to behold a sharp-fang'd Satyrist.
O how on tiptoes proudly mounts my Muse,
Stalking a loftier gate then Satyres vse.
Me thinkes some sacred rage warmes all my vaines,
Making my spright mount vp to higher straines
Then wel beseemes a rough-tongu'd Satyres part,
But Art curbs Nature, Nature guildeth Art.
Come downe yee Apes, or I will strip you quite,
Baring your bald tayles to the peoples sight.
Yee Mimick slaues, what are you percht so high?
Downe Iack an Apes from thy fain'd roialtie.
What furr'd with beard, cas'd in a Satin sute
Iudiciall Iack? how hast thou got repute
Of a sound censure? O ideot times,
When gawdy Monkeyes mowe ore sprightly rimes!
O world of fooles, when all mens iudgement's set
And rests vpon some mumping Marmuset!
Baring your bald tayles to the peoples sight.
Yee Mimick slaues, what are you percht so high?
Downe Iack an Apes from thy fain'd roialtie.
What furr'd with beard, cas'd in a Satin sute
Iudiciall Iack? how hast thou got repute
Of a sound censure? O ideot times,
When gawdy Monkeyes mowe ore sprightly rimes!
O world of fooles, when all mens iudgement's set
And rests vpon some mumping Marmuset!
Yon Athens Ape (that can but simperingly
Yaule auditores humanissimi,
Bound to some seruile imitation,
Can with much sweat patch an Oration,)
Now vp he comes, and with his crooked eye
Presumes to squint on some faire Poesie;
And all as thanklesse as vngratefull Thames
He slinkes away, leauing but reeching steames
Of dungie slime behind, all as ingrate
He vseth it, as when I satiate
My spaniels paunch, who straight perfumes the roome,
With his tailes filth: so this vnciuill groome,
Ill-tutor'd pedant, Mortimers numbers
With muck-pit esculine filth bescumbers.
Now th'Ape chatters, and is as malecontent
As a bill-patch'd doore, whose entrailes out haue sent
And spewd theyr tenant.
Yaule auditores humanissimi,
Bound to some seruile imitation,
Can with much sweat patch an Oration,)
Now vp he comes, and with his crooked eye
Presumes to squint on some faire Poesie;
159
He slinkes away, leauing but reeching steames
Of dungie slime behind, all as ingrate
He vseth it, as when I satiate
My spaniels paunch, who straight perfumes the roome,
With his tailes filth: so this vnciuill groome,
Ill-tutor'd pedant, Mortimers numbers
With muck-pit esculine filth bescumbers.
Now th'Ape chatters, and is as malecontent
As a bill-patch'd doore, whose entrailes out haue sent
And spewd theyr tenant.
My soule adores iudiciall schollership,
But when to seruile imitatorship
Some spruce Athenian pen is prentized,
Tis worse then Apish. Fie, bee not flattered
With seeming worth, fond affectation
Befits an Ape, and mumping Babilon.
But when to seruile imitatorship
Some spruce Athenian pen is prentized,
Tis worse then Apish. Fie, bee not flattered
With seeming worth, fond affectation
Befits an Ape, and mumping Babilon.
O what a tricksie lerned nicking straine
Is this applauded, sencles, modern vain!
When late I heard it from sage Mutius lips
How il me thought such wanton Iigging skips
Beseem'd his grauer speech. Farre flie thy fame
Most, most, of me belou'd, whose silent name
One letter bounds. Thy true iudiciall stile
I euer honour, and if my loue beguile
Not much my hopes, then thy vnvalued worth
Shall mount faire place, when Apes are turned forth.
Is this applauded, sencles, modern vain!
When late I heard it from sage Mutius lips
How il me thought such wanton Iigging skips
Beseem'd his grauer speech. Farre flie thy fame
Most, most, of me belou'd, whose silent name
One letter bounds. Thy true iudiciall stile
I euer honour, and if my loue beguile
Not much my hopes, then thy vnvalued worth
Shall mount faire place, when Apes are turned forth.
I am too milde, reach me my scourge againe,
O yon's a pen speakes in a learned vaine.
Deepe, past all sence. Lanthorne & candle light,
Here's all invisible, all mentall spright.
What hotchpotch, giberidge, doth the Poet bring?
How strangely speakes? yet sweetly doth he sing.
I once did know a tinckling Pewterer,
That was the vildest stumbling stutterer
That euer hack'd and hew'd our natiue tongue,
Yet to the Lute if you had heard him sung,
Iesu how sweet he breath'd. You can apply.
O sencelesse prose, iudiciall poesie,
How ill you'r link'd. This affectation,
To speake beyond mens apprehension,
How Apish tis. When all in fusten sute
Is cloth'd a huge nothing, all for repute
Of profound knowledge, when profoundnes knowes
There's nought containd, but only seeming showes.
160
Deepe, past all sence. Lanthorne & candle light,
Here's all invisible, all mentall spright.
What hotchpotch, giberidge, doth the Poet bring?
How strangely speakes? yet sweetly doth he sing.
I once did know a tinckling Pewterer,
That was the vildest stumbling stutterer
That euer hack'd and hew'd our natiue tongue,
Yet to the Lute if you had heard him sung,
Iesu how sweet he breath'd. You can apply.
O sencelesse prose, iudiciall poesie,
How ill you'r link'd. This affectation,
To speake beyond mens apprehension,
How Apish tis. When all in fusten sute
Is cloth'd a huge nothing, all for repute
Of profound knowledge, when profoundnes knowes
There's nought containd, but only seeming showes.
Old Iack of Parris-garden, canst thou get
A faire rich sute, though fouly runne in debt?
Looke smug, smell sweet, take vp commodities,
Keepe whores, fee baudes, belch impious blasphemies,
Wallow along in swaggering disguise,
Snuffe vp smoak whiffs, & each morne fore she rise
Visite thy drab? Canst vse a false cut Die
With a cleane grace, and glib facilitie?
Canst thunder cannon oathes, like th'ratling
Of a huge, double, full-charg'd culuering?
Then Iack troupe mong our gallants, kisse thy fist,
And call them brothers. Say a Satyrist
Sweares they are thine in neere affinitie.
All coosin germaines, saue in villanie.
For (sadly truth to say) what are they els
But imitators of lewd beastlines?
Farre worse then Apes; for mow, or scratch your pate,
It may be some odde Ape will imitate.
But let a youth that hath abus'd his time,
In wronged trauaile, in that hoter clime,
Swoope by old Iack, in clothes Italienate:
And I'le be hang'd if he will imitate
His strange fantastique sute shapes.—
Or let him bring or'e beastly luxuries,
Some hell-deuised lustfull villanies,
Euen Apes & beasts would blush with natiue shame,
And thinke it foule dishonour to their name,
Their beastly name, to imitate such sin
As our lewd youths doe boast and glory in.
A faire rich sute, though fouly runne in debt?
Looke smug, smell sweet, take vp commodities,
Keepe whores, fee baudes, belch impious blasphemies,
Wallow along in swaggering disguise,
Snuffe vp smoak whiffs, & each morne fore she rise
Visite thy drab? Canst vse a false cut Die
With a cleane grace, and glib facilitie?
Canst thunder cannon oathes, like th'ratling
Of a huge, double, full-charg'd culuering?
Then Iack troupe mong our gallants, kisse thy fist,
And call them brothers. Say a Satyrist
Sweares they are thine in neere affinitie.
161
For (sadly truth to say) what are they els
But imitators of lewd beastlines?
Farre worse then Apes; for mow, or scratch your pate,
It may be some odde Ape will imitate.
But let a youth that hath abus'd his time,
In wronged trauaile, in that hoter clime,
Swoope by old Iack, in clothes Italienate:
And I'le be hang'd if he will imitate
His strange fantastique sute shapes.—
Or let him bring or'e beastly luxuries,
Some hell-deuised lustfull villanies,
Euen Apes & beasts would blush with natiue shame,
And thinke it foule dishonour to their name,
Their beastly name, to imitate such sin
As our lewd youths doe boast and glory in.
Fie, whether doe these Monkeys carry mee?
Their very names doe soile my poesie.
Thou world of Marmosets and mumping Apes,
Vnmaske, put of thy fained borrowed shapes.
Their very names doe soile my poesie.
Thou world of Marmosets and mumping Apes,
Vnmaske, put of thy fained borrowed shapes.
Why lookes neate Curus all so simperingly?
Why babbles thou of deepe Diuinitie?
And of that sacred testimoniall?
Liuing voluptuous like a Bacchanall?
Good hath thy tongue: but thou ranke Puritan,
I'le make an Ape as good a Christian.
I'le force him chatter, turning vp his eye
Looke sad, goe graue. Demure ciuilitie
Shall seeme to say, Good brother, sister deere,
As for the rest, to snort in belly cheere,
To bite, to gnaw, and boldly intermell
With sacred things, in which thou doost excell,
Vnforc'd he'le doe. O take compassion
Euen on your soules, make not religion
A bawde to lewdnes. Ciuill Socrates,
Clip not the youth of Alcebiades
With vnchast armes. Disguised Messaline,
I'le teare thy maske, and bare thee to the eyne
Of hissing boyes, if to the Theaters
I finde thee once more come for lecherers
To satiate? Nay, to tyer thee with the vse
Of weakning lust. Yee fainers, leaue t'abuse
Our better thoughts with your hipocrisie,
Or by the euer-liuing Veritie,
I'le stryp you nak'd, and whyp you with my rimes,
Causing your shame to liue to after times.
Why babbles thou of deepe Diuinitie?
And of that sacred testimoniall?
Liuing voluptuous like a Bacchanall?
Good hath thy tongue: but thou ranke Puritan,
I'le make an Ape as good a Christian.
I'le force him chatter, turning vp his eye
Looke sad, goe graue. Demure ciuilitie
Shall seeme to say, Good brother, sister deere,
As for the rest, to snort in belly cheere,
To bite, to gnaw, and boldly intermell
162
Vnforc'd he'le doe. O take compassion
Euen on your soules, make not religion
A bawde to lewdnes. Ciuill Socrates,
Clip not the youth of Alcebiades
With vnchast armes. Disguised Messaline,
I'le teare thy maske, and bare thee to the eyne
Of hissing boyes, if to the Theaters
I finde thee once more come for lecherers
To satiate? Nay, to tyer thee with the vse
Of weakning lust. Yee fainers, leaue t'abuse
Our better thoughts with your hipocrisie,
Or by the euer-liuing Veritie,
I'le stryp you nak'd, and whyp you with my rimes,
Causing your shame to liue to after times.
163
[SATIRE X]
SATYRA NOVA. Stultorum plena sunt omnia.
To his very friend, maister E.G.
From out the sadnes of my discontent,
Hating my wonted iocund merriment,
(Onely to giue dull Time a swifter wing)
Thus scorning scorne of Ideot fooles, I sing.
I dread no bending of an angry brow,
Or rage of fooles that I shall purchase now.
Who'le scorne to sitte in ranke of foolery
When I'le be maister of the company?
For pre-thee Ned, I pre-thee gentle lad,
Is not he frantique, foolish, bedlam mad,
That wastes his spright, that melts his very braine
In deepe designes, in wits darke gloomie straine?
That scourgeth great slaues with a dreadlesse fist,
Playing the rough part of a Satyrist,
To be perus'd by all the dung-scum rable
Of thin-braind Ideots, dull, vncapable?
For mimicke apish schollers, pedants, gulls,
Perfum'd Inamoratoes, brothell trulls?
Whilst I (poore soule) abuse chast virgin Time,
Deflowring her with vnconceiued rime.
Tut, tut, a toy of an idle empty braine,
Some scurrill iests, light gew-gawes, fruitlesse, vaine.
Cryes beard-graue Dromus, when alas, God knowes,
His toothles gums nere chaw but outward showes.
Poore Budgeface, bowcase sleeue, but let him passe,
Once fur and beard shall priuiledge an Asse.
Hating my wonted iocund merriment,
(Onely to giue dull Time a swifter wing)
Thus scorning scorne of Ideot fooles, I sing.
I dread no bending of an angry brow,
Or rage of fooles that I shall purchase now.
Who'le scorne to sitte in ranke of foolery
When I'le be maister of the company?
For pre-thee Ned, I pre-thee gentle lad,
Is not he frantique, foolish, bedlam mad,
That wastes his spright, that melts his very braine
In deepe designes, in wits darke gloomie straine?
That scourgeth great slaues with a dreadlesse fist,
Playing the rough part of a Satyrist,
To be perus'd by all the dung-scum rable
Of thin-braind Ideots, dull, vncapable?
For mimicke apish schollers, pedants, gulls,
Perfum'd Inamoratoes, brothell trulls?
Whilst I (poore soule) abuse chast virgin Time,
Deflowring her with vnconceiued rime.
Tut, tut, a toy of an idle empty braine,
Some scurrill iests, light gew-gawes, fruitlesse, vaine.
Cryes beard-graue Dromus, when alas, God knowes,
164
Poore Budgeface, bowcase sleeue, but let him passe,
Once fur and beard shall priuiledge an Asse.
And tell me Ned, what might that gallant be,
Who to obtaine intemperate luxurie,
Cuckolds his elder brother, gets an heire,
By which his hope is turned to dispaire?
In fayth, (good Ned) he damn'd himselfe with cost,
For well thou know'st full goodly land was lost.
Who to obtaine intemperate luxurie,
Cuckolds his elder brother, gets an heire,
By which his hope is turned to dispaire?
In fayth, (good Ned) he damn'd himselfe with cost,
For well thou know'st full goodly land was lost.
I am too priuate. Yet mee thinkes an Asse,
Rimes well with VIDERIT VTILITAS.
Euen full as well, I boldly dare auer
As any of that stinking Scauenger
Which from his dunghill hee bedaubed on
The latter page of old Pigmalion.
O that thys brother of hypocresie,
(Applauded by his pure fraternitie)
Should thus be puffed, and so proud insist,
As play on mee the Epigramatist.
Opinion mounts this froth vnto the skies,
Whom iudgements reason iustly vilefies.
For, (shame to the Poet,) reade Ned, behold
How wittily a Maisters-hoode can scold.
Rimes well with VIDERIT VTILITAS.
Euen full as well, I boldly dare auer
As any of that stinking Scauenger
Which from his dunghill hee bedaubed on
The latter page of old Pigmalion.
O that thys brother of hypocresie,
(Applauded by his pure fraternitie)
Should thus be puffed, and so proud insist,
As play on mee the Epigramatist.
Opinion mounts this froth vnto the skies,
Whom iudgements reason iustly vilefies.
For, (shame to the Poet,) reade Ned, behold
How wittily a Maisters-hoode can scold.
An Epigram which the Authour Vergidemiarum, caused to bee pasted to the latter page of euery Pigmalion that came to the stacioners of Cambridge.
I ask'd Phisitions what theyr counsell wasFor a mad dogge, or for a mankind Asse?
They told mee though there were confections store,
165
The dog was best cured by cutting & kinsing,
The Asse must be kindly whipped for winsing.
Nowe then S.K. I little passe
Whether thou be a mad dog, or a mankind Asse.
Medice cura teipsum.
Smart ierke of wit, did euer such a straine
Rise from an Apish schoole-boyes childish braine?
Doost thou not blush (good) Ned, that such a sent
Should rise from thence where thou hadst nutriment?
Shame to Opinion, that perfumes his dung,
And streweth flowers rotten bones among,
Iugling Opinion, thou inchaunting witch,
Paint not a rotten post with colours rich.
But now this Iugler with the worlds consent
Hath halfe his soule; the other, Compliment,
Mad world the whilst. But I forget mee I,
I am seduced with this poesie:
And madder then a Bedlam spend sweet time
In bitter numbers, in this idle rime,
Out on this humour. From a sickly bed,
And from a moodie minde distempered,
I vomit foorth my loue, now turn'd to hate,
Scorning the honour of a Poets state.
Nor shall the kennell route of muddy braines,
Rauish my Muses heyre, or heare my straines
Once more. No nittie pedant shall correct
Ænigmaes to his shallow Intelect.
Inchauntment, Ned hath rauished my sence
In a Poetick vaine circumference.
Yet thus I hope, (God shield I now should lie)
Many more fooles, and most more wise then I.
Rise from an Apish schoole-boyes childish braine?
Doost thou not blush (good) Ned, that such a sent
Should rise from thence where thou hadst nutriment?
Shame to Opinion, that perfumes his dung,
And streweth flowers rotten bones among,
Iugling Opinion, thou inchaunting witch,
Paint not a rotten post with colours rich.
But now this Iugler with the worlds consent
Hath halfe his soule; the other, Compliment,
Mad world the whilst. But I forget mee I,
I am seduced with this poesie:
And madder then a Bedlam spend sweet time
In bitter numbers, in this idle rime,
Out on this humour. From a sickly bed,
And from a moodie minde distempered,
I vomit foorth my loue, now turn'd to hate,
Scorning the honour of a Poets state.
Nor shall the kennell route of muddy braines,
Rauish my Muses heyre, or heare my straines
Once more. No nittie pedant shall correct
Ænigmaes to his shallow Intelect.
166
In a Poetick vaine circumference.
Yet thus I hope, (God shield I now should lie)
Many more fooles, and most more wise then I.
VALE.
167
[SATIRE XI]
Humours.
Sleep grim Reproofe, my iocond Muse dooth sing
In other keyes, to nimbler fingering.
Dull sprighted Melancholy, leaue my braine
To hell Cimerian night, in liuely vaine
I striue to paint, then hence all darke intent
And sullen frownes, come sporting meriment,
Cheeke dimpling laughter, crowne my very soule
With iouisance, whilst mirthfull iests controule
The goutie humours of these pride-swolne dayes,
Which I doe long vntill my pen displaies.
O I am great with mirth, some midwifrie,
Or I shall breake my sides at vanitie.
In other keyes, to nimbler fingering.
Dull sprighted Melancholy, leaue my braine
To hell Cimerian night, in liuely vaine
I striue to paint, then hence all darke intent
And sullen frownes, come sporting meriment,
Cheeke dimpling laughter, crowne my very soule
With iouisance, whilst mirthfull iests controule
The goutie humours of these pride-swolne dayes,
Which I doe long vntill my pen displaies.
O I am great with mirth, some midwifrie,
Or I shall breake my sides at vanitie.
Roome for a capering mouth, whose lips nere stur,
But in discoursing of the gracefull slur:
Who euer heard spruce skipping Curio
Ere prate of ought, but of the whirle on toe.
The turne aboue ground, Robrus sprauling kicks,
Fabius caper, Harries tossing tricks?
Did euer any eare, ere heare him speake
Vnlesse his tongue of crosse-poynts did intreat?
His teeth doe caper whilst he eates his meate,
His heeles doe caper, whilst he takes his seate,
His very soule, his intellectuall
Is nothing but a mincing capreall.
He dreames of toe-turnes, each gallant hee doth meete
He fronts him with a trauers in the streete,
Prayse but Orchestra, and the skipping art,
You shall commaund him, faith you haue his hart
Euen capring in your fist. A hall, a hall,
Roome for the Spheres, the Orbes celestiall
Will daunce Kemps Iigge. They'le reuel with neate iumps
A worthy Poet hath put on their Pumps?
O wits quick trauers, but sance ceo's slow,
Good faith tis hard for nimble Curio.
Yee gracious Orbs, keepe the old measuring,
All's spoyld if once yee fall to capering.
But in discoursing of the gracefull slur:
Who euer heard spruce skipping Curio
Ere prate of ought, but of the whirle on toe.
The turne aboue ground, Robrus sprauling kicks,
Fabius caper, Harries tossing tricks?
Did euer any eare, ere heare him speake
Vnlesse his tongue of crosse-poynts did intreat?
His teeth doe caper whilst he eates his meate,
His heeles doe caper, whilst he takes his seate,
His very soule, his intellectuall
Is nothing but a mincing capreall.
He dreames of toe-turnes, each gallant hee doth meete
He fronts him with a trauers in the streete,
Prayse but Orchestra, and the skipping art,
168
Euen capring in your fist. A hall, a hall,
Roome for the Spheres, the Orbes celestiall
Will daunce Kemps Iigge. They'le reuel with neate iumps
A worthy Poet hath put on their Pumps?
O wits quick trauers, but sance ceo's slow,
Good faith tis hard for nimble Curio.
Yee gracious Orbs, keepe the old measuring,
All's spoyld if once yee fall to capering.
Luscus what's playd to day? faith now I know
I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow
Naught but pure Iuliat and Romio.
Say, who acts best? Drusus, or Roscio?
Now I haue him, that nere of ought did speake
But when of playes or Plaiers he did treate.
H'ath made a common-place booke out of plaies,
And speakes in print, at least what ere he sayes
Is warranted by Curtaine plaudeties,
If ere you heard him courting Lesbias eyes;
Say (Curteous Sir) speakes he not mouingly
From out some new pathetique Tragedie?
He writes, he railes, he iests, he courts, what not,
And all from out his huge long scraped stock
Of well penn'd playes.
I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow
Naught but pure Iuliat and Romio.
Say, who acts best? Drusus, or Roscio?
Now I haue him, that nere of ought did speake
But when of playes or Plaiers he did treate.
H'ath made a common-place booke out of plaies,
And speakes in print, at least what ere he sayes
Is warranted by Curtaine plaudeties,
If ere you heard him courting Lesbias eyes;
Say (Curteous Sir) speakes he not mouingly
From out some new pathetique Tragedie?
He writes, he railes, he iests, he courts, what not,
And all from out his huge long scraped stock
Of well penn'd playes.
Oh come not within distance, Martius speakes,
Who nere discourseth but of fencing feates,
Of counter times, finctures, slye passataes,
Stramazones, resolute Stoccataes,
Of the quick change, with wiping mandritta,
The carricado, with th'enbrocata,
Oh, by Iesu Sir, (me thinks I heare him cry)
The honourable fencing mistery,
Who doth not honor? Then fals he in againe,
Iading our eares, and some-what must be saine
Of blades, and Rapier-hilts, of surest garde,
Of Vincentio, and the Burgonians ward.
Who nere discourseth but of fencing feates,
Of counter times, finctures, slye passataes,
Stramazones, resolute Stoccataes,
Of the quick change, with wiping mandritta,
169
Oh, by Iesu Sir, (me thinks I heare him cry)
The honourable fencing mistery,
Who doth not honor? Then fals he in againe,
Iading our eares, and some-what must be saine
Of blades, and Rapier-hilts, of surest garde,
Of Vincentio, and the Burgonians ward.
This bumbast foile-button I once did see
By chaunce, in Liuias modest companie,
When after the God-sauing ceremonie,
For want of talke-stuffe, falls to foinerie,
Out goes his Rapier, and to Liuia
He showes the ward by puncta reuersa.
The incarnata. Nay, by the blessed light,
Before he goes, he'le teach her how to fight
And hold her weapon. Oh I laught amaine,
To see the madnes of this Martius vaine.
By chaunce, in Liuias modest companie,
When after the God-sauing ceremonie,
For want of talke-stuffe, falls to foinerie,
Out goes his Rapier, and to Liuia
He showes the ward by puncta reuersa.
The incarnata. Nay, by the blessed light,
Before he goes, he'le teach her how to fight
And hold her weapon. Oh I laught amaine,
To see the madnes of this Martius vaine.
But roome for Tuscus, that iest-mounging youth,
Who nere did ope his Apish gerning mouth
But to retaile and broke anothers wit.
Discourse of what you will, he straight can fit
Your present talke, with, Sir, I'le tell a iest,
(Of some sweet Lady, or graund Lord at least)
Then on he goes. And nere his tongue shall lye
Till his ingrossed iests are all drawne dry;
But then as dumbe as Maurus, when at play
H'ath lost his crownes, and paun'd his trim array.
He doth naught but retaile iests, breake but one
Out flies his table-booke, let him alone,
He'le haue't i-fayth; Lad, hast an Epigram,
Wilt haue it put into the chaps of Fame?
Giue Tuscus coppies, sooth as his owne wit
His propper issue he will father it.
O that this Eccho, that doth speake, spet, write
Naught but the excrements of others spright,
This ill-stuft truncke of iests, whose very soule
Is but a heape of Iibes, should once inroule
His name mong creatures termed rationall,
whose cheefe repute, whose sence, whose soule & al
Are fedde with offall scrapes, that sometimes fal
From liberall wits, in their large festiuall.
Who nere did ope his Apish gerning mouth
But to retaile and broke anothers wit.
Discourse of what you will, he straight can fit
Your present talke, with, Sir, I'le tell a iest,
(Of some sweet Lady, or graund Lord at least)
Then on he goes. And nere his tongue shall lye
Till his ingrossed iests are all drawne dry;
But then as dumbe as Maurus, when at play
H'ath lost his crownes, and paun'd his trim array.
He doth naught but retaile iests, breake but one
Out flies his table-booke, let him alone,
He'le haue't i-fayth; Lad, hast an Epigram,
170
Giue Tuscus coppies, sooth as his owne wit
His propper issue he will father it.
O that this Eccho, that doth speake, spet, write
Naught but the excrements of others spright,
This ill-stuft truncke of iests, whose very soule
Is but a heape of Iibes, should once inroule
His name mong creatures termed rationall,
whose cheefe repute, whose sence, whose soule & al
Are fedde with offall scrapes, that sometimes fal
From liberall wits, in their large festiuall.
Come a loft Iack, roome for a vaulting skip,
Roome for Torquatus, that nere op'd his lip
But in prate of pummado reuersa,
Of the nimble tumbling Angelica.
Now on my soule, his very intelect
Is naught but a curuetting Sommerset.
Roome for Torquatus, that nere op'd his lip
But in prate of pummado reuersa,
Of the nimble tumbling Angelica.
Now on my soule, his very intelect
Is naught but a curuetting Sommerset.
Hush, hush, cryes (honest Phylo) peace, desist,
Doost thou not tremble sower Satyrist
Now iudiciall Musus readeth thee?
He'le whip each line, he'le scourge thy balladry,
Good fayth he will. Phylo I prethee stay
Whilst I the humour of this dogge display:
He's naught but censure, wilt thou credite me,
He neuer wrote one line in poesie,
But once at Athens in a theame did frame
A paradox in prayse of Vertues name,
Which still he huggs, and lulls as tenderly
As cuckold Tisus his wifes bastardie.
Well, here's a challenge, I flatly say he lyes
That heard him ought but censure Poesies.
Tis his discourse, first hauing knit the brow,
Stroke vp his fore-top, champing euery row,
Belcheth his slauering censure on each booke
That dare presume euen on Medusa looke.
Doost thou not tremble sower Satyrist
Now iudiciall Musus readeth thee?
He'le whip each line, he'le scourge thy balladry,
Good fayth he will. Phylo I prethee stay
Whilst I the humour of this dogge display:
He's naught but censure, wilt thou credite me,
He neuer wrote one line in poesie,
But once at Athens in a theame did frame
A paradox in prayse of Vertues name,
Which still he huggs, and lulls as tenderly
As cuckold Tisus his wifes bastardie.
Well, here's a challenge, I flatly say he lyes
171
Tis his discourse, first hauing knit the brow,
Stroke vp his fore-top, champing euery row,
Belcheth his slauering censure on each booke
That dare presume euen on Medusa looke.
I haue no Artists skill in simphonies,
Yet when some pleasing Diapason flies
From out the belly of a sweet touch'd Lute,
My eares dares say tis good, or when they sute
Some harsher seauens for varietie,
My natiue skill discernes it presently.
What then? Will any sottish dolt repute
Or euer thinke me Orpheus absolute?
Shall all the world of Fidlers follow me,
Relying on my voyce in musickrie?
Yet when some pleasing Diapason flies
From out the belly of a sweet touch'd Lute,
My eares dares say tis good, or when they sute
Some harsher seauens for varietie,
My natiue skill discernes it presently.
What then? Will any sottish dolt repute
Or euer thinke me Orpheus absolute?
Shall all the world of Fidlers follow me,
Relying on my voyce in musickrie?
Musus here's Rhodes, let's see thy boasted leape,
Or els avaunt lewd curre, presume not speake,
Or with thy venome-sputtering chapps to barke
Gainst well-pend Poems, in the tongue-tied darke.
Or els avaunt lewd curre, presume not speake,
Or with thy venome-sputtering chapps to barke
Gainst well-pend Poems, in the tongue-tied darke.
O for a humour, looke who yon doth goe,
The meager lecher, lewd Luxurio,
Tis he that hath the sole monopolie
By patent, of the Suburbe lecherie.
No new edition of drabbs comes out,
But seene and allow'd by Luxurios snout.
Did euer any man ere heare him talke
But of Pick-hatch, or of some Shorditch baulke,
Aretines filth, or of his wandring whore,
Of some Cynedian, or of Tacedore,
Of Ruscus nastie lothsome brothell rime,
That stincks like Aiax froth, or muck-pit slime.
The newes he tells you, is of some new flesh,
Lately broke vp, spanne new, hote piping fresh;
The curtesie he showes you, is some morne
To giue you Venus fore her smock be on.
His eyes, his tongue, his soule, his all is lust,
Which vengeance and confusion follow must.
Out on this salt humour, letchers dropsie,
Fie, it doth soyle my chaster poesie.
The meager lecher, lewd Luxurio,
Tis he that hath the sole monopolie
By patent, of the Suburbe lecherie.
No new edition of drabbs comes out,
But seene and allow'd by Luxurios snout.
Did euer any man ere heare him talke
But of Pick-hatch, or of some Shorditch baulke,
Aretines filth, or of his wandring whore,
Of some Cynedian, or of Tacedore,
Of Ruscus nastie lothsome brothell rime,
That stincks like Aiax froth, or muck-pit slime.
The newes he tells you, is of some new flesh,
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The curtesie he showes you, is some morne
To giue you Venus fore her smock be on.
His eyes, his tongue, his soule, his all is lust,
Which vengeance and confusion follow must.
Out on this salt humour, letchers dropsie,
Fie, it doth soyle my chaster poesie.
O spruce! How now Piso, Aurelius Ape,
What strange disguise, what new deformed shape
Doth hold thy thoughts in contemplation?
Faith say, what fashion art thou thinking on?
A stitch'd Taffata cloake, a payre of slops
Of Spanish leather? O who heard his chops
Ere chew of ought, but of some strange disguise.
This fashion-mounger, each morne fore he rise
Contemplates sute shapes, & once from out his bed,
He hath them straight full liuely portraied.
And then he chukes, and is as proud of this,
As Taphus when he got his neighbours blisse.
All fashions since the first yeare of this Queene,
May in his studdie fairely drawne be seene,
And all that shall be to his day of doome,
You may peruse within that little roome.
For not a fashion once dare show his face,
But from neate Pyso first must take his grace.
The long fooles coat, the huge slop, the lugg'd boot
From mimick Piso, all doe claime their roote.
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be coop'd vp in fashioning some roule!
What strange disguise, what new deformed shape
Doth hold thy thoughts in contemplation?
Faith say, what fashion art thou thinking on?
A stitch'd Taffata cloake, a payre of slops
Of Spanish leather? O who heard his chops
Ere chew of ought, but of some strange disguise.
This fashion-mounger, each morne fore he rise
Contemplates sute shapes, & once from out his bed,
He hath them straight full liuely portraied.
And then he chukes, and is as proud of this,
As Taphus when he got his neighbours blisse.
All fashions since the first yeare of this Queene,
May in his studdie fairely drawne be seene,
And all that shall be to his day of doome,
You may peruse within that little roome.
For not a fashion once dare show his face,
But from neate Pyso first must take his grace.
The long fooles coat, the huge slop, the lugg'd boot
From mimick Piso, all doe claime their roote.
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be coop'd vp in fashioning some roule!
But ô, Suffenus, (that dooth hugge, imbrace
His propper selfe, admires his owne sweet face,
Prayseth his owne faire limmes proportion,
Kisseth his shade, recounteth all alone
His owne good parts) who enuies him? not I,
For well he may, without all riualrie.
His propper selfe, admires his owne sweet face,
Prayseth his owne faire limmes proportion,
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His owne good parts) who enuies him? not I,
For well he may, without all riualrie.
Fie, whether's fledde my sprights alacritie?
How dull I vent this humorous poesie.
In fayth I am sad, I am possest with ruth,
To see the vainenes of fayre Albions youth;
To see their richest time euen wholy spent
In that which is but Gentries ornament.
Which beeing meanely done, becomes them well,
But when with deere times losse they doe excell,
How ill they doe things well. To daunce & sing,
To vault, to fence, & fairely trot a ring
With good grace, meanely done. O what repute
They doe beget, but beeing absolute,
It argues too much time, too much regard
Imploy'd in that which might be better spard,
Then substance should be lost. If one should sew
For Lesbias loue, hauing two dayes to woe
And not one more, & should imploy those twaine
The fauour of her wayting-wench to gaine,
Were he not mad? Your apprehension,
Your wits are quicke in application.
Gallants,
How dull I vent this humorous poesie.
In fayth I am sad, I am possest with ruth,
To see the vainenes of fayre Albions youth;
To see their richest time euen wholy spent
In that which is but Gentries ornament.
Which beeing meanely done, becomes them well,
But when with deere times losse they doe excell,
How ill they doe things well. To daunce & sing,
To vault, to fence, & fairely trot a ring
With good grace, meanely done. O what repute
They doe beget, but beeing absolute,
It argues too much time, too much regard
Imploy'd in that which might be better spard,
Then substance should be lost. If one should sew
For Lesbias loue, hauing two dayes to woe
And not one more, & should imploy those twaine
The fauour of her wayting-wench to gaine,
Were he not mad? Your apprehension,
Your wits are quicke in application.
Me thinks your soules should grudge, & inly scorne
To be made slaue, to humors that are borne
In slime of filthy sensualitie.
That part not subiect to mortalitie
(Boundlesse discursiue apprehension
Giuing it wings to act his function)
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And soile his beauties in some beastly source,
Of brutish pleasures. But it is so poore,
So weake, so hunger bitten, euermore
Kept from his foode, meagar for want of meate,
Scorn'd and reiected, thrust from out his seate,
Vpbray'd by Capons greace, consumed quite
By eating stewes, that waste the better spright.
Snib'd by his baser parts, that now poore Soule,
(Thus pesanted to each lewd thoughts controule)
Hath lost all hart, bearing all iniuries,
The vtmost spight, and rank'st indignities
With forced willingnes. Taking great ioy
If you will daine his faculties imploy
But in the mean'st ingenious qualitie.
(How proude he'le be of any dignitie?)
Put it to musick, dauncing, fencing schoole,
Lord how I laugh to heare the pretty foole
How it will prate, his tongue shall neuer lie,
But still discourse of his spruce qualitie;
Egging his maister to proceed from this,
And get the substance of celestiall blisse.
His Lord straight calls his parliament of sence,
But still the sensuall haue preheminence.
The poore soules better part so feeble is,
So cold and dead is his Synderisis,
That shadowes by odde chaunce somtimes are got,
But ô the substance is respected not.
Here ends my rage, though angry brow was bent,
Yet I haue sung in sporting merriment.
FINIS.
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To euerlasting Obliuion.
Thou mighty gulfe, insatiat cormorant,Deride me not, though I seeme petulant
To fall into thy chops. Let others pray
For euer their faire Poems flourish may.
But as for mee, hungry Obliuion
Deuoure me quick, accept my orizon:
My earnest prayers, which doe importune thee,
With gloomie shade of thy still Emperie,
To vaile both me and my rude poesie.
Farre worthier lines in silence of thy state
Doe sleepe securely free from loue or hate,
From which this liuing, nere can be exempt,
But whilst it breathes will hate and furie tempt.
Then close his eyes with thy all-dimming hand,
Which not right glorious actions can with-stand.
Peace hatefull tongues, I now in silence pace,
Vnlesse some hound doe wake me from my place,
I with this sharpe, yet well meant poesie,
Will sleepe secure, right free from iniurie
Of cancred hate, or rankest villanie.
| The poems of John Marston | |