University of Virginia Library

SAT. 2. Heîc quærite Troiam.

Hous-keping's dead, Saturio; wot'st thou where?
For-sooth they say far hence in Brek-neck shire,
And euer since they say, that feele and tast,
That men may break their neck, soone as their fast;
Certes, if Pity died at Chaucers date,
He liu'd a widdower long behinde his mate:
Saue that I see some rotten bed-rid Syre,
Which to out-strip the nonage of his heire,
Is cram'd with golden broaths; and druges of price,
And ech day dying liu's; and liuing dies;
Till once suruiu'd his ward-ships latest eue,
His eies are clos'd with choyse to die or liue;
Plenty, and hee, dy'd both in that same yeare,
VVhen the sad skye did sheed so many a teare,
And now, who list not of his labour fayle;
Marke, with Saturio, my friendly tale:
Along thy way, thou canst not but descry,
Faire glittering Halls to tempt thy hopefull eye,
Thy right eye gines to leape for vaine delight,
And surbeate toes to tickle at the sight,
As greedy T. when in the sounding mold
Hee finds a shining pot-shard tip't with gold;
For neuer Syren tempts the pleased eares,
As these the eye of fainting passengers;
All is not so that seems; for surely than
Matrona should not bee a Curtizan.
Smooth Chrysalus should not bee rich with fraud,
Nor honest R. bee his owne wiues baude,
Looke not a squint, nor stride a crosse the way,
Like some demurring Alcide to delay.
But walke on cherely, till thou haue espide,
Sant Peters finger at the Church-yard side,
But wilt thou needs when thou art warn'd so well
Goe se who in so garish walls doth dwell?
There findest thou some stately Doricke frame
Or neate Ionicke worke;
Like the vaine bubble of Iberian pride,
That ouer-croweth all the world beside.
VVhich rear'd to raise the crazy Monarches fame,
Striues for a Court and for a Colledge name;
Yet nought within, but louzy coul's doth hold,
Like a scab'd Cuckow in cage of gold;
So pride aboue doth shade the shame belowe:
A golden Periwig on a Black-mores brow.
When Mæuios first page of his poesy,
Nayl'd to an hundreth postes for noueltie,
With his big title, and Italian mott
Layes siege vnto the backward buyers grote.
Which all within is drafty sluttish geere,
Fit for the Ouen or the Kitchin fire:
So this gay gate adds fuell to thy thought,
That such proud piles were neuer rays'd for nought;
Beate the broad gates; a goodly hollow sound,
With doubled Ecchoes doth againe rebound,
But not a Dog doth barke to welcome thee,
Nor churlish Porter canst thou chasing see,
All dumb and silent, like the dead of night,
Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite,
The marble pauement hid with desart weede,
With house-leeke, thistle, docke, and hemlock-seed.
But if thou chance cast vp thy wondring eyes,
Thou shalt descerne vpon the Frontispice,
ΟΨΔΕΙΣΕΙΣΙΤΩ grauen vp on hye,
A fragment of olde Platoes Poesie,
The meaning is: Sir foole, ye may be gone,
Go backe by leaue, for way here lieth none.
Looke to the towred chymneis which should bee
The winde-pipes of good hospitalitie,
Through which it breatheth to the open ayre,
Betokening life and liberall welfare
Lo, there th'vnthankfull swallow takes her rest,
And fils the Tonnell with her circled nest,
Nor halfe that smoke from all his chymneies goes
As one Tobacco-pipe driues through his nose;
So rawbone hunger scorns the mudded walls,
And gin's to reuell it in Lordly Halls;
So the blacke Prince is broken loose againe
That saw no Sunne saue once (as stories saine)
That once was, when in Trinacry I weene
Hee stole the daughter of the haruest Queene;
And grip't the mawes of barren Suily,
With long constraint of pinefull penury;
And they that should resist his second rage,
Haue pen'd themselues vp in the priuate cage,
Of some blind lane; and their they lurke vnkowne,
Till th'hungry tempest once bee ouerblowne;
Then like the coward, after his neighbours fray,
They creepe forth boldly, and aske where are they?
Meane while the hunger-staru'd Appurtenance
Must bide the brunt, what euer ill mischance;
Grim Famine sits in their forepined face
All full of Angles of vnequall space
Like to the plaine of many-sided squares,
That wont bee drawen out by Geometars;
So sharpe and meager that who should them see
Would sweare they lately came from Hungary.
When their brasse pans and winter couerled,
Haue wipt the maunger of the Horses-bread;
Oh mee; what ods there seemeth twixt their chere,
And the swolne Bezell at an Alehouse fyre,
That tonnes in gallons to his bursten panch,
Whose slimy droughts, his draught can neuer stanch;
For shame ye Gallants grow more hospitall
And turne your needlesse wardrope to your Hall:
As lauish Virro that keepes open doores
Like Ianus in the warres;
Except the twelue-daies, or the wake day-feast
What time hee needs must bee his Cosens guest,
Philene hath bid him; can hee choose but come?
Who should pull Virroes sleeue to stay at home?
All yeare besides, who meal-time can attend,
Come Trebius welcome to the tables end:
What tho hee chires on purer manchets crowne,
Whiles his kind client grindes on blacke and brown;
A iolly rounding of a whole foote broad,
From of the Mong-corne heape shall Trebius load;
What tho hee quaffe pure Amber in his bowle
Of March-brewd wheat: yet slecks thy thirsting soule
With palish oat, froathing in Boston-clay
Or in a shallow cruce; nor must that stay,
Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd brain,
But call and craue; and haue thy cruse againe;
Else how shoulde euen tale bee registred
Of all thy draughts, on the chalk'd barrels head?
And if he list reuiue his hartles graine
With some French grape, or pure Canarian
When pleasing Bourdeaux fals vnto his lott,
Some sowrish Rochell cuts thy thirsting throte,
What tho himselfe carueth his welcome friend,
With a cool'd pittance from his trenchers-end?
Must Trebies lip hang toward his trencher-side?
Nor kisse his fist to take what doth betide?
What tho to spare thy teeth he emploies thy tongue
In busie questions all the dinner long?
What tho the scornfull wayter lookes askile,
And pouts and frowns, and curseth thee the while,
And takes his farewell with a iealous eye,
At euery morsell hee his last shall see?
And if but one exceed the common sise
Or make an hillocke in thy cheeke arise,
Or if perchance thou shouldest, cre thou wist
Hold thy knife vprights in thy griped fist,
Or sittest double on thy back-ward sear,
Or with thine elbow shad'st thy shared meat;
Hee laughs thee in his fellowes eare to scorne,
And asks aloud where Trebius was borne?
Tho the third Sewer takes thee quite away
Without a staffe: when thou would'st lenger stay
What of all this? Is't not inough to say
I din'd at Virro his owne boord to day?