Skialetheia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fie on these Lydian tunes which blunt our sprights
And turne our gallants to Hermaphrodites:
Giue me a Doricke touch, whose Semphony,
And dauncing aire may with affinity
Moue our light vaulting spirits and capering.
Woo Alexander from lewd banquetting
To armes. Bid Haniball remember Cannas,
And leaue Salapian Tamyras embrace.

Hence with these fidlers, whose oyle-buttred lines,
Are Panders vnto lusts, and food to sinnes,
Their whimpring Sonnets, puling Elegies
Slaunder the Muses; make the vvorld despise,
Admired poesie, marre Resolutions ruffe,
And melt true valour with lewd ballad stuffe.

Heere one's Elegiack pen patheticall,
His parting from his Mistris doth bewaile:
Which when young gallant Mutio hath perus'd,

His valour's crestfalne, his resolues abusd,
For vvhatsoe're his courage erst did moue,
He'le goe no voyage novv to leaue his Loue.

Another vvith his supple passion
Meaning to moue his Pigsney to compassion,
Makes puisne Lucius in a simpathy
In loue vvith's pibald Laundres by and by.

A third that falls more roundly to his vvorke,
Meaning to moue her vvere she Ievv or Turke:
Writes perfect Cat and fidle, vvantonly,
Tickling her thoughts vvith masking bavvdry:
Which read to Captaine Tucca, he doth svveare,
And scratch, and svveare, and scratch to heare
His ovvne discourse discours'd: and by the Lord
It's passing good: oh good! at euery vvord:
When his Cock-sparrovv thoughts to itch begin,
He vvith a shrug svveares't a most sweet sinne.

Some others Lady Muse is comicall,
Thalia to the back, nay back and all,
And she vvith many a salt La volto iest
Edgeth some blunted teeth, and fires the brest
Of many an old cold gray-beard Cittizen;
Medea like making him young againe;
Who comming from the Curtaine sneaketh in,
To some odde garden no ed house of sinne.

But oh vvorse yet! for some Capritcious humor

Making an issue of his vlcerous tumor.
Some prophane Clodian pen daring display
(Like connicatching) bawdries Orgia,
With the prouost Martiall, ransacks euery roome
Of a vaulting house, and ribbald doth presume,
VVith Midwife Albert, or the womans booke
To anatomize each corner, and fond nooke.

Let Rablais with his durtie mouth discourse
No longer blush, for they'le write ten times worse:
And Aretines great wit be blam'd no more,
They'le storie forth the errant arrant whore:
And speaking painters excuse Titian,
For his Ioues loues; and Elephanticke vaine.

Thus all our Poets as they had carousde
A health to Circes, are in hogsties housde,
Or els transformd to Goates lasciuiously,
Filthing chast eares with theyr pens Gonorrhey,
For euen the staliest and most generous,
The heroicke Poeme is lasciuious,
Which midst of Mars his field, & hote alarmes,
VVill sing of Cupids chiualrie and armes.

The Satyre onely and Epigramatist,
(Concisde Epigrame, and sharpe Satyrist)
Keepe diet from this surfet of excesse,
Tempring themselues from such licenciousnes.
The bitter censures of their Critticke spleenes,

Are Antidotes to pestilentiall sinnes,
They heale with lashing, feare luxuriousnes,
They are Philosophicke true Cantharides
To vanities dead flesh. An Epigrame
Is popish displing, rebell flesh to tame:
A plaine dealing lad, that is not afraid
To speake the truth, but calls a iade, a iade.
And Mounsieur Guulard was not much too blame,
VVhen he for meat mistooke an Epigrame,
For though it be no cates, sharpe sauce it is,
To lickerous vanitie, youths sweet amisse.
But oh the Satyre hath a nobler vaine,
He's the Strappado, rack, and some such paine
To base lewd vice; the Epigram's Bridewell,
Some whipping cheere: but this is follies hell.
The Epigram's like dwarfe Kings scurrill grace,
A Satyre's Chester to a painted face;
It is the bone-ach vnto lechery,
To Acolastus it is beggery:
It is the scourge, the Tamberlaine of vice,
The three square Tyborne of impieties.

But to come neere the verses of our time,
It is (oh scuruey) to a Lenten rime;
It is the grand hisse to a filthy play,
Tis peoples howts and showts at a pot fray.
Itch farther yet, yet nerer to them, fie

Their wits haue got my Muse with Tympanie:
And with their loose tayld penns to let it loose,
It's like a Syring to a Hampshire Goose.
These critique wits which nettle vanitie,
Are better farre then foode to foppery:
And I dare warrant that the hangingst brow,
The sowrest Stoicke that will scarce allow
A riming stone vpon his fathers graue,
(Though he no reason haue no rime to haue:)
The stricktest (Plato) that for vertues health:
Will banish Poets forth his common-wealth.
VVill of the two affoord the Satyre grace,
Before the whyning loue-song shall haue place:
And by so much his night-cap's ouer awde,
As a Beadle's better states-man then a Bawde.

Explicit the Satyres flourish before his fencing.

Alterius qui fert vitia ferendo facit sua.

Satyra prima.

Shall I still mych in silence and giue ayme,
To other wits which make court to bright fame?
A schoole boy still, shall I lend eare to other,
And myne owne priuate Muses musick smother?
Especially in this sinne leapered age,
VVhere euery Player vice comes on the stage:
Maskt in a vertuous robe? and fooles doe sit
More honored then the Prester Iohn of wit?
VVhere vertue, like a common gossop shieldes
Vice with her name, and her defects ore-guilds:
No no, my Muse, be valiant to controule,
Play the scold brauely, feare no cucking-stoole,
Begall thy spirit, like shrill trumpets clangor,
Vent forth th' impatience, and allarme thine anger:
Gainst sinnes inuasions, rende the foggie clowde,
whose al black wombe far blacker vice doth shrowd

Tell Gyant greatnes a more great did frame,
Th' imaginary Colosse of the same;

And then expostulate why Titus should
Make shewe of Ætnas heat, yet be as cold
As snow-drownd Athos in his frozen zeale,
Both to Religion and his Common-weale?

Or why should Cælius iniure thrift so much,
As to entitle his extortion such?

Or desperat Drus cloke the confusion,

Of heady rage with resolution,

Pale trembling Matho dies his milke-staind liuer
In colour of a discreet counsell-giuer:
And coole aduisement: yet the world doth know,
Hee's a rancke coward: but who dares tell him so?

The world's so bad that vertue's ouer-awde,
And forst poore soule to become vices bawde:
Like the old morrall of the comedie,
Where Conscience fauours Lucars harlotry.
In spight of valour martiall Anthony,
Doth sacrifice himselfe to lecherie:
Wasting to skin & bones (true map of ruth,)
Yet termes it solace, and a trick of youth.

Oh world, oh time, that euer men should be
So blinde besotted with hipocrisie:
Poyson to call an wholsome Antidote,
And made carouse the same, although they know't.

How now my Muse, this is right womans fashion,
To fall from brawling to a blubbering passion?
Haue done haue done, and to a nimbler key,
Set thy winde instrument, and sprightly play.
Thys leaden-heeled passion is to dull,
To keepe pace with this Satyre-footed gull:
This mad-cap world, this whirlygigging age:
Thou must haue words compact of fire & rage:
Tearms of quick Camphire & Salt-peeter phrases,

As in a myne to blow vp the worlds graces,
And blast her anticke apish complements.
Her iugling tricks and mists which mock the sence,
Make Catiline or Alcibiades,
To seeme a Cato, or a Socrates.

This vizar-fac't pole-head dissimulation,
This parrasite, this guide to reprobation,
Thys squynt-eyde slaue, which lookes two wayes at once,
This forkt Dilemma, oyle of passions,
Hath so bereyde the world with his foule myre,
That naked truth may be suspect a lyer.

For when great Fœlix passing through the street,
Vayleth his cap to each one he doth meet,
And when no broome-man that will pray for him,
Shall haue lesse truage then his bonnets brim,
VVho would not thinke him perfect curtesie?
Or the honny-suckle of humilitie?
The deuill he is as soone: he is the deuill,
Brightly accoustred to bemist his euill:
Like a Swartrutters hose his puffe thoughts swell,
With yeastie ambition: Signior Machiauell
Taught him this mumming trick, with curtesie
T'entrench himselfe in popularitie,
And for a writhen face, and bodies moue,
Be Barricadode in the peoples loue.

Yonder comes Clodius, giue him the salute,

An oylie slaue: he angling for repute,
VVill gently entertaine thee, and preuent
Thy worse conceit with many a complement:
But turne thy backe, and then he turnes the word,
The foul-mouthd knaue will call thee goodmā Tord.

Nothing but cossenage doth the world possesse,
And stuffes the large armes of his emptines.

Make sute to Fabius for his fauour, he
Will straight protest of his loues treasurie:
Beleeu'st thou him, then weare a motly coate,
He'le be the first man which shall cut thy throat.

Come to the Court, and Balthazer affords
Fountaines of holy and rose-water words:
Hast thou need of him? & wouldst find him kind?
Nay then goe by, the gentleman is blind.

Thus all our actions in a simpathy,
Doe daunce an anticke with hypocrisie,
And motley fac'd Dissimulation,
Is crept into our euery fashion,
VVhose very titles to are dissembled:
The now all-buttockt, and no-bellied
Doublet and hose which I doe reuell in,
VVas my great grandsires when he did begin
To wooe my grandame, when hee first bespake her,
And witnesse to the ioynture he did make her:
(VVitnes some auntient painted history

Of Assuerus, Haman, Mardoche.
For though some gulls me to beleeue are loth,
I know thei'le credite print, and painted cloth)
Yet, like th' olde Ballad of the Lord of Lorne,
VVhose last line in King Harries dayes was borne,
It still retaines the title of as new,
And proper a fashion, as you euer knew.

All things are different from their outward show,
The very poet, whose standish doth flow
VVith Nectar of Parnassus, and his braine
Melts to Castalian dew, and showres wits raine,
Yet by his outward coutnaunce doth appeare
To haue beene borne in wits dearths deerest yeere.
So that Zopirus iudging by his face,
VVill pronounce Socrates for dull and base.

This habite hath false larumd-seeming wonne
In our affections, that whatsoere is done
Must be newe coynd with slie dissemblance stamp,
And giue a sunne-shine title to a lampe.

This makes the foisting trauailer to sweare,
And face out many a lie within the yeere.
And if he haue beene an howre or two aboarde,
To spew a little gall: then, by the Lord,
He hath beene in both the Indias, East and West,
Talkes of Guiana, China, and the rest:
The straights of Gibraltare, and Ænian,

Are but hard by, no nor the Magellane,
Mandeuile, Candish, sea-experienst Drake
Came neuer neere him, if he truly crake;
Nor euer durst come where he layd his head,
For out of doubt he hath discouered
Some halfe a dozen of th' infinity
Of Anaxarchus worlds. Like foppery
The Antiquary would perswade vs to:
He shewes a peece of blacke-iack for the shooe,
Which old Ægeus bequeathd his valiant sonne:
A peece of pollisht mother of pearle's the spoone
Cupid eate pappe with; and he hath a dagger
Made of the sword wherwith great Charles did swag ger.
Oh that the whip of fooles, great Aretine,
Whose words were squibs, and crackers euery line,
Liu'd in our dayes, to scourge these hypocrites,
VVhose taunts may be like gobblins and sprights:
To haunt these wretches forth that little left them
Of ayery wit; (for all the rest's bereft them)
Oh how the varges from his blacke pen wrung,
VVould sauce the Idiome of the English tongue,
Giue it a new touch, liuelier Dialect
To heare this two-neckt goose, this falshood checkt.

Me thinks I see the pie-bald whoresone tremble
To heare of Aretine: he doth dissemble,
There is no trust to be had to his quaking,

To him once more, and rouse him from his shaking
Feauer of fained feare, hold whip and cord,
Muse, play the Beadle, a lash at euery word:
No, no, let be, he's a true cosoner still,
And like the Cramp-fish darts, euen throgh my quil
His slie insinuating poysonous iuice,
And doth the same into my Spirit infuse:
Me thinks already I applaud my selfe,
For nettle-stinging thus this fayery elfe:
And though my conscience sayes I merit not
Such deere reward, dissembling yet (God wot)
I hunt for praise, and doe the same expect:
Hence (crafty enchaunter) welcome base neglect,
Scoffes make me know my selfe, I must not erre,
Better a wretch then a dissembler.

Satyra secunda.

Heere coms a Coach (my Lads) let's make a stand,
And take a view of blazing starres at hand:
Who's here? who's here? now trust me passing faire,
Thai're most sweet Ladies: mary and so they are.
Why thou young puisne art thou yet to learne,
A harper from a shilling to discerne?
I had thought the last mask which thou caperedst in
Had catechiz'd thee from this errors sinne,

Taught thee S. Martins stuffe from true gold lace,
And know a perfect from a painted face:
Why they are Idols, Puppets, Exchange babies,
And yet (thou foole) tak'st them for goodly Ladies:
Where are thine eyes? But now I call to mind,
These can bewitch, and so haue made thee blind;
A compound mist of May deaw and Beane flowre,
Doe these Acrasias on thy eye lids powre:
Thou art enchaunted (Publius) and hast neede
Of Hercules, thy reason, to be freede.

Consider what a rough worme-eaten table,
By well-mix'd colours is made saleable:
Or how toad-housing sculs, and old swart bones,
Are grac'd with painted toombs, and plated stones:
And think withall how scoffe-inspiring faces
From dawbing pencils doe deriue their graces:
Their beauties are most antient Gentlemen,
Fetch'd from the deaw-figs, hens dung, & the beane.
Nay, this doth rather prooue them bastard faires,
For to so many fathers they are heires,
Yet their effronted thoughts adulterate,
Think the blind world holds them legitimate.
(Madame) you gull your selfe, thinking to gull
Young puisnes eyes with your ore-varnish'd scull:
For now our Gallants are so cunning growne,
That painted faces are like pippins knowne:

They know your spirits, & your distillations,
which make your eies turn diamōds, to charm passions,
Your cerusse now growne stale, your skaine of silke,
Your philterd waters, and your asses milke,
They were plaine asses if they did not know,
Quicksiluer, iuyce of Lemmons, Boras too,
Allom, oyle Tartar, whites of egges, & gaules
Are made the bawdes to morphew, scurffs & scauls
Then whats a wench but a quirke, quidlit case,
VVhich makes a Painters pallat of her face?
Or would not Chester sweare her downe that shee
Lookt like an Elench, logicke sophistrie?
Or like a new sherifes gate-posts, whose old faces
Are furbisht ouer to smoothe times disgraces?

Then how is man turnd all Pygmalion,
That knowing these pictures, yet we doate vpon
The painted statues, or what fooles are we
So grosly to commit idolatry?
VVhat, are we Ethnicks that we honour beasts?
(They are beasts which paint themselues) or els papists
Whose ouer-fleeting brittle memories
Right worshipfull intitle Images?
But be we any thing; these wenches know
VVe are but fooles to be deluded so:
Who for deluding vs, to plague their sinne,
Are turnd to counterfaits, which their vncasde skin,

Quickly discouers, and to shadowes too,
For making louers shadowes as they doo.
Is not he fond then which a slip receaues
For currant money? she which thee deceaues
With copper guilt is but a slip, and she
Will one day shew thee a touch as slippery:
She's counterfait now, and it will goe hard,
If e're thou find her currant afterward:
A painted vvench is like a whore-house signe,
The old new slurred ouer: or mix'd wine,
Sophisticate, to giue it hew and tast;
A dudgin dagger that's new scowr'd and glast:
Or I could sute her were she not prophane,
To a new painted, and churchwarden'd fane:
Or generall pardons, which speake gloriously,
Yet keepe not touch: or a Popish Iubily.
Thus altering natures stamp, they're altered,
From their first purity, innate maydenhead:
Of simple naked honesty, and truth,
And giuen o're to seducing lust and youth:
Whose stings when they are blunted, & these freede
Then shall they see the horror of this deede:
And leauing it their lothsome playstered skins,
Shall shew the furrowed riuels of their sins:
And now their box complexions are depos'd,
Their iaundise looks, and raine-bow like disclos'd,

Shall slander them with sicknes e're their time,
For pocket-healths, vaine vsage in their prime.
Then shall their owly consciences shun light,
And thus like Bats shall flutter in the night,
Asham'd that any eye should restifie,
Their now impouerish'd beauties beggary,
Nay, they so far shal be asham'd thereof,
That from themselues they shal feare cannon scoffe,
And hate to see themselues: all glasses breake,
By which before they taught their looks to speake:
And parly with their lusts. But I'me a foole,
Which talk to deafe eares, & dull stocks do schoole:
Me thinks the painted Pageant's out of sight,
It's time to end my lecture then: good night.

Satyra tertia.

Mary and gup! haue I then lost my cap?
It shall be a warning for an after-clap,
Not that I weigh the tributary due,
Of cap and courtship complements, and new
Antike salutes, I care not for th' embrace,
The Spanish shrug, kiss'd-hand, nor cheuerell face,
God saue you sir, good sir, and such like phrases,
Pronounc'd with lisping, and affected graces,
Moue me no more than t'heare a Parrat cry

Her by-roate lesson of like curtesie:

But this I wonder, that th' art so estrang'd,
And thy old English looks to outlandish chang'd,
Howsoe're thy selfe by English birth art freed,
Thou hast neede to haue thy looks endenized:
With thee I haue beene long time well acquainted:
But those beyond-sea looks haue now disioynted
Our well knit friendship, for whose sake I doubt
Th' art quite turn'd Dutch, or some outlandish lowt,
Thou hast cleane forgot thine English tong, & then
Art in no state to salute Englishmen:
Or else th' hast had some great sicknes of late,
Whose tiranny doth so extenuate
Thy fraile remembrance, that thou canst not claime
Thine old acquaintance, mothers tong, nor name
Giuen thee in thy baptisme: for I cannot, I,
Impute it vnto pride, Philosophy
Hauing so well fore-season'd thy minds caske.

Of gulls and fooles I will no question aske,
Wherfore they looke so strange because I know
They are but poore in wit, though rich in show.
Looke on Panduris, with whom in th' infancy
Of my then greene, now riper iudgment, I
Was well acquainted: he sir will not speake,
Thinking himselfe the better man belike
Because his father with bartring, and trucke

Of bad greene-sicknes wines, hath heapt vp muck,
And for his mother with her greedy gripes,
Hath out of neats-feet, chitterlings, and tripes,
Scrapt many a durty pound: this is he,
That lookes like Guazzo, or pedant grauitie,
Spits controuersies, prates of Bellarmine,
And yet perhaps nere saw of his a line.

Then there is Cynops, whose grand-mother sold
Good ale and wigs, in curtesey growne cold,
Because his father with a cossening fetch,
Purchasd land for him, which his conscience stretch
Hath almost sworne the whole world, thar the man
Is damnd, to make his sonne a gentleman.

With them in ranck La volto Publius,
VVho's growne a reueller ridiculous:
And for his dad with Chimicke vsurie,
Turnd yron to sterling, drosle to land and fee,
And got so by old horse-shooes, that the foole
Enterd himselfe into the dauncing schoole;
Thinks scorne to speake: especially now since
H'ath beene a player to a Christmas prince.
When these, & such like doe themselues estrange,
I neuer muse at theyr fantasticke change:
Because they are Phantasmas butterflies,
Inconstant, but yet witlesse Mercuries.
I know some of their humorous neere of kin,

Which scorne to speake to one which hath not bin
In one of these last voyages: or to one
Which hauing bin there yet (though he haue none)
Hath not a Cades-beard: though I dare sweare
That many a beardlesse chin hath marched where
They durst not for their berds come, thogh they dare
Come where they will not leaue theyr beardes one haire
But I doe wonder what estrangeth thee,
New cast in mold of deepe philosophy:
Thee whom that Queene hath taught to moderate,
Thy mounting thought, nor to be eleuate
With puffingst fortunes? though (for ought I know)
Thy fortunes are none such to puffe thee so.

How like a Musherom art thou quickly growne,
I knew thee when thou war'dst a thred-bare gowne:
Siz'd eighteene pence a weeke, and so did I,
As then thou wert faine of my company,
Of mine acquaintance glad; how art thou altred?
Or wherein's thine estate so bettered?
Thou art growne a silken dauncer, and in that
Turn'd to a caper, skipst from loue to hate,
To daunce Mapiu, French-galliard, or a measure,
Doost thou esteeme this cunning such a treasure?
Neuer be proud of that, for dost thou know,
That Laureat Batchelor Del Phrygio?
He with a spade-beard can full mannerly,

Leade the olde measures to a company
Of bare chind-boyes, and with his nimble feete,
Make our fore-wearied Counsellours to sweat:
For enuie at his strange actiuitie,
Because they cannot do't as well as he.
But then a simple reueller, thou art more,
Thou hast had som doings with the prince d'Amore
And playd a noble mans part in a play:
Now out vpon thee Fabian, I dare say,
If Florus should alledge that cause of pride,
Hisse him thou wouldst to death for't: and beside,
thou mightst haue had som doings with that prince
which wold haue made thee lesse proude euer since.

Yet art thou stately, and so stately to,
That thou forget'st thy state, and wilt not know
Them which knowe thee and it: so long thou hast
True follower beene of fashions, that at last
Thou art growne thy selfe a fashion: for to day
Thou art common, popular, in vse euery way
Fitting the various world, but by and by
Thou art disusde, growst stale, and too proudly
Wringst thy selfe frō the humorous worlds conceit,
Now art thou like the wide breech, doublet strait,
But er't be long, thou wilt estranged be,
Like the French quarter slop, or the gorbelly,
The long stockt hose, or close Venetian.

Now fie vpon this pride, which makes wise men
Looke like expired leases; out of doubt
Thou wert wise, but thy lease of wit is out:
For such fond toyes thou hast estrangde thy selfe
For vaine braue Bragardisme, and durtie pelfe,
And yet I thinke, thy pelfe with thee'le dispence
To kisse the Counter, ere twill bale thee thence.

These foolish toyes haue quite disparaged
Philosophy thy Mistris, and tis said,
Thou art like to Damasippus, for thy hayre
Precisely cut, makes thee Philosopher,
And nothing (God wot) else. But what care I?
Why should I reason with thy surquedry?
I smile at thy Atturneys silken pride,
Tufttaffeta state, and make my Muse deride,
In these her scoffing rimes thy beeing strange,
And haue good pastime at thy motley change.
Prethee be proude still, strange still, stately still,
And with thy winde my Muses organs fill,
To sound an Antheme of thy folly foorth,
It wil be merry musicke, richly worth
The laughing at, for I will play a Iigge,
And thou shalt daunce, my Muse shall play the rig
Once in her dayes, but shee shall quittance thee,
For thy contemptible inconstancie.
VVell, if thou wilt speake, so, and so farewell,
If not, I thinke thee worse foole then I'le tell.

Satyra Quarta.

What a scald humour is this iealous care,
Which turnes a man to a familiare?
See how Trebatio yonder haunts his wife,
And dares not loose sight of her for his life:
And now there's one speakes to her, mark his grace,
See how he basts himselfe in his owne greace:
Note what a squint askew he casts, as he
Already saw his heads hornd-armory.
Foule weather ielousie to a forward spring,
Makes weeds grow ranke, but spoyles a better thing:
Sowes tares (gainst haruest) in the fields of loue,
And dogged humor Dog-dayes-like doth proue:
Scorching loues glorious world with glowing tong;
A serpent by which loue to death is stung,
A fire to wast his pleasant sommer bowres,
Ruine his mansions, and deface his towres.

Yonder goes Cælius playing fast and loose
With his wiues arme, but not for loue God knowes,
Suspition is the cause she well doth know,
Can she then loue him that doth wrong her so?
If she refuse to walke vvith him hee'le frowne,
Fore-vvearied both, they rest, he on her gowne
Sits for his ease she saith, afrayd in hart,
Least sodainly she should giue him the start:
Thus doth he make her prisoner to his feare,

And himselfe thrall to selfe-consuming care.
A male-kind sparrow once mistooke his nest,
And sled for harbour to faire Liuias breast:
Her husband caught him with a iealous rage,
Swearing to keepe him prisoner in a Cage:

Then a poore flye dreading no netty snare,
Was caught in curled meshes of her haire,
Humming a sad note for's imprisonment;
When the mad beast, with ruder hands doth rent
That golden fleece, for hast to take the flie,
And straight-wayes at a vvindow gins to prie,
Busie, sharp-sighted blind-man-hob, to know
Whether t'were male or female taken so,

Marke how Seuerus frigs from roome to roome,
To see, and not to see his martirdome:
Peeuish disease which doth all foode distast,
But what kils health, and that's a pleasing feast:
Like Weauers shuttles which runne to and fro,
Rau'ling their owne guts with their running so.

He which infects these with this lunacy,
Is an odd figgent iack called Iealousie,
His head is like a vvindmils trunk so bigge.
Wherin ten thousand thoughts runne whirligigge,
Play at barly-breake, and daunce the Irish hay
Ciuill and peacefull like the Centaures fray
His body is so fallen away and leane,

That scarce it can his logger-head sustaine.
He hath as many hundred thousand eyes
As Argus had, like starres plac't in the skies,
Though to no purpose, for blinde loue can see
Hauing no eyes, farther then Iealousie.
Gulfe-brested is he, silent, and profound,
Cat-footed for slie pace, and without sound,
Porpentine backed, for he lies on thornes,
Is it not pitty such a beast wants hornes?
Is it not pitty such a beast should so,
Possesse mens thoughts, and timpanize with woe
Their bigge swolne harts? for let Seuerus heare,
A Cuckow sing in Iune, he sweats for feare:
And cōming home, he whurries through the house,
Each hole that makes an inmate of a mouse
Is ransackt by him for the cuckold-maker,
He beates his wife, & mongst his maides doth swagger
T'extort confession from thē who hath been
Familiar with his wife, wreeking his teene
Vpon her ruffes and iewels, burning, tearing,
Flinging and hurling, scolding, staring, swearing.
Hee's as discreet, ciuill a gentleman,
As Harry Peasecod, or a Bedlam man,
A drunken captaine, or a ramping whore,
Or swaggering blew-coate at an ale-house doore.

VVhat an infection's this, which thus doth fire

Mens most discreetest tempers, and doth tire
Their soules with furie? and doth make them thirst
To carouse bolles of poyson till they burst?
Oh this it is to be too wise in sin.
Too well experienst, and skilld therein:
“For false suspition of another, is,
“A sure condemning of our owne amisse.
Vnlesse a man haue into practise brought
The Theoricke art of loue which Ouid wrote,
Vnlesse his owne lewd life haue taught him more
Then Aretines aduenturous wandring whore,
Vnlesse he haue an antient souldiour beene,
Brags of the markes, and shewes the scarres of sinne,
How could he be so gorgde with louing hate,
As to thinke women so insaciate?
How could he know their stratagems and shifts,
Their politicke delayes and wilie drifts?
No no, tis true, he hath beene naught himselfe,
And lewdnes fathereth this wayward elfe,
Then take this for a Maxim generall rule,
No iealous man, but is or knaue, or foole.

Satyra Quinta.

Let me alone I prethee in thys Cell,
Entice me not into the Citties hell;

Tempt me not forth this Eden of content,
To tast of that vvhich I shall soone repent:
Prethy excuse me, I am not alone
Accompanied with meditation,
And calme content, vvhose tast more pleaseth me
Then all the Citties lushious vanity.
I had rather be encoffin'd in this chest
Amongst these bookes and papers I protest,
Then free-booting abroad purchase offence,
And scandale my calme thoughts with discontents.
Heere I conuerse with those diuiner spirits,
Whose knowledge, and admire the world inherits:
Heere doth the famous profound Stagarite,
With Natures mistick harmony delight
My rauish'd contemplation: I heere see
The now-old worlds youth in an history:
Heere may I be graue Platos auditor;
And learning of that morrall Lecturer,
To temper mine affections, gallantly
Get of my selfe a glorious victory:
And then for change, as we delight in change.
(For this my study is indeede m'Exchange)
Heere may I sit, yet walke to Westminster
And heare Fitzherbert, Plowden, Brooke, and Dier
Canuas a law-case: or if my dispose
Perswade me to a play, I'le to the Rose,

Or Curtaine, one of Plautus Comedies,
Or the Patheticke Spaniards Tragedies:
If my desire doth rather wish the fields,
Some speaking Painter, some Poet straitway yeelds
A flower bespangled walk, where I may heare
Some amorous Swaine his passions declare
To his sun-burnt Loue. Thus my books little case,
My study, is mine All, mine euery place.

What more variety of pleasures can
An idle Citty-walke affoord a man?
More troublesome and tedious will I know
T'will be, into the peopled streets to goe,
Witnes that hotch-potch of so many noyses,
Black-saunts of so many seuerall voyces,
That Chaons of rude sounds, that harmony,
And Dyapason of harsh Barbary,
Compos'd of seuerall mouthes, and seuerall cries,
Which to mens eares turne both their tongs & eies.
There squeaks a cart-wheele, here a tumbrel rumbles
Heere scolds an old Bawd, there a Porter grumbles.
Heere two tough Car-men combat for the way,
There two for looks begin a coward fray,
Two swaggering knaues heere brable for a whore,
There brauls an Ale-knight for his fat-grown score.

But oh purgation! yon rotten-throated slaues
Engarlanded with coney-catching knaues,

Whores, Bedles, bawdes, and Sergeants filthily
Chaunt Kemps Iigge, or the Burgonians tragedy:
But in good time, there's one hath nipt a bong,
Farewell my harts, for he hath marrd the song.

Yet might all this, this too bad be excusd,
Were not an Ethicke soule much more abusd,
And her still patience choakt by vanitie,
VVith vnsufferable inhumanitie:
For whose gall is't that would not ouerflow,
To meete in euery streete where he shall goe,
With folly maskt in diuers semblances?
The Cittie is the mappe of vanities,
The marte of fooles, the Magazin of gulles,
The painters shop of Antickes: walke in Poules,
And but obserue the sundry kindes of shapes,
Th' wilt sweare that London is as rich in apes
As Affricke Tabraca: One wries his face.
This fellows wrie necke is his better grace.
He coynd in newer mint of fashion,
With the right Spanish shrugge shewes passion.
There comes one in a muffler of Cad z-beard,
Frowning as he would make the world afeard,
VVith him a troupe all in gold-dawbed sutes,
Looking like Talbots, Percies, Montacutes,
As if their very countenaunces would sweare,
The Spanyard should conclude a peace for feare:

But bring them to a charge, then see the luck,
Though but a false fire, they theyr plumes wil duck
What maruell, since life's sweete? But see yonder,
One like the vnfrequented Theater
Walkes in darke silence, and vast solitude,
Suited to those blacke fancies which intrude,
Vpon possession of his troubled breast:
But for blacks sake he would looke like a ieast,
For hee's cleane out of fashion: what he?
I thinke the Genius of antiquitie,
Come to complaine of our varietie,
Of tickle fashions: then you iest I see.
Would you needs know? he is a malecontent:
A Papist? no, nor yet a Protestant,
But a discarded intelligencer,
Here's one lookes like to a king Arthurs fencer,
VVith his case of rapiers, and suted in buffe,
Is he not a Sargeant? then say's a muffe
For his furrd sattin cloake; but let him goe,
Meddle not with him, hee's a shrewd fellow.

Oh what a pageant's this? what foole was I
To leaue my studie to see vanitie?
But who's in yonder coach? my lord and foole,
One that for ape tricks can put Gue to schoole:
Heroick spirits, true nobilitie
Which can make choyce of such societie.

He more perfections hath than y'would suppose,
He hath a wit of waxe, fresh as a rose,
He playes well on the treble Violin,
He soothes his Lord vp in his grosest sin,
At any rimes sprung from his Lordships head,
Such as Elderton would not haue fathered:
He cries, oh rare my Lord, he can discourse
The story of Don Pacolet and his horse,
(To make my Lord laugh) sweares and iest,
And with a Simile non plus the best,
(Vnlesse like Pace his wit be ouer-awde)
But his best part is he's a perfect Bawde,
Rare vertues; farewel they. But who's yonder
Deep mouth'd Hound, that bellows rimes like thunder
He maks an earthquake throughout Paules churchyard,
Well fare his hart, his larum shall be heard:
Oh he's a puisne of the Innes of Court,
Come from th' Vniuersity to make sport
With his friends money heere: but see, see,
Heere comes Don Fashion, spruce formality,
Neat as a Merchants ruffe, that's set in print,
New halfe-penny, skip'd forth his Laundres mint;
Oh braue! what, with a feather in his hat?
He is a dauncer you may see by that;
Light heeles, light head, light feather well agree.
Salute him, with th' embrace beneath the knee?

I thinke twere better let him passe along,
He will so dawbe vs with his oyly tongue,
For thinking on some of his Mistresses,
We shall be curried with the briske phrases,
And prick-song termes he hath premeditate,
Speake to him woe to vs, for we shall ha'te,
Then farewell he. But soft, whom haue we heare?
What braue Saint George, what mounted Caualiere?
He is all court-like, Spanish in's attyre,
He hath the right ducke, pray God he be no Frier:
Thys is the Dictionary of complements,
The Barbers mouth of new-scrapt eloquence,
Synomicke Tully for varietie,
And Madame Conceits gorgeous gallerie,
The exact patterne which Castilio
Tooke for's accomplish Courtier: but soft ho,
What needs that bownd, or that curuet (good fir)
There's some sweet Lady, and tis done to her,
That she may see his Iennets nimble force:
VVhy, would he haue her in loue with his horse?
Or aymes he at popish merrit, to make
Her in loue with him, for his horses sake?

The further that we walke, more vanitie
Presents it selfe to prospect of mine eye,
Here sweares some Seller, though a known vntruth,
Here his wife's bated by some quick-chapt youth.

There in that window mistres minkes doth stand,
And to some copesmate beckneth her hand,
In is he gone, Saint Uenus be his speede,
For some great thing must be aduentured:
There comes a troupe of puisnes from the play,
Laughing like wanton schoole-boyes all the way.
Yon goe a knot to Bloome is Ordinary,
Friends and good fellowes all now, by and by
Thei'le be by the eares, vie stabs, exchange disgraces,
And bandie daggers at each others faces.

Enough of these then, and enough of all,
I may thanke you for this time spent; but call
Henceforth I'le keepe my studie, and eschew,
The scandall of my thoughts, my follies view:
Now let vs home, I'me sure tis supper time,
The horne hath blowne, haue done my merry rime.

Satyra sexta.

Oh that mens thoughts should so degenerate,
Being free borne, t'admit a slauish state:
They disclaime Natures manumission,
Making themselues bond to opinion:
VVhose gally-slaues they are, tost on the sea
Of vulgar humors, which doth rage and play,
According as the various breath of change

Calmes or perturbs her smooth brow. Is't not strang
That heau'n bred soules, discended from aboue
Should brooke such base subiection? feare reproofe
From her cold northerne gales, or els be merry
When her Fanonian praise breathes a sweet perry?

(Rason) thou art the soules bright Genius,
Sent downe from Ioues throne to safe conduct vs
In this lifes intricate Dædalian maze:
How art thou buffuld? how comes this disgrace,
That by opinion thou art bearded so,
Thy slaue, thy shadow: nay, out-bearded too?
She earth-worme doth deriue her pedegree
From bodies durt, and sensualitie,
And marshald in degree fitting her birth
Is but a dwarffe, or iester to make mirth.
Thou the soules, bodies Queenes allie most neere,
The first Prince of her blood, and chiefest peere,
Nay, her protector in nonage, whilst she
Liues in this bodies weake minoritie,
Art yet kept vnder by that vnderling,
That dreame, that breath, nay that indeed Nothing,
The ale-house Ethicks, the worlds vpside downe
Is verefied: the prince now serues the clowne.
If reason bandy with opinion,
Opinion winnes in the conclusion:
For if a man be once opinionate,

Millions of reasons nill extenuate
His fore-ceited mallice: conference
Cannot asswage opinions insolence.
But let opinion once lay battery
To reasons fort, she will turne heresie,
Or superstition, wily politist,
But she will winne those rampires which resist.
Then sith such innate discord is maintain'd
Twixt reason and opinion; what staid-brain'd,
True resolute, and philosophick head
Would by opinion be distempered?

Opinion is as various as light change,
Now speaking Court-like friendly, strait-wayes strange;
She's any humours perfect parasite,
Displeas'd with her, and pleas'd with her delight,
She is the Eccho of inconstancie,
Soothing her no with nay, her I with yea.

Then who would weigh this feather, or respect
The fickle censure of shallow neglect?
Shall graue Lycurgus straite repeale his lawes,
Because some Cobler finds fault with this clawse,
Some Ale-konner with that? or shall the state
Be subiect to each base-groomes arbitrate?
No, let's esteeme Opinion as she is,
Fooles bawble, innouations Mistris,
The Proteus Robin-good-fellow of change,

Smithfield of iaded fancies, and th' Exchange
Of fleeting censures, nurse of heresie,
Begot by Malice on Inconstancie:
It's but the hisse of Geese, the peoeples noyse,
The tongue of humours, and phantasticke voyce
Of haire-brain'd Apprehension: it respects
With all due titles, and that due neglects
Euen in one instant. For in these our times
Some of Opinions gulls carpe at the rimes
Of reuerend Chawcer: other-some do praise them,
And vnto heau'n with wonders wings do raise them

Some say the mark is out of Gowers mouth,
Others, he's better then a trick of youth.

Some blame deep Spencer for his grandam words,
Others protest that, in them he records
His maister-peece of cunning giuing praise,
And grauity to his profound-prickt layes.

Daniel (as some holds) might mount if he list,
But others say that he's a Lucanist.

Markham is censur'd for his want of plot,
Yet others thinke that no deepe stayning blot;
As Homer writ his Frogs-fray learnedly,
And Uirgil his Gnats vnkind Tragedy:
So though his plot be poore, his Subiect's rich,
And his Muse soares a Falcons gallant pitch.

Drayton's condemn'd of some for imitation,
But others say t'was the best Poets fashion,
In spight of sicke Opinions crooked doome,
Traytor to kingdome mind, true iudgments toomb,
Like to a worthy Romaine he hath wonne
A three-fold name affined to the Sunne,
When he is mounted in the glorious South,
And Drayton's iustly sirnam'd Golden-mouth.

The double volum'd Satyre praised is,
And lik'd of diuers for his Rods in pisse,
Yet other-some, who would his credite crack
Haue clap'd Reactioes Action on his back.

Nay, euen wits Cæsar, Sidney, for whose death
The Fates themselues lamented Englands scath,
And Muses-wept, till of their teares did spring
Admiredly a second Castal spring,
Is not exempt for prophanation,
But censur'd for affectation.

Thus doth Opinion play the two edg'd sword,
And vulgar iudgments both-hand playes afford,
Then who but fooles, and empty caske like minds,
Would be engross'd with such phantastique winds?
Let Players, Minstrels, silken Reuellers,
Light minded as their parts, their aires, their fethers,
Be slaues t'Opinion, when the people shoute

At a quaintiest, crosse-poynt, or well touch'd Lute,
Let their sleight frothy minds be bubled vp,
And breake againe at a hisse, or howt, or hup.
Let Caius when his horse hath wone the bell,
Conceiue more ioy than his dull tongue can tell:
Or let Lycanor feare a tennis set
More then his soules losse, and for it more fret.

Pollio me thinks is going into the Towne,
Boy, set your Maisters ruffe, and brush his gowne,
Least some spruce Taylor sitting on his stall,
Say, there goes a slouen, carelesse of all,
Heere comes young Pansa: whether away so fast?
Why, going to the Barbers in all hast,
Thy haire's all short enough: but I must craue
A little labour to be smug'd, and haue
A blessing of Rose-water, ere I goe
To see such and such Ladies, for you know
Thei'le flowt a man behind his backe, if he
Be not trim furbish'd, and in decencie.

Oh what a slauerie's this? shall a free mind
Sicke of a Cockneys Ague, feare the wind?
No, let's be Stoicks, resolute, and spare not
To tell the proudest Criticke that we care not
For his wooden censure, nor to mittigate
The sharp tart veriuice of his snap-haunce hate

Would change a line, a word, no not a poynt
For his deepe mouthed scoffes, as soone disioynt
His grind-iest chaps as hurt our credites, who
Are carelesse of what he can say or do.

Oh Epictetus, perfect libertine,
Who though a slaue, tyr'd daily in the mine,
Yet hadst as free a soule, as free a powre
To calme content as any Emperour,
Thou wert no busie Polypragmons thrall,
No slaue to censures, caring not at all
Which way the vulgar wind stood, negligent
Whether the world were angry or content.
Thy vertue-purged soule, thy Genius
Made all thine inclinations vertuous:
Which thou didst follow, carelesse of th' euent,
Or of the worlds applause, or discontent.
True patterne of a philosophick soule,
Not subiect to Mechanick mates controule,
Nor puff'd vp with the praises of each hind
Which gaue a froathy battery to thy mind.

With such resolue, such perfect temperature
Should a Socratique mind her thoughts assure:
And as he taught young Alcibiades
Audacity to pleade, and to despise
The popular scarcrow estimation;

For that such bodies composition
Consisted but of Brokers, Coblers, slaues,
Black-men, trap-makers, and such kind of knaues,
Whose many headed doomes he neuer weighd,
Nor of their giddy vnion was afraid:
So let all others care for vulgar breath,
Which neither can preserue, nor plague with death,
(Vnlesse their sent of Garlike poyson vs.)
Should I take it at hart, or for hainous,
To heare some Prentize, or some Players boy
Hath iested at my Muse, and scoff'd my ioy?
Or that some Chaundler slopt a mustard pot,
Or wrap'd Sope in some leaues, her petticoate?
Or perfum'd Courtiour in a peeuish scorne,
Some pages thereof, tyrant-like hath torne,
To scauenger his backe dore from the durt?
Which if he do (though me it shall not hurt)
May my harsh stile (the Muses I beseech)
Be but as arse-smart to his tickled breech:
Or shall I thinke my selfe t'haue better hap,
If that some weeuil, mault-worme, barly-cap,
Hearing my lines halfe-snorting ore his kanne,
Sweares them for good, and me a proper man?
Or shall I waxe proud if some Pedant daigne
The Epethite of Pretty for my paine?

The pox I will as soone: let others care,
Ile play the Gallant, I, the Caueleire;
Once in my dayes Ile weene, and ouer-weene,
And cry, a Fico for the Criticke spleene:
For let them praise them, or their praise deny,
My lines are still themselues, and so am I.