Skialetheia :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.