The Scourge of Folly Consisting of satyricall Epigrams, And others in honour of many noble Persons and worthy friends, together, with a pleasant (though discordant) Descant upon most English Proverbs and others [by John Davies] |
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 | The Scourge of Folly |  |
230
[Papers Complaint, compild in ruthfull Rimes]
Papers Complaint, compild in ruthfull Rimes
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.
VVhat heart so hard that splits not when it heares
What ruthlesse Martyrdome my Body beares
By rude Barbarians of these later Times,
Blotting my spotlesse Brest with Prose and Rimes
That Impudence, itselfe, would blush to beare;
It is such shamelesse Stuffe and irkesome Geare?
Though I (immaculate) be white as Snow,
(Which virgin Hue mine Innocence doth shew)
Yet these remorceles Monsters on me piles
A massy heape of blockish senceles Stiles;
That I ne wot (God wot) which of the twaine
Do most torment me, heauy Shame, or Paine.
What ruthlesse Martyrdome my Body beares
By rude Barbarians of these later Times,
Blotting my spotlesse Brest with Prose and Rimes
That Impudence, itselfe, would blush to beare;
It is such shamelesse Stuffe and irkesome Geare?
Though I (immaculate) be white as Snow,
(Which virgin Hue mine Innocence doth shew)
Yet these remorceles Monsters on me piles
A massy heape of blockish senceles Stiles;
That I ne wot (God wot) which of the twaine
Do most torment me, heauy Shame, or Paine.
No lesse then my whole Reames will some suffize
With mad-braine Stuffe ore them to tyrannize.
Yea Ballet-mongers make my sheetes to shake,
To beare Rimes-doggrell making Dogs perbrake.
Whereto (ay me) grosse Burthens still they ad,
And to that put againe, light Notes and sad:
O Man in desperation, what a dewce
Meanst thou such filth in my white face to sluce?
With mad-braine Stuffe ore them to tyrannize.
Yea Ballet-mongers make my sheetes to shake,
To beare Rimes-doggrell making Dogs perbrake.
Whereto (ay me) grosse Burthens still they ad,
And to that put againe, light Notes and sad:
O Man in desperation, what a dewce
Meanst thou such filth in my white face to sluce?
One raies me with course Rimes, and Chips them call,
Offals of wit, a fire burne them all.
And then to make the mischeife more compleate
He blotts my Brow with Verse as blacke as Iett,
Wherein he shewes where Ludlow hath her Scite,
And how her Horse-high Market House is pight.
Yet not so satisfied, but on he goes,
And where one Berries meane house stands, he showes,
Offals of wit, a fire burne them all.
231
He blotts my Brow with Verse as blacke as Iett,
Wherein he shewes where Ludlow hath her Scite,
And how her Horse-high Market House is pight.
Yet not so satisfied, but on he goes,
And where one Berries meane house stands, he showes,
An other comes with Wit, too costiue then,
Making a Glister-pipe of his rare Pen:
And through the same he all my Brest becackes,
And turnes me so, to nothing but Aiax.
Yet Aiax (I confesse) was too supreme
For Subiect of my-his wit royalld Reame,
Exposed to the rancor of the rude,
And wasted by the witlesse Multitude.
He so adorned me that I shall nere
More right, for kinde, then in his Robes appeare.
VVhose Lines shall circumscribe vncompast Times:
And, past the wheeling of the Spheares, his Rimes
Shall runne (as right) to immortallity,
And praisd (as proper) of Posterity.
Yet sith his wit was then with VVill annoyd,
And I enforct to beare what Wit did void,
I cannot choose but say as I haue said,
His wit (made loose) defiled me his Maide.
Making a Glister-pipe of his rare Pen:
And through the same he all my Brest becackes,
And turnes me so, to nothing but Aiax.
Yet Aiax (I confesse) was too supreme
For Subiect of my-his wit royalld Reame,
Exposed to the rancor of the rude,
And wasted by the witlesse Multitude.
He so adorned me that I shall nere
More right, for kinde, then in his Robes appeare.
VVhose Lines shall circumscribe vncompast Times:
And, past the wheeling of the Spheares, his Rimes
Shall runne (as right) to immortallity,
And praisd (as proper) of Posterity.
Yet sith his wit was then with VVill annoyd,
And I enforct to beare what Wit did void,
I cannot choose but say as I haue said,
His wit (made loose) defiled me his Maide.
Another (ah Lord helpe) mee vilifies
With Art of Loue, and hovv to subtilize,
Making levvd Venus, vvith eternall Lines,
To tye Adonis to her loues designes:
Fine vvit is shevv'n therein: but finer tvvere
If not attired in such bavvdy Geare.
But be it as it vvill: the coyest Dames,
In priuate read it for their Closset-games:
For, sooth to say, the Lines so draw them on,
To the venerian speculation,
That will they, nill they (if of flesh they bee)
They will thinke of it, sith loose Thought is free.
With Art of Loue, and hovv to subtilize,
Making levvd Venus, vvith eternall Lines,
To tye Adonis to her loues designes:
Fine vvit is shevv'n therein: but finer tvvere
If not attired in such bavvdy Geare.
But be it as it vvill: the coyest Dames,
In priuate read it for their Closset-games:
For, sooth to say, the Lines so draw them on,
To the venerian speculation,
232
They will thinke of it, sith loose Thought is free.
And thou (O Poet that dost pen my Plaint,
Thou art not scot-free from my iust complaint:
For, thou hast plaid thy part, with thy rude Pen,
To make vs both ridiculous to men.
Thou art not scot-free from my iust complaint:
For, thou hast plaid thy part, with thy rude Pen,
To make vs both ridiculous to men.
But O! my Soule is vext to thinke how euill
I was abus'd to beare suits to the Deuill.
Pierse-Pennilesse (a Pies eat such a patch)
Made me (ay me) that businesse once dispatch.
And hauing made me vndergo the shame,
Abusde me, further in the Deuills name:
And made Dildo (dampned Dildo) beare,
Till good-mens hate did me in peeces teare.
O they were mercifull therein (God knowes)
It's ruth to rid condemned ones from woes.
How many Quires (can any Stacioner tell)
Were bandied then, t'wixt him and Gabriell?
Who brutishly my beauty so did blot
With Giulie girds by Pens pumpt from th'inck-pot,
That I more vgly then a Satire seemd:
Nay, for an hellish Monster was esteemd.
Fiue Grotes (good Lord!) why what a rate was that,
For one meere rayling Pamphlet to be at?
Well, God forgiue them both, they did me wrong,
To make me beare their choller spude, so long.
Yet if, in Iudgement, I should spend my breath,
The Doctor foyld him vvith his Dagger-sheath.
I was abus'd to beare suits to the Deuill.
Pierse-Pennilesse (a Pies eat such a patch)
Made me (ay me) that businesse once dispatch.
And hauing made me vndergo the shame,
Abusde me, further in the Deuills name:
And made Dildo (dampned Dildo) beare,
Till good-mens hate did me in peeces teare.
O they were mercifull therein (God knowes)
It's ruth to rid condemned ones from woes.
How many Quires (can any Stacioner tell)
Were bandied then, t'wixt him and Gabriell?
Who brutishly my beauty so did blot
With Giulie girds by Pens pumpt from th'inck-pot,
That I more vgly then a Satire seemd:
Nay, for an hellish Monster was esteemd.
Fiue Grotes (good Lord!) why what a rate was that,
For one meere rayling Pamphlet to be at?
Well, God forgiue them both, they did me wrong,
To make me beare their choller spude, so long.
Yet if, in Iudgement, I should spend my breath,
The Doctor foyld him vvith his Dagger-sheath.
The Conny-catcher novv plaies least in sight,
That vvonted vvas on me to shevv that slyght.
And made more hauock of my Reames and Quires,
Then all the Nickes are vvorth of such scalld Squires.
No Tearme could scape him; but he scraped mee
With Pens that spirtled me vvith villany,
And made me ope a gap, vnto each Gap,
That leads to shame, to sorrovv, and mishap.
But let him goe, he long since dead hath beene,
In Body dead, but yet his Name is Greene.
That vvonted vvas on me to shevv that slyght.
And made more hauock of my Reames and Quires,
Then all the Nickes are vvorth of such scalld Squires.
No Tearme could scape him; but he scraped mee
With Pens that spirtled me vvith villany,
233
That leads to shame, to sorrovv, and mishap.
But let him goe, he long since dead hath beene,
In Body dead, but yet his Name is Greene.
VVhat should I speake of infant-Rimers novv,
That ply their Pen as Plovv-men do their Plovv:
And pester Poasts vvith Titles of nevv bookes;
For, none but Blockes such vvoodden Titles brookes.
Ay me, hovv ill-bested am I the vvhile,
To see, hovv at my carriage, Carters smile:
And yet such Rascall-vvriters finde a Presse,
(A mischiefe ont) to make me to confesse
I vvas in fault for that I did not finde
Avvay to flie from such Gulls vvith the vvinde.
That ply their Pen as Plovv-men do their Plovv:
And pester Poasts vvith Titles of nevv bookes;
For, none but Blockes such vvoodden Titles brookes.
Ay me, hovv ill-bested am I the vvhile,
To see, hovv at my carriage, Carters smile:
And yet such Rascall-vvriters finde a Presse,
(A mischiefe ont) to make me to confesse
I vvas in fault for that I did not finde
Avvay to flie from such Gulls vvith the vvinde.
Then to recount the volumes hugely vvritten,
VVhere I lye soild at I vvere all be ( )
Aiax, Ile stand toot, did beseeme me better,
For all's vnsvveete Sence, Sentence, Line and Letter.
The Sonnes of Ayman, Beuts, Gawen, Guy,
Arthur, the VVorthy, vvrit vnvvorthily;
Mirrour of Knighthood, vvith a number such,
I might spend time (past time) them all to touch.
VVhere I lye soild at I vvere all be ( )
Aiax, Ile stand toot, did beseeme me better,
For all's vnsvveete Sence, Sentence, Line and Letter.
The Sonnes of Ayman, Beuts, Gawen, Guy,
Arthur, the VVorthy, vvrit vnvvorthily;
Mirrour of Knighthood, vvith a number such,
I might spend time (past time) them all to touch.
And though I grieue, yet cannot choose but smile
To see some moderne Poets feed my Soile
VVith mighty Words that yeeld a mostrous Crop,
VVhich they do spur-gald in a false-gallop.
Embellish, Blandishment and Equipage
Such Furies flie from their Muse holy rage.
And if (perchance) one hit on Surquedry,
O he vvrites rarely in svveet Poesy!
But, he that (point-blanck) hits Enueloped,
Hee (Lord receaue his Soule) strikes Poetry dead.
To see some moderne Poets feed my Soile
VVith mighty Words that yeeld a mostrous Crop,
VVhich they do spur-gald in a false-gallop.
Embellish, Blandishment and Equipage
Such Furies flie from their Muse holy rage.
And if (perchance) one hit on Surquedry,
O he vvrites rarely in svveet Poesy!
But, he that (point-blanck) hits Enueloped,
Hee (Lord receaue his Soule) strikes Poetry dead.
O Poetry! that novv (as stands thy case)
Art the head game; and yet art out an Ace:
An Ace? nay two: (for on thee Fortune frownes)
That's out of Credit quite, and out of Crownes.
Thou art a VVorke of darkenesse, that dost damne
Thy Soule (all Satire) in an Epigram.
Thou art, in this worlds reackning, such a Botch
As kills the English quite, how er'e the Scotch
Escape the mortall mischiefe: but, indeede,
Their Starres are better; so, they better speede.
Yet Poetry be blith hold vp thy head,
And liue by Aire till Earthly Lumpes be dead.
But, if Aire fat not, as through thee it passes
Liue vpon Sentences gainst golden Asses.
Art the head game; and yet art out an Ace:
234
That's out of Credit quite, and out of Crownes.
Thou art a VVorke of darkenesse, that dost damne
Thy Soule (all Satire) in an Epigram.
Thou art, in this worlds reackning, such a Botch
As kills the English quite, how er'e the Scotch
Escape the mortall mischiefe: but, indeede,
Their Starres are better; so, they better speede.
Yet Poetry be blith hold vp thy head,
And liue by Aire till Earthly Lumpes be dead.
But, if Aire fat not, as through thee it passes
Liue vpon Sentences gainst golden Asses.
Some burden me, sith I oppresse the Stage,
With all the grosse Abuses of this Age,
And presse mee after, that the World may see
(As in a soiled Glasse) hir selfe in mee.
VVhere each man in, and out of's humor pries
Vpon him selfe; and laughs vntill hee cries.
Vntrussing humerous Poets, and such Stuffe
(As might put plainest Pacience in a Ruffe)
I shew men: so, they see in mee and Elues
Themselues scornd, and their Scorners scorne themselues
O wondrous Age! when Phœbus Ympes do turne
Their Armes of VVitt against themselues in scorne
For lack of better vse: alack, alack,
That Lack should make them so their creditts crack!
Is want of Wealth, or VVitt the cause thereof.
That they thus make themselues a publick Scoffe?
I wott not I but yet I greatly feare,
It is not with them as I would it were.
I would it were; then Time should ne're report
That in these Times, VVitt spoild himselfe in sport.
O poore Avellar Priests (rich in reproch)
Ist not ynough the base your blame should broch.
But you your selues (vnhappie as ye are)
Must doo't, as if your diuine fury were
Turn'd into Hellish; to excruciate none
(To gladd your Scorners) but your selues alone.
And make me beare, to myne eternall shame,
Th'immortall Records of your Rancors Blame.
Can you teach men how they themselues should vse
When you your selues your selues do so abuse?
Or sett this Chaos of confusion
(The World) in order by abusion?
Alas ye cannot: For, Men will despise
The precepts of great Clarks, if so vnwise.
Then Time redeeme, and in time that amisse
And I past-time will beare the blame of this.
For, pale-fac'd Paper cannot blush a whitt
Though still it beare the greatest blame of Witt.
Yet, Poets loue I, sith they make me weare
(What weares out Time) my rich, and gaudiest Geare.
Yea, those I loue that in too earnest Game
(Or little Spleene) did me no little shame.
Sith I can witnesse to succeeding Times
They oft haue me araid with royall Rimes,
That rauish Readers (though they) enuious bee,
Such sacred Raptures they haue put on me.
With all the grosse Abuses of this Age,
And presse mee after, that the World may see
(As in a soiled Glasse) hir selfe in mee.
VVhere each man in, and out of's humor pries
Vpon him selfe; and laughs vntill hee cries.
Vntrussing humerous Poets, and such Stuffe
(As might put plainest Pacience in a Ruffe)
I shew men: so, they see in mee and Elues
Themselues scornd, and their Scorners scorne themselues
O wondrous Age! when Phœbus Ympes do turne
Their Armes of VVitt against themselues in scorne
For lack of better vse: alack, alack,
That Lack should make them so their creditts crack!
Is want of Wealth, or VVitt the cause thereof.
That they thus make themselues a publick Scoffe?
I wott not I but yet I greatly feare,
It is not with them as I would it were.
I would it were; then Time should ne're report
That in these Times, VVitt spoild himselfe in sport.
O poore Avellar Priests (rich in reproch)
Ist not ynough the base your blame should broch.
235
Must doo't, as if your diuine fury were
Turn'd into Hellish; to excruciate none
(To gladd your Scorners) but your selues alone.
And make me beare, to myne eternall shame,
Th'immortall Records of your Rancors Blame.
Can you teach men how they themselues should vse
When you your selues your selues do so abuse?
Or sett this Chaos of confusion
(The World) in order by abusion?
Alas ye cannot: For, Men will despise
The precepts of great Clarks, if so vnwise.
Then Time redeeme, and in time that amisse
And I past-time will beare the blame of this.
For, pale-fac'd Paper cannot blush a whitt
Though still it beare the greatest blame of Witt.
Yet, Poets loue I, sith they make me weare
(What weares out Time) my rich, and gaudiest Geare.
Yea, those I loue that in too earnest Game
(Or little Spleene) did me no little shame.
Sith I can witnesse to succeeding Times
They oft haue me araid with royall Rimes,
That rauish Readers (though they) enuious bee,
Such sacred Raptures they haue put on me.
Heere giue me leaue (kinde Reader) to digresse;
To speake of their vnhappy-happinesse,
Who can put Words into the Mouthes of Kings,
That make them more then seeme Celestiall things,
And can their Deeds so fashion with their Pen,
That, doing so, they should be Gods vvith men!
Each Moode that moues the Minde they so can moue,
As doth the Wit, the Will; or Beauty, Loue.
Yet, as they vvere accursed by the Fates,
They can moue none to better their estates.
VVho do not onely hurt themselues alone,
But Fortune (that still hurts them) do enthrone
Among the Senate of those Deities
That hisse (like Geese) at their kinde Gulleries.
What bootes the Braines to haue a wit diuine,
To make what ere it touch, in Glory shine;
If (Midas like) it famisht be with store
Of golden Morsels set the same before.
And for hunger-staruen Fee (alas!)
To make an Idoll of a Golden Asse.
It's the worst way that wit can vse his trade,
For Fee so light wich rich praise Blockes to lade.
Yet vvill I not so vvrong my selfe and you
To bid you quite your thriftlesse Trade eschue.
For, then, in time, I might want change (perchance)
Of Robes, that do my glory most aduance.
No: vvrite (kinde Patrones) but let Patrones such
Be prais'd as they deserue; a littl's much:
Because that little good in such is found,
That giue but little to be much renovvnd.
Yet vvrite (deere Gracers, that do make me faire)
And liue the vvhile (Chamelton like) by ayre.
Your Lines (like Shadovves) sett my Beauty forth,
Shadovving the life of Arte, VVits deerest vvorth.
VVhen you are gon (for, long you cannot stay,
VVhose Braines your Pens pick out, to throvv avvay)
I vvill remember you, and make you liue
A life (vvithout VVorlds charge) vvhich Fame doth giue:
For, should that life cost this Age more then Breath
It soone vvould gnavv your deerest Fames to death.
Mans life is but a dreame; Nay, lesse then so;
A shadow of a Dreame; that's scarce a Show:
Then, in this Shadovv, shadovv out that Shade
That may the vvorld substancially persvvade
You are halfe Gods, and more: so, cannot dye
By reason of your VVitts Diuinity!
To speake of their vnhappy-happinesse,
Who can put Words into the Mouthes of Kings,
That make them more then seeme Celestiall things,
And can their Deeds so fashion with their Pen,
That, doing so, they should be Gods vvith men!
Each Moode that moues the Minde they so can moue,
As doth the Wit, the Will; or Beauty, Loue.
Yet, as they vvere accursed by the Fates,
They can moue none to better their estates.
236
But Fortune (that still hurts them) do enthrone
Among the Senate of those Deities
That hisse (like Geese) at their kinde Gulleries.
What bootes the Braines to haue a wit diuine,
To make what ere it touch, in Glory shine;
If (Midas like) it famisht be with store
Of golden Morsels set the same before.
And for hunger-staruen Fee (alas!)
To make an Idoll of a Golden Asse.
It's the worst way that wit can vse his trade,
For Fee so light wich rich praise Blockes to lade.
Yet vvill I not so vvrong my selfe and you
To bid you quite your thriftlesse Trade eschue.
For, then, in time, I might want change (perchance)
Of Robes, that do my glory most aduance.
No: vvrite (kinde Patrones) but let Patrones such
Be prais'd as they deserue; a littl's much:
Because that little good in such is found,
That giue but little to be much renovvnd.
Yet vvrite (deere Gracers, that do make me faire)
And liue the vvhile (Chamelton like) by ayre.
Your Lines (like Shadovves) sett my Beauty forth,
Shadovving the life of Arte, VVits deerest vvorth.
VVhen you are gon (for, long you cannot stay,
VVhose Braines your Pens pick out, to throvv avvay)
I vvill remember you, and make you liue
A life (vvithout VVorlds charge) vvhich Fame doth giue:
For, should that life cost this Age more then Breath
It soone vvould gnavv your deerest Fames to death.
Mans life is but a dreame; Nay, lesse then so;
A shadow of a Dreame; that's scarce a Show:
Then, in this Shadovv, shadovv out that Shade
That may the vvorld substancially persvvade
237
By reason of your VVitts Diuinity!
How am I plagu'd with pettifoging Scribes,
That load mee with fowle lyes for Fees and bribes?
And though wide Lices vpon my Sheetes they put,
Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shutt:
Which there in mistery obscurly lies
That those which see it neede haue Eagles Eyes:
So I a Laborinth am made thereby
Where men oft lose themselues vntill they dye.
Or els a Traitrous trapp, and subtill Snare,
To crush rash fooles vvhich runne in vnaware.
That load mee with fowle lyes for Fees and bribes?
And though wide Lices vpon my Sheetes they put,
Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shutt:
Which there in mistery obscurly lies
That those which see it neede haue Eagles Eyes:
So I a Laborinth am made thereby
Where men oft lose themselues vntill they dye.
Or els a Traitrous trapp, and subtill Snare,
To crush rash fooles vvhich runne in vnaware.
But that which most my Soule excruciates,
Some Chroniclers that write of Kingdomes States
Do so absurdly sableize my White
With Maskes and Enterludes by Day and Night;
Balld Maygames, Beare-baytings, and poore Orations
Made to some Prince by some poore Corporations:
And if a Brick-batt from a Chymney falls
VVhen puffing Boreas nere so little Bralls:
Or els a Knaue bee hange by Iustice doome
For Cutting of a Purse in selfe-same Roome;
Or wanton Rigg, or letcher dissolute
Do stand at Powles-Crosse in a Sheeten Sute;
All these, and thousand such like toyes as These
They clapp in Chronicles, like Butterflees
Of which there is no vse; but spotteth mee
With Medley of their Motley Liuerie.
And so confound graue Matters of estate
With plaies of Poppets, and I wott not what:
Which make the Volume of her Greatnesse bost
To put the Buyer to a needlesse Cost.
Ah good Sir Thomas Moore, (Fame bee with thee)
Thy Hand did blesse the English Historie,
Or els (God knowes) it had beene as a Pray
To brutish Barbarisme vntill this Day.
Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse
At her vnruly Matters much to muse:
For (ah!) that euer any should record
And Cronicle the Sedges of a Lord,
Seiges of Towne, or Castles? No, (alas!)
That were too well. but Sedges that do passe
Into the Draught, which none can well suruay
Without he turne his face another way.
Yet where that is, I may not well disclose:
But you may finde it, follow but your Nose.
As also when the Weather-cock of Powles
Amended was, this Chronicles enroles.
And O (alas!) that e're I was created
Of Raggs, to bee thus rudely lacerated:
With such most ragged wilde, and childish Stuffe
As might putt plainest Patience in a Ruffe:
For, this saies one: There was, on such a day,
A disputation (that's a Grammer fray)
Betvveene Paules Schollers, and St. Anthonyes
St. Bartholmewes among; and, the best Prize
A Pen vvas of fiue shillings price; Alas!
That ere this Doteherd made mee such an Asse
To beare such Trash; and that in such a Thing
VVhich wee call Chronicle: so, on me bring
A vvorld of shame: a shame vpon them all
That make myne Iniuries Historicall
To vveare out Time, that euer (vvithout end)
My shame may last, vvithout some one it mend.
And then, like an Historian for the nonce,
He tells hovv tvvo Knights here vvere feasted once
At Mounsire Doysels lodging (mong the rest)
VVith a vvhole povvderd Palfray (at the Ieast)
That rofted vvas: so hee (vvithout remorse)
Tells vs a Tale but of a rosted Horse.
Good God! vvho can endure but silly I,
To beare the burden of such Trumpery,
As, could I blush; my face no inke vvould beare:
For blushing Flames vvould burne it comming there?
But, Fame reports ther's one (forth-comming, yet)
That's comming forth vvith Notes of better Sett:
And of this Nature; VVho both can, and vvill
VVith descant, more in tune, mee fairely fill.
And if a senselesse creature (as I am;
And, so am made, by those vvhome thus I blame)
May iudgement giue, from those that knovv it vvell,
His Notes for Arte and Iudgement do excell.
VVell fare thee man of Arte, and World of VVitt,
That by supremest Mercy liuest yet
Yet, dost but liue; yet, liust thou to the end:
But so thou paist for Time, vvhich thou dost spend,
That the deere Treasure of thy precious Skills
The VVorld vvith pleasure, and vvith profitt fills.
Thy long-vvingd, actiue and ingenious Spright
Is euer Towring to the highest height
Of Witt, and Arte; to beautifie my face:
So, deerely gracest life for lifes deere Grace.
Some Chroniclers that write of Kingdomes States
Do so absurdly sableize my White
With Maskes and Enterludes by Day and Night;
Balld Maygames, Beare-baytings, and poore Orations
Made to some Prince by some poore Corporations:
And if a Brick-batt from a Chymney falls
VVhen puffing Boreas nere so little Bralls:
Or els a Knaue bee hange by Iustice doome
For Cutting of a Purse in selfe-same Roome;
Or wanton Rigg, or letcher dissolute
Do stand at Powles-Crosse in a Sheeten Sute;
All these, and thousand such like toyes as These
They clapp in Chronicles, like Butterflees
Of which there is no vse; but spotteth mee
With Medley of their Motley Liuerie.
And so confound graue Matters of estate
With plaies of Poppets, and I wott not what:
Which make the Volume of her Greatnesse bost
To put the Buyer to a needlesse Cost.
Ah good Sir Thomas Moore, (Fame bee with thee)
Thy Hand did blesse the English Historie,
238
To brutish Barbarisme vntill this Day.
Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse
At her vnruly Matters much to muse:
For (ah!) that euer any should record
And Cronicle the Sedges of a Lord,
Seiges of Towne, or Castles? No, (alas!)
That were too well. but Sedges that do passe
Into the Draught, which none can well suruay
Without he turne his face another way.
Yet where that is, I may not well disclose:
But you may finde it, follow but your Nose.
As also when the Weather-cock of Powles
Amended was, this Chronicles enroles.
And O (alas!) that e're I was created
Of Raggs, to bee thus rudely lacerated:
With such most ragged wilde, and childish Stuffe
As might putt plainest Patience in a Ruffe:
For, this saies one: There was, on such a day,
A disputation (that's a Grammer fray)
Betvveene Paules Schollers, and St. Anthonyes
St. Bartholmewes among; and, the best Prize
A Pen vvas of fiue shillings price; Alas!
That ere this Doteherd made mee such an Asse
To beare such Trash; and that in such a Thing
VVhich wee call Chronicle: so, on me bring
A vvorld of shame: a shame vpon them all
That make myne Iniuries Historicall
To vveare out Time, that euer (vvithout end)
My shame may last, vvithout some one it mend.
And then, like an Historian for the nonce,
He tells hovv tvvo Knights here vvere feasted once
At Mounsire Doysels lodging (mong the rest)
VVith a vvhole povvderd Palfray (at the Ieast)
239
Tells vs a Tale but of a rosted Horse.
Good God! vvho can endure but silly I,
To beare the burden of such Trumpery,
As, could I blush; my face no inke vvould beare:
For blushing Flames vvould burne it comming there?
But, Fame reports ther's one (forth-comming, yet)
That's comming forth vvith Notes of better Sett:
And of this Nature; VVho both can, and vvill
VVith descant, more in tune, mee fairely fill.
And if a senselesse creature (as I am;
And, so am made, by those vvhome thus I blame)
May iudgement giue, from those that knovv it vvell,
His Notes for Arte and Iudgement do excell.
VVell fare thee man of Arte, and World of VVitt,
That by supremest Mercy liuest yet
Yet, dost but liue; yet, liust thou to the end:
But so thou paist for Time, vvhich thou dost spend,
That the deere Treasure of thy precious Skills
The VVorld vvith pleasure, and vvith profitt fills.
Thy long-vvingd, actiue and ingenious Spright
Is euer Towring to the highest height
Of Witt, and Arte; to beautifie my face:
So, deerely gracest life for lifes deere Grace.
Another in the Chronicle as great
As some old Church-booke (that vvould make one svveat
To turne it tvvice) at large (good man) doth shevv
Hovv his good VVife good Beere, and Ale doth brevv.
With vvhich (lest Readers fovvly might mistake)
He many Leaues, in Folio, vp doth take
To make them brevv good Beere, and Ale aswell
As his good vvife; and all the Arte doth tell.
So, for a booke of Cookery one would take
That Chronicle that shevves to brevv and bake.
Heere is strong Stuffe, a Chronicle to line;
Wort varnish vvill; then doth the Story shine:
VVherin Historians still may see the face
Of Wit and Arte. their Histories to grace.
As some old Church-booke (that vvould make one svveat
To turne it tvvice) at large (good man) doth shevv
Hovv his good VVife good Beere, and Ale doth brevv.
With vvhich (lest Readers fovvly might mistake)
He many Leaues, in Folio, vp doth take
To make them brevv good Beere, and Ale aswell
As his good vvife; and all the Arte doth tell.
So, for a booke of Cookery one would take
That Chronicle that shevves to brevv and bake.
240
Wort varnish vvill; then doth the Story shine:
VVherin Historians still may see the face
Of Wit and Arte. their Histories to grace.
I must endure all this: but God forgiue them;
I can no more commend them then beleeue them.
I scarce would venture Mault, a Pennies price;
To try the vertue of this Stories vice:
For, as it marrd the Chronicle before,
So might it marre the mault, vvhat euer more.
vvith rancke Redundance being thus opprest,
I (as for speaking nought) to death am prest.
I can no more commend them then beleeue them.
I scarce would venture Mault, a Pennies price;
To try the vertue of this Stories vice:
For, as it marrd the Chronicle before,
So might it marre the mault, vvhat euer more.
vvith rancke Redundance being thus opprest,
I (as for speaking nought) to death am prest.
But novv (ah novv) ensues a pinching pang
A villaine vile, that sure in hell doth hang
Hight Mach-euill that euill none can match,
Daubd me vvith deu'llish Precepts Soules to catch,
And made me so (poore silly Innocent)
Of good soules vvracke, the cursed Instrument.
Novv not a Groome (vvhose vvits erst soard no hyer
Then how to pile the Logs on his Lords fire)
But playes the Machiavillian (with a pox)
And, in a Sheepe-skin clad, the Woolfe or Fox.
A villaine vile, that sure in hell doth hang
Hight Mach-euill that euill none can match,
Daubd me vvith deu'llish Precepts Soules to catch,
And made me so (poore silly Innocent)
Of good soules vvracke, the cursed Instrument.
Novv not a Groome (vvhose vvits erst soard no hyer
Then how to pile the Logs on his Lords fire)
But playes the Machiavillian (with a pox)
And, in a Sheepe-skin clad, the Woolfe or Fox.
I could heere speake what hauock still is made
Of my faire Reames which quarrels ouer-lade
In right Religions cause, as all pretend,
Though nere so wrongly some her right defend.
What neuer ending Strife they make me stirre:
For, I am made the Trumpet of their warre.
Of my faire Reames which quarrels ouer-lade
In right Religions cause, as all pretend,
Though nere so wrongly some her right defend.
What neuer ending Strife they make me stirre:
For, I am made the Trumpet of their warre.
I pell mell put together by the Eares
All Nations that the Earth (turmoiled) beares;
vvhile vvounded Consciences in such Conflicts
Damnacions terior euermore afflicts
In desperate doubts; vvith VVynds of doctrine tost
Still likely in Faiths Shipp-vvrack to bee lost:
VVhile learned Pilots striue vvhich Course is best
Gods tempest beaten Arke can take no rest,
But vp and dovvne on Discords Billovves borne
In dismall plight, and fares as quight forlorne.
But thou svveete Concords Cause, vvho vvith thy Hand
Dost tune the Deepes, and highest vvinds command,
Looke dovvne from thyne eternall Seate (secure)
Vpon thy Church Storme-tossed euery houre;
And factious Men inspire vvith better grace
Then vvith defence of Sects to staine my face.
All Nations that the Earth (turmoiled) beares;
vvhile vvounded Consciences in such Conflicts
Damnacions terior euermore afflicts
In desperate doubts; vvith VVynds of doctrine tost
Still likely in Faiths Shipp-vvrack to bee lost:
241
Gods tempest beaten Arke can take no rest,
But vp and dovvne on Discords Billovves borne
In dismall plight, and fares as quight forlorne.
But thou svveete Concords Cause, vvho vvith thy Hand
Dost tune the Deepes, and highest vvinds command,
Looke dovvne from thyne eternall Seate (secure)
Vpon thy Church Storme-tossed euery houre;
And factious Men inspire vvith better grace
Then vvith defence of Sects to staine my face.
But vvretched I (vnhappy that I am)
None, no not one, a 'Pistle novv can frame,
T'addresse their VVorkes to any Personage
But they (ay mee) must craue their Patronage,
To be protected from the bitter blow
Of Momus, Zoilus, and I wott not who,
O Momus, Momus, Zoilus, Zoilus, yee
In these Epistles too much pester mee:
For, vnder Lords wings Metaphoricall
All Authors creepe, a shame vpon them all.
And men you haue alas so much bewitcht
That with your Names (like Needles) must be sticht:
All dedicating Pistles in my Sheetes:
For, first of all with you the Reader meetes.
And now that fashion is so stale become
That hee in hate, Crosse-wounds me with his Thumbe,
And ready is to teare my tender Sides
To make me Scauenger for their Back-sides.
Good gentle Writers, for the Lord sake, for the Lord sake,
Like Lud-gate Pris'ner, lo, I (begging) make.
My mone to you; O listen to my mone
Let Zoile and Momus (for Gods loue) alone;
Meddle not with them, Mome's a byting Beast;
And men for his name sake your Bookes detest,
And makes me shake for feare lest in a rage
They should enforce me weare their Buttocks Badge.
Leaue off, leaue off your Tokens of goodwill,
The Poesies of old Rings new 'Pistles spill.
Away with Patronage, a plague vpon't,
That hideous Word is worse then Termagant.
Call for no aide where none is to be found;
Protect my Booke: such Bookes, O fates confound.
To shew my gratefull minde: That's stinking stale;
Yet in new 'Pistles such geare's set to sale.
The poore mans present to the Emperor;
O that in 'Pistles keepes a stinking sturre.
And not the Guift, but giuers poore good will;
This, this, (O this) my vexed Soule doth kill
This is a Pill (indeede) to giue more stooles
Then Mouthes will fill of forty such fine-fooles.
This heauy Sentence which I oft sustaine,
Makes me to grone it putts mee to such paine.
Therefore I pray such Writers, write no more;
Or if you do, write better then before.
Doth Nature new Heads bring forth eu'ry day?
And can those new Heads no new Witt bewray?
Vnhappie Nature or vnhappie Heads,
Its time for one or both to take your Beads.
The World and most mens Witts are at an end,
Pray for increase of faith, then Witt will mend:
For sure the cause why men to foolish are
They faint in search of Wisdome through dispaire,
Hath Aristotle left his witt behinde;
To helpe those Witts that seeke, yet cannot finde?
Hath Socrates and Plato broke the yce
To many a Skill and most deuine Deuice?
And cannot After-commers too't ariue?
And with those Helps not equall Skill achiue?
Did they (poore Men) out of meere Industry
Attaine to so great singularity
Having no Ground, or if Ground, had but little
Whereon their loftye Buildings sure to settle.
And can no VVork-man of this happlesse Time,
Add no Stone to it; nor no Dabbe of Lyme?
I wrong them now, that word I countermand;
They add much Lyme, but neither stone, nor land.
And thats the cause (as some good Authors say)
Their VVorkes, with Winde and Raine do dance the Hay:
For, they fall downe-right; but the Raine and Winde
Makes them runne in and out as they'are inclinde:
And could the VVeather speake, it would commend
Such toward Workes as towards it do bend;
And praise (beyond the Moone) their muddy Brayne
That builds with mudd to sport the Winde and Rayne.
Plato and Socrates (the Mason free)
With Stone and Lime built too substantially.
And Aristotle (like a musing foole)
Would lay no Stone without good Reasons Rule;
What boote such BVILDINGS to weare Ages out?
A goodly peece of Worke it is no doubt:
Yfayth, yfaith, their Witts vvere much misled,
To build for others novv themselues are dead.
The Winde may novv go vvhistle vvhile it vvill,
These Waightie Workes for all that, stand do still.
The Rayne, by soaking shovvres, may fall amaine;
Yet sure they stand for all such Shovvres of Rayne.
Yea, let all Weathers ioyne their force in one,
They all vnable are to stirre one stone.
A mischiefe on the Fooles, vvhat did they meane,
To vvast their Braines and make their Bodies leane,
To profit others vvhich they neuer knevv,
And build for Sots, vvhich after should ensue?
VVho gape vpon it with great admiration;
But dare not stirre a foote from the foundation.
Yee neede not feare to climbe, the Worke is sure,
Els could it not so many Ages dure.
And, if a Flaw be found, through Builders blame,
Now mother-witt (some say) can mend the same.
And sith yee haue such stedfast footing there,
And yet will sinck through slouth, or faint through feare,
O Heau'ns increase your fayth, and make it strong;
For yee, through weakenesse, do your wisdomes wrong.
The Soule of Man is like that Pow'r deuine
That in him selfe all wisdome doth conteine:
VVhich simily in Wisdomes facultie
Doth hold, or els there is no Simily.
Mans Reason (if stird vp) can mount as hie
As Soules themselues, and they to Heau'n can flye,
And from thence view what that Circumference
Doth Circumscribe, if subiect vnto Sence.
Homer (though blinde) yet saw with his Soules Eye,
The Secrets hid in deep'st Philosophie;
In State-affaire, and in the high'st Designes;
All which he measures with immortall Liues;
Whereat wee rather euer do admire
Then feele least feruor of his diuine fire.
What Country, Marches, Nauy; nay, what Hoast
Yea what Mindes.-motions (both of man, and Ghost)
Are by Him, so exprest, that he (wee wott)
Makes vs to see that Hee himselfe sawe not!
His Illiads describes the Bodies worth;
The Minde, his Odissea setteth forth.
For which seau'n Citties straue, when he was gon,
Which of them all should hold him as their owne.
None, no not one, a 'Pistle novv can frame,
T'addresse their VVorkes to any Personage
But they (ay mee) must craue their Patronage,
To be protected from the bitter blow
Of Momus, Zoilus, and I wott not who,
O Momus, Momus, Zoilus, Zoilus, yee
In these Epistles too much pester mee:
For, vnder Lords wings Metaphoricall
All Authors creepe, a shame vpon them all.
And men you haue alas so much bewitcht
That with your Names (like Needles) must be sticht:
All dedicating Pistles in my Sheetes:
For, first of all with you the Reader meetes.
And now that fashion is so stale become
That hee in hate, Crosse-wounds me with his Thumbe,
And ready is to teare my tender Sides
To make me Scauenger for their Back-sides.
Good gentle Writers, for the Lord sake, for the Lord sake,
Like Lud-gate Pris'ner, lo, I (begging) make.
My mone to you; O listen to my mone
Let Zoile and Momus (for Gods loue) alone;
Meddle not with them, Mome's a byting Beast;
And men for his name sake your Bookes detest,
242
They should enforce me weare their Buttocks Badge.
Leaue off, leaue off your Tokens of goodwill,
The Poesies of old Rings new 'Pistles spill.
Away with Patronage, a plague vpon't,
That hideous Word is worse then Termagant.
Call for no aide where none is to be found;
Protect my Booke: such Bookes, O fates confound.
To shew my gratefull minde: That's stinking stale;
Yet in new 'Pistles such geare's set to sale.
The poore mans present to the Emperor;
O that in 'Pistles keepes a stinking sturre.
And not the Guift, but giuers poore good will;
This, this, (O this) my vexed Soule doth kill
This is a Pill (indeede) to giue more stooles
Then Mouthes will fill of forty such fine-fooles.
This heauy Sentence which I oft sustaine,
Makes me to grone it putts mee to such paine.
Therefore I pray such Writers, write no more;
Or if you do, write better then before.
Doth Nature new Heads bring forth eu'ry day?
And can those new Heads no new Witt bewray?
Vnhappie Nature or vnhappie Heads,
Its time for one or both to take your Beads.
The World and most mens Witts are at an end,
Pray for increase of faith, then Witt will mend:
For sure the cause why men to foolish are
They faint in search of Wisdome through dispaire,
Hath Aristotle left his witt behinde;
To helpe those Witts that seeke, yet cannot finde?
Hath Socrates and Plato broke the yce
To many a Skill and most deuine Deuice?
And cannot After-commers too't ariue?
And with those Helps not equall Skill achiue?
243
Attaine to so great singularity
Having no Ground, or if Ground, had but little
Whereon their loftye Buildings sure to settle.
And can no VVork-man of this happlesse Time,
Add no Stone to it; nor no Dabbe of Lyme?
I wrong them now, that word I countermand;
They add much Lyme, but neither stone, nor land.
And thats the cause (as some good Authors say)
Their VVorkes, with Winde and Raine do dance the Hay:
For, they fall downe-right; but the Raine and Winde
Makes them runne in and out as they'are inclinde:
And could the VVeather speake, it would commend
Such toward Workes as towards it do bend;
And praise (beyond the Moone) their muddy Brayne
That builds with mudd to sport the Winde and Rayne.
Plato and Socrates (the Mason free)
With Stone and Lime built too substantially.
And Aristotle (like a musing foole)
Would lay no Stone without good Reasons Rule;
What boote such BVILDINGS to weare Ages out?
A goodly peece of Worke it is no doubt:
Yfayth, yfaith, their Witts vvere much misled,
To build for others novv themselues are dead.
The Winde may novv go vvhistle vvhile it vvill,
These Waightie Workes for all that, stand do still.
The Rayne, by soaking shovvres, may fall amaine;
Yet sure they stand for all such Shovvres of Rayne.
Yea, let all Weathers ioyne their force in one,
They all vnable are to stirre one stone.
A mischiefe on the Fooles, vvhat did they meane,
To vvast their Braines and make their Bodies leane,
To profit others vvhich they neuer knevv,
And build for Sots, vvhich after should ensue?
244
But dare not stirre a foote from the foundation.
Yee neede not feare to climbe, the Worke is sure,
Els could it not so many Ages dure.
And, if a Flaw be found, through Builders blame,
Now mother-witt (some say) can mend the same.
And sith yee haue such stedfast footing there,
And yet will sinck through slouth, or faint through feare,
O Heau'ns increase your fayth, and make it strong;
For yee, through weakenesse, do your wisdomes wrong.
The Soule of Man is like that Pow'r deuine
That in him selfe all wisdome doth conteine:
VVhich simily in Wisdomes facultie
Doth hold, or els there is no Simily.
Mans Reason (if stird vp) can mount as hie
As Soules themselues, and they to Heau'n can flye,
And from thence view what that Circumference
Doth Circumscribe, if subiect vnto Sence.
Homer (though blinde) yet saw with his Soules Eye,
The Secrets hid in deep'st Philosophie;
In State-affaire, and in the high'st Designes;
All which he measures with immortall Liues;
Whereat wee rather euer do admire
Then feele least feruor of his diuine fire.
What Country, Marches, Nauy; nay, what Hoast
Yea what Mindes.-motions (both of man, and Ghost)
Are by Him, so exprest, that he (wee wott)
Makes vs to see that Hee himselfe sawe not!
His Illiads describes the Bodies worth;
The Minde, his Odissea setteth forth.
For which seau'n Citties straue, when he was gon,
Which of them all should hold him as their owne.
Then gentle Writers be not so imploid
In writing euerlastingly, (vncluid)
And let your reason idle bee the while,
Let Reason worke, and spare your Writings toile,
Till by degrees, she lifted hath your Spright
Vnto the topp of Humane-Wisdomes height,
And when ye haue aspir'd aboue your Sires
Then write, a Gods-name, fill my Reames and Quires
And with huge Volumes build a Babel-Towr
As high as Heau'n (that shall the heau'ns out-dure)
For your Sonnes Sonnes to climbe; if so they please,
From Errors Flouds, and Perterbations Seas.
And flatter not, (alas) O flatter not
Your selues as wise; for, you are wide (god wott)
And though yee knew what Aristotle holds
Thinke not, therefore, your Braine all truth infolds:
For, there are Truthes (beside the Truth of Truth)
That nere came neere his Braine, much lesse his mouth.
All which (when Pow'rs of the Intelligence,
In their persute vse all their violence)
May well be apprehended though black Clouds
Of vtter-darknesse their abiding shrowds:
Which cannot bee when Bounds are set to Witt
In Plato his Plus Vltra, toucht not yet:
Or Aristotles vtmost trauels reach,
Whose Muse made, through the Marble Heau'ns, a Breach:
And past th'inferior Orbes vntill he came
Vnto the highest Spheare of that huge Frame
That whoorles the lower with repugnant sway,
Yet had not powr his mounting Muse to stay;
But it would pry into th'imperiall PLACE,
Where Glory sitts enthron'd in greatest grace.
Yet these be not true Wisdomes Bounds, whose scope,
Do farre extend about the Heau'nly Cope;
And more profound then the infernall Deepe,
Heau'n, Earth, and Hell, her Greatnesse cannot keepe:
And though such Wisedome properly with God
And not with mortall men doth make abode,
Yet he imparts of his vnbounded grace
So much as may Heau'n, Earth, and Hell embrace
With Contemplations Armes, that all infold
VVhose vncomprised reach no limits hold.
But if, through slouth, those Armes be not extended,
In Earths Circumference then, their Circuit's ended.
In writing euerlastingly, (vncluid)
245
Let Reason worke, and spare your Writings toile,
Till by degrees, she lifted hath your Spright
Vnto the topp of Humane-Wisdomes height,
And when ye haue aspir'd aboue your Sires
Then write, a Gods-name, fill my Reames and Quires
And with huge Volumes build a Babel-Towr
As high as Heau'n (that shall the heau'ns out-dure)
For your Sonnes Sonnes to climbe; if so they please,
From Errors Flouds, and Perterbations Seas.
And flatter not, (alas) O flatter not
Your selues as wise; for, you are wide (god wott)
And though yee knew what Aristotle holds
Thinke not, therefore, your Braine all truth infolds:
For, there are Truthes (beside the Truth of Truth)
That nere came neere his Braine, much lesse his mouth.
All which (when Pow'rs of the Intelligence,
In their persute vse all their violence)
May well be apprehended though black Clouds
Of vtter-darknesse their abiding shrowds:
Which cannot bee when Bounds are set to Witt
In Plato his Plus Vltra, toucht not yet:
Or Aristotles vtmost trauels reach,
Whose Muse made, through the Marble Heau'ns, a Breach:
And past th'inferior Orbes vntill he came
Vnto the highest Spheare of that huge Frame
That whoorles the lower with repugnant sway,
Yet had not powr his mounting Muse to stay;
But it would pry into th'imperiall PLACE,
Where Glory sitts enthron'd in greatest grace.
Yet these be not true Wisdomes Bounds, whose scope,
Do farre extend about the Heau'nly Cope;
And more profound then the infernall Deepe,
Heau'n, Earth, and Hell, her Greatnesse cannot keepe:
246
And not with mortall men doth make abode,
Yet he imparts of his vnbounded grace
So much as may Heau'n, Earth, and Hell embrace
With Contemplations Armes, that all infold
VVhose vncomprised reach no limits hold.
But if, through slouth, those Armes be not extended,
In Earths Circumference then, their Circuit's ended.
Now, you that seeke by VVisedome to aspire,
VVith study impe the wings of your Desire,
And you thereby shall scale the highest Height,
Although your Mindes be clogd with Bodyes weight:
So may ye grace me with eternall lines,
That compasse can, and gage the deep'st Designes.
VVith study impe the wings of your Desire,
And you thereby shall scale the highest Height,
Although your Mindes be clogd with Bodyes weight:
So may ye grace me with eternall lines,
That compasse can, and gage the deep'st Designes.
Omnia sapientibus facilia.
| The Scourge of Folly | |