Favnvs and Melliflora Or, The Original of our English Satyres. [by] Iohn Weeuer |
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The first Satyre of Persius.
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The first Satyre of Persius.
O slight regard of sots, or brainlesse men!How great their blindfold vanities are, when
Naught they applaud but tingling Poesie,
Lulling the sence with itchfull ribaudry.
What meanes my tragicke clamor, to what end,
My ayrie breath to water do I spend?
What man takes pleasure? who will loose his time
In reading of my testy waiward rime?
To me didst speake, no flat-cap low prizde swaine,
(Much lesse my selfe) to reade my crabbed graine,
Will leaue a pleasing Poets sugred vaine.
Then to respect me, shall I find not one?
Yea, two perhaps thou shalt, or rather none.
This retchlesse care is much to be lamented,
Wherefore? not that my soule is discontented,
Fore me they should Polydemias preferre,
Or blockish Labeo, these but trifles are,
No: for what thing it please tempestuous Rome,
To raise, or throw downe by her bribed doome:
Thereto assent, correct, nor make deniall,
Or in the ballance poise that wicked triall.
Know thou thy selfe, but not by others words,
Oh if my tongue might runne at liberty,
And now it may, I'me come to grauity:
With sad rough-wrinkled age, and what I say,
Is casting toyes and childishnesse away:
And also now sterne vnkles I resemble,
Whose sharp correction make their neuews tremble:
Now then forgiue me. But I will not tho,
How can I but a Satyres forehead show?
And be a scorner in a sawcy splen,
We write shut vp, within our studies, when
He for to write in ordred sillables chose,
Another at his libertie in prose,
Some great great worke the Romanes haue assign'd,
Which to procure (I feare me) of the mind
The ayrie lunges wil troubled be for wind,
This doubtles to the people he shall reede,
Com'd, in his new gowne, and his richest weed:
With his Sardonix birth-dayes iewell graced,
In some high seate, or chaire, emperiall placed,
When with some limber unguent he hath noynted,
His mouing throate, at all assaies appointed,
Faint, with a swimming, turnd vp Venus eie,
He of his speech will make deliuerie:
Here maist thou see in most lasciuious guize,
The greatest Romanes play, and wantonize,
When as their lungs his lust-stung words do perse,
And itching entralles, scracht are with his verse.
Old-ore-worne truncke, and dost thou lay the baite,
For tickling eares, for eares which itching waite,
Thou knowst thine owne, and dost excuse their sinne.
O stay, what profit doth thy learning show?
Vnlesse that foolish doctrine thou dost know,
And barren figge tree so deepe rooted in thee,
Thy liuer burst, come forth and honor win thee?
Behold thy manners, and thy withered eld,
O foolish manners now for vertue held,
And is it nothing for to know thine owne,
Lesse what thou knowst, to al the world be knowne?
O but it is a iolly thing to see,
Men with their fingers point thee forth, tis he
Which pend that learnd egregious Poesie:
Deemes thou it nothing openly t'haue bin read,
Of an hundred schoole-boyes yellow curled heads?
Behold the Romanes mid their gluttony,
Inquire the most be-praised Poetrie,
Some noble man t'whome bout his shoulders hings,
A diuers coloured garment screaming sings,
Or through the nose speakes some foule tragedy,
Of Phillis and Hipsiphilus, or what poesie,
Is lamentable in Pandars surquedry,
He melts and breakes it in deliuery:
They rise vp all to him, they giue the palme,
And with these speeches they his words embalme.
Are not the ashes of this Poet blest,
The gentle coffin will not's bones haue prest,
From's Manes, his happy cinders and his toome,
Will not the Violets, and the Roses come?
And dost thou scoffe vs? thy sharp hooked nose
Will there be any willing to refuse
The peoples praise, when as his skilfull Muse
Doth leaue works worth the iuice of Cedars tree,
To after age, and all posteritie?
And verse, not fearing Salters quicke consume,
Nor Pothecaries wrapping in perfume.
Whosoe're thou art moud with my reprehension,
Which at this time gainst me doth make obiection,
I do not alwaies when I write refuse
The peoples praise if so my dullard Muse
(Which happens seldome) bring some legend forth,
Wittie conceited, sweete, and praises worth:
Nor are my heart strings of obdurate horne,
That such esteeme and honour I should scorne.
But the maine poynt, and the extreamest end,
To which thy studie and thy actions tend
I do refuse. Thy well done, wondrous rare,
Good, excellent examine with me here:
This whole great praise, what hath it inwardly?
Here is not Labeoes sottish Poetrie:
His Iliads drunke, with neesing Hellebore,
No Elegies for faire mouth'd Romaines more,
Raw stomackt at their banquets to rehearse,
For to be writ in Cittron beddes no verse.
Thou know'st what dainties are most meete to place
Before thy flatterers, which thee alway grace:
Thou know'st how to reward the needie poore,
With some cast garment, threed-bare, raggd, and tore.
And then thou saist, the truth faine would I know,
Both of my selfe, and of my poesie,
What high regard wee're in. Foole how can't be
That they corrupted with thy bribery,
Should speake the truth? But without flattery
Wouldst haue me speake? Thy Poetry is vaine,
Thee and thy workes the wisest do disdaine:
When such a hogge-trough, such a panch thou hast,
Reaching a foote and halfe aboue thy wast,
And gurmondizing still in gluttonie,
How canst thou write (foole) wittie Poesie?
O Ianus, first made prince of Italie,
Who can expresse thy great felicitie,
Whom neuer Stork-bild ieerer yet did flout,
Nor medlers hand did asses eares point out,
Behind thy backe, nor put forth such a tong,
So farre extended forth, drawne out so long?
How farre some dogge of scorcht Apulia
Hangs out his tongue, vpon the hottest day.
But you O Romane peeres, whom nature gaue,
As to other men, behind no eies to haue,
Looke warily vnto these glauerers,
These writhen-mouth'd frumpers gullish flatterers,
Do thou but aske the vulgars true opinion,
Of thy writ lines, thy scoffer in derision
Will answere thee: Why who can but commend,
Such a sweete flowing Poem rarely pend,
Whose pollisht numbers do so smoothly end,
He knowes the best his verses to extend:
As one that hauing shut one of his cine,
If neede require to write a Comedie,
A sharp fang'd Satyre or a Tragedie.
Some fatall banquet of swart Atreus,
Orestes, Progne, and of Tereus,
Then doth his Muse giue witfull poesie,
Unto our Poet most aboundantly.
Behold we see one to the hearing brings,
Some lofty stile of Emperours or Kings,
Or some great Poeme for to take in hand,
When as the freshman doth not vnderstand
His rudiments, nor hath the salt of wit,
For to describe a groue as doth befit,
Nor praise the fruitfull cóuntrie how the waines,
Carrie the liquor which the grape distraines,
Nor fire, nor heards of swine fed fat with graines:
Nor yet the feasts of Pales celebrate,
The goddesses of shepheards consecrate,
From whence the Emperour Remus did deriue,
His pedegree. How Quintus thou didst riue,
And breake thy plow-share, with the furrow torne,
Whenas thy stonisht wife stood thee beforne,
With a Dictators vesture thee t'adorne.
The sergeant who this sodaine newes did know,
Vpon his shoulders carried home thy plow.
Well done ingenious Poet, to expresse
A lofty stile, and graueld in the lesse,
But some there be who more obscurely write,
Whom th' venemous booke of Labeo doth delight,
Some with Pacunius harsh Antiopa,
Whose mournfull heart in sorrowes extasie,
Is vnderpropt, he saith, with care and misery.
When pur-blind fathers euery day thou sees,
Vnto their children teach such words as these:
Dost thou demand how this vnpolisht speech,
Into the tougues of all men made a breach,
From whence this ruine of the Romane tongue
Did first arise, in which the Romanes long
Haue tooke delight? fore all this they preferre,
And act it on the Amphitheater,
And doth this language nothing thee ashame?
Will not gray haires thy greene affections tame,
And wilt thou euer be so couetous,
To heare this latine mingled barbarous,
Call Pedius Theefe, then what will Pedius say,
He in smooth opposites will his trespasse way:
And for his sugred flowing eloquence,
Hee's greatly praisde and held in reuerence,
O eloquent Apollo robbing witte!
And is it so? lasciuious Romanes, yet
Like fauning dogges this flattering do ye loue?
What? shal a shipwrackt man to pittie moue,
My liberall mind some mony to bestow,
Whenas before me singing he doth goe.
Thy shipwracke on thy shoulders thou dost bring,
Vpon a table painted, and dost sing.
But such a whining speech premeditate,
Cannot make me thy chance commiserate,
Yea but in verse there is a comely grace,
A secret couching of each word in place,
Of Atis borne in Berecinthius,
And not vnlike the Poesie of him.
The Dolphin tooke Nerea for to swimme,
Thus haue I taken a part priuily,
Of Apenines mount diuiding Italie:
But like to these affecting euermore,
To speake by some odde foolish Metaphore.
Arma, Virum, what difference twixt them both,
Uirgills beginning, tis a barmie froth,
A grosse-puft stile, like to some bough puld downe
From the greene corke-tree dried in the sunne:
Then in thy iudgement what worth reading is?
What Poeme is most pleasing then? Why this
Of some wise Romane in his Nioblis.
Now they haue fild their writhen vnpleasing hornes,
With the hoarse sound of hissing Mimallones,
Taking away the painted head by this,
From the prowd heifer of priest Bassaris,
And Mœnas wreathing th' ivie which, alone
Makes Linceus still redouble Euion,
And the new Eccho answeres therevpon.
Could these be writ, in vs (Oh how I'm grieu'd)
If any vertue from our fathers liu'd.
This nice effeminate mouing with our hippes,
This slime is euer swimming in our lippes,
Mœnas and Atis euer in our mouth,
Whose wanton speech corrupts both age and youth,
Nor hath it yet a Poems triall biden,
Nor know what meanes a Poets nailes off bitten,
What neede haue we? or what will it auaile's,
Take heede, be not so malapert and bold,
Least that thy Patrons entrance waxen cold,
Denying thee to come within their gates.
Some churlish Porter thy approachment waites,
To beate thee backe, and euer as thou goes,
This dogged letter R sounds through his nose.
I passe not for it, for my part I praise
Your amorous Poems, and your wanton laies:
O! all is good, all excellent you write,
These, these my words thou saist againe delight:
I do forbid now that there should be one,
Twixt thee and me to make dissention.
Paint here two Saints, say, children pisse without,
This place is holy sanctifide about.
I straight depart. But Lucils libertie
Did lash and scourge the best of Italie.
Blunting his teeth gainst thee Rutilius,
VVhetting them sharpe for wilful Mutius,
Slie subtile Horace taxed euerie sinne,
Vnto Mecœnas, once admitted in,
Twixtiest and earnest witt'ly would forbid,
More secret vices in the heart-strings hid.
And craftily keepe the longing Audience,
With a gratious gesture euer in suspence.
And was it lawfull they their minds should vtter,
And such a hainous thing for me to mutter
My halfe spoke word? nor spake them priuilie,
Nor in a reede like Midaes familie:
Yet in my booke ile whisper secretly,
O little booke, I haue seene openly,
But now adorn'd is with long asses eares?
This in my booke I insert couertly,
Yet would not change my smiling Poesie
For Labeos Illiads. Who delighted is,
To reade bold Cratine, or crabd Eupolis:
Vntill with old age he waxe bleakish wan,
Reade or'e my Satyres, if by chance he can,
Some hidden knowledge find, the reauer than,
With feruent zeale my Satyres all will heare,
And reade me or'e with a prepared eare.
But such a reader, such a tinckring slaue,
For to peruse my lines I do not craue,
VVhose dunghill Muse delights to looke so low,
As cauell at a Grecians crooked shooe,
Or that can say vnto the blinde: thou'rt blind,
One which all faults in outward parts doth find.
Thinking himselfe one of authoritie,
Raisde to renowne perhaps and dignitie,
By bearing office late in Italie.
Because the false measures he hath broken,
Of Aretus.
Nor craue I him who takes his cheefe delight,
Numbers and figures in a boord to write,
Or in the dust, as our Astromoners,
Reioycing much if from Philosophers,
Some shamelesse whore do pull away the beard.
But vnto these, (when th' officers they haue heard,
And Dinner ends, in lustfull sort to liue)
The Curtizan Callirrhoe I giue.
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