A Medicinable Morall that is, the two Bookes of Horace his Satyres, Englyshed accordyng to the prescription of saint Hierome. The Wailynges of the Prophet Hieremiah, done into Englyshe verse. Also Epigrammes. T. Drant |
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The tenthe Satyre.
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 | A Medicinable Morall |  |
The tenthe Satyre.
SOME HAD EUIL SPOKEN of Horace, for reprehendynge Lusille. He protesteth that he by no meanes, meaneth to defame the person, but to haue his, or their doinges bettred. Pretye other conceits and notes of versefyinge.
your verses run not rounde.
Doth any loue Lusill so well,
to praise his Iarringe sounde?
But he, through ticklinge vp the towne,
with mirth, hath wun a name:
And yet this doth not proue him lernde,
though I shoulde graunte the same.
So mighte our minstrell Laberie,
be coumpted learned then,
If merye mirthe and onlye mirthe,
coulde make a learned man.
To make the reader laughe a pace,
is not a Poets parte:
I meane not all: though therein be,
a prety peece of arte.
He muste be quick to make his pause,
and sentence, fall in time
will make a lothesum ryme.
His treatice interchaungeable:
now merye and now sad,
In Poets puffe and now againe,
in Retorique florishe clad.
Sumtimes, a fable trymlye toulde,
doth worke in better force,
Then if the plaintife Poet shoulde
besing his musies horce.
Sumtime to spare his eloquence,
and speake not what he can:
Such were the auncient interludes,
so were they lyked than.
And so farre to be imitate,
but neyther Hermogen,
Nor other, who woulde seeme to be,
so gay deuysinge men,
Did euer reade (I dare make good)
those lettred Poets woorkes,
Saue Catull, and Caluus, wheras
such paltrye baggage lurkes.
Tush, now I glaunce, and blame amis
for Lusill hath deuised,
A tricksye worke in Lattin coate,
and greakishe gardes comprysed.
An auntrus ade, I promise you,
O thou that knowes not muche,
Cease to admire a man for that
the matter is not suche,
As it is thoughte, to sprincle here,
and there a worde of greeke,
Sum assehead doultes in baggish style,
of greeke are not to seeke.
Excepte thou thincke that diuerse tongues,
are better when they meete
more wholsome and pure swete.
Well, in thy verse vse Greke at wyll
beware, that when at barre
Thou pleadest for thy clyent, there
thou goest not ouerfarre.
I meane as yf some passyng man
shoulde stande in plea thy foe,
And sweate agayne to grauayle thee,
and worke thy clyent woo.
Use not thy two tongude phrases then,
lyke one of Canues towne,
Thou mayst perchaunce become nonesuite,
thou and thy cause borne downe.
Once on a tyme, a Greke poeme
I dreamed to indite,
(A Romayne I disioynde by sea,
vnured so to write)
Lorde Romulus dyd byd me stinte,
in pitchye silent nyght,
At mydnyght, when suche vysions
are coumpted moste of myght.
In grekyshe tongue (sayeth he) to write
write vpon writyng styll,
Is as to powre on fatted sowe,
more draffe drynke and more swill.
Therfore whylst Alphin shriketh out
the murdred Memnons bayne
And reigne descriues I leauyng Greke
am of my Satyre fayne.
Whiche neyther shall in Guyld hall once,
be iudged of the Mayre:
Nor fede the eye on stately stage,
to make a meyny stare.
Fundanus may at his good luste,
of nyncetie fynceties wryte,
of Dauns what a spyte,
He wrought to Chremes by his crafte,
That facultie therfore
I leaue to hym as capitayne
in scoffyng comyke lore.
And Polleo, the princely iestes,
in loftie Iambiques maye
By vertue of that gracious verse,
in tragike wyse displaye:
So Uarie makes his Elegies,
of quicke and lyuely myght,
And Uirgile, well in rurall ryme,
His gamesome Muse can dight,
A Satyre, I more sauerly,
and with more lucke attempted
That Uarro, and a number suche,
(all arrogance exempted.)
I doo not say, before my tyme,
But Lusille dyd deuyse,
Nor euer ment to preiudice
his crowne in any wyse
But nowe and then outtakyngly.
he wyll be ouerseene,
And bryng suche stuffe, wherof the moste
omitted myght haue bene.
I pray you (Lusille) saye me soothe,
nor be you not offended,
Hath not your wysedome sayd or now,
that Homer myght be mended?
And hath not ioly Lusill to,
the dolefull Actie chaunged?
And for to carpe hym for his phrase
all ouer Ennie raunged.
Yet, when he speaketh of hymselfe,
He speakes not, as he were
Why maye not we inquyre
In ways of talke? yf his harde style,
a matter good hath marde:
Or if the matter to vntoward,
hath made his style to harde.
If that a man thynke it enough,
and for a poet mete,
Twixt meale & meale, two hundreth times,
to reare vp on their fete:
Lyke Casse, whose lauyshe eloquence,
was rushyng as the streames:
Therfore were burnt, his corps, his bokes,
(his hastye trauaylde dreames.)
If this be good, Lusill is good,
in suche respecte may he,
Of pleasant head, and depe deuice,
and clarkly iudgement be.
He may be thought to haue enritchde
Greace, with his Satyre verse,
Muche better then an elder sorte,
whiche I coulde nowe rehearse.
Ryght happye Lusill, that dydst see
so plausible a tyme:
If he had ben in these our dayes,
he muste haue razde his ryme.
And parde of all that was not trym,
and so haue bent his brayne:
That bothe he should haue scratchde his heade,
and bitte his thombes for payne.
For nowe, who lookes to beare the bell,
his doyngs he muste cull,
At home with hym, and better adde,
then he dyd erste out pull.
Contented, to haue pleasde the wyse,
lette go the skyllesse hobbes,
a flocke of luskyshe lobbes.
(Not I in soothe: the iudgement of
one worthy personage,
In learnyng rype, in vertue iuste,
in verdite sharpe and sage:
Geue me before a thousande lowtes,
and all their lowde suffrage.
Tygille he kepes a prattlynge stylle,
his pages doo me pynche:
Prate what they can, the worste they can,
I mynde not once to wynche.
Suche carelesse, brainlesse, senslesse shrubbs,
suche sucklyng maultwormes, who,
Dothe take their woordes, but as of course,
and so can lette them go?
The lorde Mecenas and Uirgill,
Plotie, and Uarius,
Ualgie, and or drad soueraigne
the great Octauius,
And Polleo (I fawne not nowe,
not flatter, thankes to pyke)
Fuscus, and eke the Uiscie bothe,
I woulde they should me lyke.
Thou Messala, thy brother to,
You Bubilie also,
You Seruie, and thou Furnius,
bothe you and suche lyke mo,
Frendly and learnde, whiche nowe for hast
vnnamed I lette go,
Your praise I saye, fayne would I haue
full sorie and full sad:
If I ne can fulfyll the hope,
whiche of my selfe I had.
Sir Tygill, and syr Demetrie,
Your dumpishe domes in schooles,
emongst your flocke of fooles.
As for the wyse, they wynke at them,
nor will not on them looke:
Go boy, go note these sayinges well,
and put them in a booke.
| A Medicinable Morall | |