University of Virginia Library

The eyght Satyre.

Horace.
Howe doo you lyke the Epicures
repaste, so ryche, and gay?
This other daye, I sent for you,
and then I dyd heare say,
You dynd abrode.

Fund.
In faith, my frend
it lyked me so muche,
That ere this tyme, I doo beleue,
there neuer was one suche.

Horace.
If, that it be not tedious,
nor doo not you displease,
What meate was fyrst, your angrye mawe,
that gan for to appease?

Fundanus.
Fyrst, had we brawne from Lucanie
the Father of the feaste,
Sayde, he was slayne, when southerne wynde
his blusteryng blastes releaste.
Rapes, radishe, lettice, Sherwicke rootes,
brothes tarte in taste, and quicke
Came next, to make our stomake slowe,
more vrgently to pricke.
Fayre trenchers then was calde for straight,
the purple carpett dreste
Eche man desyres to sytte nexte hym,
that tauntyngly can ieste:
Ribauldes and cockescombes are in dede,
a sauce vnto our feast.
Fooles haue with vs a priuiledge
to tell who, what, and when,
Fooles speake ofte tymes, the very thoughtes
of wyse and wittie men.
There was the costly cullices,
the Turbut, and the Pyke,
The Porpose and the Porpentyne,
with many suche the lyke.
Pygge, partrige, peacocke, sparrowe, whale,
so many of a rowe,
That scarce the eater leaueth roome,
to fetche his wynde, or blowe.
All thynges, so formally brought in,
so solemnely assayde,
As though on alters to the Goddes,
the bankette had bene made.
What drinke you maisters (quod our hoste?)
Gascoyne, or Rennyshe wyne?
We haue of all sortes in this howse,
bothe lately brochde, and fyne.
Then, when that wyne had wonne the field,
and maisterde all our guesse,
Lorde, what it was a ioye to see,
howe some it downe dothe presse:
Lyke as the thynge that heauy is,
of Nature so is made,
(Excepte the same by violence
forholden be, and stayde)
To fall to grounde: lyke as the oke,
of substance styffe and stoute,
Cums downe, when he with dyntyng axe
is hewed rounde aboute:
So doo our hoglynges synke foorthewith,
(theyr heade a Baccus barge)
Wyne, is I tell you burdeynous,
and passyng full of charge.
Some synges of loue, and louers fittes,
and howe Cupides darte
Dyd smyte hym gentyll sowle amysse,
so beautyfull an harte.
Some mourne and blame their sorie fate,
why Fortune shoulde be suche,
That they suche blouddes, shoulde nothynge haue,
and others ouermuche.
Some chyde, some chatte, some raue, some reele,
and some can take the payne,
Of curtesye to geue myne hoste,
his supper vp agayne.
Some wyll vnfould bygge mysteries,
and frame his matter so,
As though he had aboue the reste,
gotte Phebus by the toe.
Some, wyll lament the state of tymes,
and howe that all is nought,
Howe thynges be rysen in theyr price,
and howe they haue ben bought.
Some sweare, that they haue lyued yll,
and howe to morowe daye,
They will accorde with all the worlde,
and gynne an other playe.
Howe Uertue is a perelesse dame,
howe fewe doo her imbrace:
This will they preache in gestryng wyse,
as though in publike place
The thynge were done (lo Horace lo)
our suppers and our cheare:
We spare no coste, we may not aske
if it be cheape or deare.
We keepe a troupe of seruynge men,
a crewe of lusty brutes,
And these for our great honours sake,
muste cutte it in theyr sutes.
These be our handye instrumentes,
to woorchen all our will,
Not scrupulous for to inquire
yf it be good or yll.
So many, so officious,
that not one heare may lye
Amisse on vs, but he or he,
will spye it by and by.
We laugh at those, when then are drunke,
those make a sporte alone:
To scoffe at straungers, when as they
with drinke are ouergone.

Horace
So, so, no more Cupide can not
from hyue of honey lycke,
But one or other bee, forthewith
will sting hym with her prycke.
The world, the hyue, the combes, the welth
whiche who so dothe assaye,
Pleasure in face, poyson in tayle,
Lyke Scorpion they wyll paye.
The stynges, that pricke, be chokyng cares
These hony tasters haue:
Whilst they are toste within them selues,
to seeke, or howe to saue.
Wealthe is a thynge moste venomous,
and fewe or none we fynde,
But pleasure hath lyke Circes cuppes
yturnde them from their kynde.
Why shoulde the wyse esteme so muche,
a rowte of waytyng men?
Who, in theyr age moste commonly,
what are they? beggers then.
Brought vp so lewde, contynue lewde
retchelesse, and ydell swaynes:
Not knowyng arte, or handycrafte,
nor able to take paynes.
To kepe them braue, doothe euen as muche
thyne honour true vpholde,
As yf thou shouldste make thee a tayle,
and gylde the same with golde.
Is hospitalitie in those,
in feedyng any suche?
In kepyng stronge and heddy drynkes,
in beluynge ouermuche?
Lyke spunges neuer satisfied,
and lyke Ulisses foes,
From meate to bed, from bed to meate,
and so their circle goes.
Deuisers of all wantonnesse,
what should I tell you more?
Good, to increase and multiplye,
their lorde or maysters skore.
I do suppose, that yf mens wealthes,
shoulde answere to theyr wylles,
That nyght and daye woulde scarse suffice,
to reuell out theyr fylles.
Eche man is counted of moste price,
and mete to be a lorde,
As he with dyshes can depaynt,
and ouercharge a borde.
No talke howe wyse, how vertuous,
or to take paynes howe able,
But yf he kepe great store of drynke,
or honourable table.
Therfore some people parasites,
that they may seeme to passe,
Wyll spende out maluesey, muscadell,
and fumyshe hypocrasse.
And make their cookes looshiously,
theyr delicates to dresse
Their very meates in insensiue,
broughte in, in suche excesse:
That I doo lothe them more in mynde,
as thynges more full of harme,
Then, if that witche, that Canadie,
had cursde them with her charme.