University of Virginia Library

Trahit sua quemque Uoluptas.

Howle on yee Satyrs, whilst I sit and marke,
How wolfish-Enuie at my Muse doth barke.
Backbite, detract, rayle, slaunder, and reuile,
With words of hatred and vnciuill stile,
First comes a Statesman to the Stationer,
And many better Bookes hee passing ouer,
By chaunce findes this, whereon he reades a while,
Then bytes the lippe, then frownes, then giues a smile,
And to the Seller sayes such fiery braines,
Should warme the prison to reward their paines.
Becomes it any man of his profession,
Reproue vs of our manners or transgression?
Away goes hee; Next comes my gallant Dycer,
His ordinarie stomacke is more nicer,
Who asks for new Books; this the Stationer showes him:
Streight sweares t'is nought vnles the Poet knows him.
Nor will hee read a Line: this Fortunes Mynion,
Likes forsooth nothing but his owne opinion.
The mending Poet takes it next in hand,
Who hauing oft the Verses ouer-scand.
O filching streight, doth to the Stationer say,
Heer's foure lines stolne from forth my last New-play.
And that hee'l swere euen by the Printers Stall,
Although hee knowes tis false hee speakes in all.
Then comes my Innes-of-Court-Man, in his Gowne,
Cryes Mew, what Hackney, brought this wit to towne,
But soone againe my gallant Youth is gon,
Minding the Kitchin more then Littleton.
Tut, what cares hee for Law, shall haue inough,
When's Father dyes, that Cankard Miser-Chuffe.
Put him a Case in Ploydon then who will,
That being his, plod you on Law-Bookes still.
Next comes by my Familiar, yet no Spirit,
Who forceth me his Friendship to inherit.
He sees my Booke in Print, and streight hee knowes it,
Then asketh for the Booke, and the Boy showes it.
Then reades a while and sayes, I must commend it,
But sure, Some Frend of his for him hath pend it.
He cannot write a Booke in such a fashion,
For well I wote t'was nere his Occupation.
Besides by Checquer-Clarks, that oft haue seene him,
I nere could heare of Schollership was in him.
Twere good to poze him but to haue it knowne,
Or t'is no matter, let it euen alone.
Next after him, your Countrey-Farmer viewes it,
It may be good (saith hee) for those can vse it.
Shewe mee King Arthur, Beuis, or Syr Guye,
Those are the Bookes he onely loues to buye.
Well, that he likes and walkes. Then comes a Diuell,
With sober countenance, and Garments ciuill.
A Puritane, or pure one, choose you whether,
(For both as one makes selfe-same sense together.)
Hee lookes on some, and finding this the next,
With very sight therof his minde is vext.
Fye ont't (saith he) that any man should buye,
Such Bookes prophane of fained Poetrie,
That teacheth vice, worse then your Playes on Stages,
And is a shame to olde and future Ages.
To louing Brother-hoods Communitie,
That are defilde by such impuritie.
Away retires my fained Publican,
And after him next comes my Seruing-man.
Who calls for new Bookes, heres one sayes the Boy,
He reads, and tells him, tut, this is a toy,
And nere will please our Maides that take delight,
In bookes of Ladies or some valiant Knight.
Those wittie workes buyes hee, and thence he passes,
Next him comes my Scholaris, mongst those Asses;
Who scarce vouchsafes his eyes thereon to glance,
Or reading but a line or two by chance.
Must on it streight way striue to breake a iest,
(As who shall know hee's wiser then the rest.)
His wit that made this, well may begge by Pattin,
Ile nere allow that good which hath no Lattin.
Besides, how'euer I disdaine to read him,
Vnles I knew what House or Colledge bred him.
Lo thus my Batchellour of little Artes,
Will needes (presage t'is naught) and so departs.
At length comes-by my Mungrell home-spun Clarke,
Whose Antique gesture I beseech you marke.
No sooner this my Booke in hand he seeth,
But rubs his elbow, showes his butter teeth,
And sayes, Is't English? then let him alone,
For other language (tells you) learnt he none.
But knowes by whome this Epigram was made,
Hee's iust saith hee a man of mine owne Trade.
Then on the sudden falls his courage downe,
Finding a Clarke translated from a Clowne.
Which hauing read, n'ere asks him how they fell,
But steales away, and shames to bid Farewell.
Last comes my scoffing Friend of scowring wit,
Who thinks his iudgement boue all Arts doth sit.
He buyes the Booke, and hastes him to the Play,
Where, when he coms, and reads, Heer's stuffe doth say.
Because the lookers on may hold him wise,
He laughs at what he likes, and then will rise,
And takes Tobacco; Then about will looke,
And more dislike the Play, then of the Booke.
At length is vext hee should with charge be drawne,
For such slight sights to lay a Sute to pawne.
A Number more like Addle braines as these,
I could giue Physicke to for their disease.
But better subiects shall employ my penne,
Then the Low-minded muddy drosse of men,
That wrong our labours by their duller spirits,
And iudge vs by their hate, not by our merits.
I taxe no one particular with crimes,
That can finde fault at my Satyricke Rimes.
Good men will loue mee, whiles the bad I lose.
Hee that speakes alwayes truth, is sure of Foes.