 | Divine Poems |  |
The Antipodes.
Why art so sad and sullen, O my Muse,That now to make a verse thou dost refuse?
Must thou be mov'd by a reward to raise
Thy fancie up? Lo here's a sprig of Bayes
To make a lawrel; if that wil not do it,
Meere indignation wil create a Poet.
Art thou not angry yet at these mad times?
Canst thou forbeare to write Satyrick rhimes?
A rod is good for mad men in their fits,
'Twil them restrain, if not restore their wits;
The world is a great Bedlam, where men talke
Distractedly, and on their heads doe walk,
Treading Antipodes to all the Sages,
And sober minded of the former ages.
They were content (good souls) with slender meat,
Such as their gardens yeilded they did eate:
A sallet, bread, and water fresh that ran
From the next spring, did dine a Gentleman.
They were content (good souls) for to be clad
In skins which from the beasts backs could be had,
And so it did them from the cold defend
It was enough, they had no other end.
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Of their own Vine, ne're offering to invade
Their neighbours, or take arms them to oppresse,
So they their own might quietly possesse.
They were content with such instructions as
From their own Priests and Prophets mouths did passe,
And with that fear and reverence did them hear,
As though the only oracles they were:
It was the golden age of the world then,
When merit and not mony raised men.
Grace was their gold, their hearts were the rich mine
Where vertues most transparently did shine.
Faces about now, and behold the sceane
Turn'd topsie turvie, all things changed cleane,
No fare contents us, but what's fetcht from far,
And deerly bought, and cookt with curious care,
And dainty sauces; thus with art we strive
Our appetites to kil, and to revive:
We of our bellies Gods do make, and thus
Are gluttons beyond Heliogabulus.
No drink contents us, but the richest wine,
And strongest beer, which we swil in like swine,
Keeping no meane, but quaffing round about,
Til all the wine's in, and the wit is out.
No clothes content us but the richest stuffe,
And costliest die, else 'tis not gay enough;
Nay, it is nothing worth, unlesse the fashion
Come like Queen Sheba, from a forraign nation.
We change our habits like the moon, our shapes
With Proteus, and are made the Frenchmens Apes.
No living wil to us contentment yeild,
But we must stil be laying field to field,
Wishing this Lordship, purchasing that Farme;
If mony wanting be, then force of arm
Shal make it ours, or subtiltie of wit,
One way or other we wil compasse it.
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The Lay-man is inspired every day,
Can pray and preach ex tempore; he Priest
With all his learning is despil'd and hist
Out of the Church, and some have lately sed,
He should be shortly brought to beg his bread.
We've nothing of the golden age, unlesse
That Gold's our Grace, and Gaine's our godlinesse;
Not manners now, but monie makes a man,
Yea many think it makes a Christian;
As if none were religious but the rich,
And the poor body damn'd were for a witch.
Dost see my Muse the world turn'd upside down,
The Prince on foot, whiles mounted is the clown;
The beggar now a purchaser, and hee
That was worth thousands, brought to beggerie?
Dost thou behold all this, and canst be mute?
Come take thy bow and arrowes, aim and shoot
The sharpest of them, cast thy keenest dart
At this mad age, and strike it to the heart;
Come dip thy pen in vinegar and gall,
And never leave til thou hast vented all
Thy just spleen on it: if it stil grow worse,
Let it expect not thine, but Gods great curse.
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