Ivvenilia :: :: University of Virginia Library

When nimble time that all things over-runs
Made me forsake my tops and eldren guns,
Reaching those yeeres in wch the schoole-boyes brag,
In leaving off the bottle and the bag:
The very Spring before I grew so old,
That I had almost thrice five Winters told;
Noting my other fellow-pupils hast,
That to our English Athens flockt so fast:
Lest others for a Truant should suspect me,
That had the selfesame Tutor to direct me,
And in a manner counting it a shame
To under-goe so long a Schoole-boyes name,
Thither went I. For though I'l not compare
With many of them that my fellowes were;
Yet to my Teachers praise (I speake it now)
I all the formes in schoole had quite run through,
And was no whit, for Grammer Rules to seeke,
In Lillies Latine, nor in Camdens Greeke;

But so well grounded, that another day,
I could not with our idle Students say
For my excuse, I was not enter'd well,
For that I was so, can my fellowes tell.
And therefore since I came no wiser thence;
I must confesse it was my negligence:
Yet daily longing to behold and see
The places where the sacred Sisters be;
I was so happy, to that Foard I came
Which of the laboring Oxe doth beare the name,
It is a spring of knowledge that imparts
A thousand severall Sciences and Arts,
A pure cleare Fount, whose water is by ods
Farre sweeter than the Nectar of the Gods:
Or rather (truly to entitle it)
It is the wholesome nurcery of Wit.

There once arriv'd, in yeeres and knowledge raw,
I fell to wondring at each thing I saw:
And for my learning made a month's Vacation,
In noting of the places situation,
The Palaces and Temples that were due
Vnto the wise Minervaes hallowed crew,
Their Cloysters, Walks, & Groves; all which survei'd,
And in my new admittance well apaid;
I did (as other idle Freshmen doe)
Long to goe see the Bell of Osney too:
And yet for certainty I cannot tell
That e'er I dranke at Aristotles Well.
And that perhaps may be the reason why
I know so little in Philosophy.
Yet old Sir Harry Bath was not forgot,
In the remembrance of whose wondrous shot
The Forrest by (Believe it they that will)
Was nam'd Shot-over, as we call it still.

But having this experience, and withall,
Atchiev'd some cunning at the Tennis-ball;
My Tutor (telling me I was not sent
To have my time, there vaine and idly spent)
From childish humours gently cal'd me in,
And with his brave instructions did begin
To teach, and by his good perswasion sought
To bring me to a love of what he taught.

Then after that he labour'd to impart,
The hidden secrets of the Logicke Art;
In stead of Grammar rules he read me then,
Old Scotus, Seton, and new Keckerman.
He shew'd me which the Prædicables be,
As Genus, Species, and the other three:
So having said enough of their contents;
Handles in order th' ten Prædicaments;
Next Post-prædicamenta with Priorum,
Perhermenias and Posteriorum.
He with the Topickes opens; and descries
Elenchi, full of subtile fallacies:
These to unfold (indeed) he tooke much paine,
But to my dull capacity in vaine:
For all he spake was to as little passe,
As in old time unto the vulgar was
The Latine Masse, which (whether bad or good)
The poore unlearned never understood;
But of the meaning were as farre to seeke,
As Coriats horse was of his masters Greeke,
When in that tongue he made a Speech unto him;
That he the greatnes of his strength might shew him.
For I his meaning did no more conjecture,
Than if he had beene reading Hebrew Lecture.
His Infinites, Individuities,
Contraries, and Subcontrarieties,

Divisions, Subdivisions, and a crew
Of tearmes and words, such as I never knew,
My shallow understanding so confounded,
That I was gravell'd, like a ship that's grounded;
And in despaire the Mystery to gaine,
Neglecting all tooke neither heed nor paine.
Yea, I remain'd in that amazed plight,
Till Cynthia six times lost her borrowed light:

But then asham'd to finde my selfe still mute,
And other little dantiprats dispute,
That could distinguish upon Rationale,
Yet scarcely heard of Verbum Personale;
Or could by heart (like Parrots) in the Schooles,
Stand pratling, these (me thought) were pretty fooles,
And therefore in some hope to profit so,
That I like them (at least) might make a show;
I reacht my Bookes that I had cast about,
To see if I could picke his meaning out:
And prying on them with some diligence,
At length, I felt my dull intelligence
Begin to open; and perceived more
In halfe an houre, than halfe a yeëre before.
And (which is strange) the things I had forgot,
And till that very day remembred not,
Since first my Tutor read them; those did then
Returne into my memory agen:
So, that with which I had so much to doe,
A weeke made easie, yea, and pleasing too.
And then not therewith thorowly content,
I practic'd to maintaine an argument:
And having waded thorow Sophistrie,
A little lookt into Philosophie,
And thinking there the Ethicks not enough,
I had a further longing yet to know

The cause of Snow, Haile, Thunder, Frost and Rain.
The Lightnings, Meteors, and what here 'twere vain
For me to speake of, sith I shall but show it,
To those that better than my selfe doe know it.
Then from the causes of things naturall
I went to matters Metaphysicall.
Of which when I a little newes could tell,
I (with the rest in Schooles to wrangling fell.)
And (as example taught me) to disgrace her,
When I oppos'd the Truth, I could out-face her.

But now ensues the worst; I getting foot,
And thus digesting Learnings bitter root:
Was ready to have reacht the fruit and thought
I should a calling in that place have sought,
I found that for other ends ordain'd,
Was from that course perforce to be constrain'd.
For Fortune that full many a boone hath lost me,
Thus in the reaping my contentment, crost me.

You sir (quoth she) that I must make my slave,
For whom in store a thousand plagues I have,
Come home I pray and learne to hold the plough,
For you have read Philosophy enough.
If wrangling in the Schooles be such a sport,
Goe fee those Ploydens at the Innes of Court:
For (aske your parish-neighbours who can tell)
Those fellowes doe maintaine contention well.
For art in numbers, you no coyle need keepe.
A little skill shall serve to tell your sheepe.
Seeke not the Starres thy evils should relate,
Lest when thou know them thou grow desperate;
And let alone Geometry ('tis vaine)
I'l finde you worke enough to marre your braine:
Or would you study Musick? else 'twere pitty,
And yet it needs not, you shall finde I'l fit ye:

I'l teach you how to frame a song, and will
Provide you cares to be the subject still.

This, Fortune or my Fate did seeme to tell me,
And such a chance, indeed, ere long befell me.
For ere my yeares would suffer me to be
Admitted to require the low'st degree:
By Fates appointment (that no stay can brooke)
The Paradise of England I forsooke
To Art and Study both, I bad farewell,
With all that good my thoughts did once foretell:
The sweetest of my hopes I left and went
In quest of Care, Despaire, and Discontent.
For seeing I was forc'd to leave those Mountaines.
Fine groves, faire walks, & sweet delightful Fountains
And saw it might not unto me be granted
To keepe those places where the Muses haunted,
I home returned somewhat discontent,
And to our Bentworth beechy shadowes went,
Bewailing these my first endeavours lost,
And so to be by angry fortune crost,
Who though she daily doth much mischiefe to me,
Can never whilst I live a greater doe me,
Yet there, e'er she on me procur'd her will,
I learn'd enough to scorne at fortune still:
Yea, use had made her envy seeme so vaine,
That I grew almost proud of her disdaine:
And having through her first malice worne,
Began to take a pleasure in her scorne.

But after I returned as is said,
And had a season in the Countrey stai'd,
I there perceiv'd (as I had long suspected)
My selfe of some unjustly ill-affected:
And that e'en those whom I had truly loved,
Had foes unto my good ungently proved,

I found though they in shew my friends had been,
(And kept their hidden malice long unseene,
With such faire shewes as if they sought my good,)
None my advancement with more spight withstood.
For, (seeming kinde) they often did perswade
My friends to learne me some Mechanick Trade,
Vrging expence (perhaps) and telling how
That Learning is but little made of now;
When 'twas through malice, cause they fear'd that I
Might come to understand my selfe thereby,
Exceed their knowledge and attaine to doe
My selfe more good than they would wish me to:
Some such, or worse, at best a wicked end,
Thus mov'd this selfe-conceited crew to bend
Their spightfull heads by secret meanes to crosse
My wisht desire and propagate my losse.

But having noted this their hollownesse,
And finding that meere Countrey businesse
Was not my Calling; to avoid the spight,
(Which at that season was not showne out-right)
And to escape the over-dangerous smiles,
Of those new-found up-landish Crocodiles;
Vpon some hopes I soone forsooke againe
The shady Grove and sweet delightfull plaine,
To see the place of this great Iles resort,
And try, if either there or at the Court.
I might by good endeavour action finde,
Agreeing with the nature of my minde.

But there I view'd another world me thought;
And little hope or none of that I sought.
I saw I must (if there I ought would doe)
First learne new fashions, and new language too.
If I should hang'd have beene I knew not how
To teach my body how to cringe or bow,

Or to embrace a fellowes hinder quarters,
As if I meant to steale away his garters;
When any stoopt to me with conges trim,
All I could doe was stand and laugh at him
Blesse me tought I, what will this Coxcomb doe,
When I perceiv'd one reaching at my shooe.
But when I heard him speake, why, I was fully
Possest, we learn'd but-barbarisme in Tully.
There was nor street, nor lane, but had a Wench,
That at once cōming could have learn'd them French
Grecians had little there to doe (poore soules,)
Vnlesse to talke with beggermen in Pauls.
All our Schoole-Latine would not serve to draw
An Instrument; adjudged good in law:
Nay which is more, they would have taught me faine
To goe new learne my English tongue againe;
As if there had beene reason to suspect
Our ancient-used Hampshire Dialect.
There I perceiv'd those brutish thronging swarmes,
That were transformed by lew'd Cyrces charmes,
There heard I wanton Syrens tune the lay,
That worke th' unwary travellers decay.
The cruell Lycanthropi walkt in sight,
So did the beastly loose Hermaphrodite.
I saw Chimera's, Furies fearefull things,
And fiends whose tongues are such envenum'd stings,
As plague not onely bodies that have breath,
But make a wound that oft uncur'd by death;
The next in bloud doth poyson and goes nigh
To ruine a mans posterity.
There I saw Guls that have no braine at all,
And certaine Monsters which they Gallants call;
New brood of Centaures that were onely proud
Of having their beginning from a Cloud.

These with a thousand other creatures more,
Such as I never saw the like before,
In stranger shaps, and more deform'd and vile,
Than ever yet appear'd to Mandivile,
Flockt there; that I almost to doubt began,
How I might passe the straights of Magalan,
Or gotten on the sudden (with such case)
To see the wonders at th' Antipodes.
O Lord thought I, what doe I meane to runne,
Out of Gods blessing thus into the Sunne!
What comfort or what goodnesse here can I
Expect among these Anthropophagi,
Where like the droves of Neptune in the water,
The lesse are made a prey to feed the greater!
Certaine it is I never shall be able,
To make my humour suit to please this rabble;
Better it were I liv'd at home with wants,
Than here with all these strange inhabitants,
Whose natures doe with me so disagree,
I shall scoffe at them though they ruine me:
Yet being loth to turne till I had try'd,
What fate my new adventure would betide,
I staid for my experience and withall
Flattered my selfe, with hope there would befall,
Something unto my share well worth my sute,
Which honesty might serve to execute,
Without respecting how to please the rude,
And Apish humours of this multitude.
But all in vaine I that preferment sought,
Ill fortune still my hopes confusion wrought.
Which though for ominous some understood,
Yet I presum'd upon some future good;
And (though I scarce am wish't so well of some)
Beleeve there is a happy time to come:

Which when I have most need of comfort, shall
Send me true Ioy to make amends for all.
But say it be not whilst I draw this aire,
I have a heart (I hope) shall ne'er despaire;
Because there is a God, with whom I trust,
My soule shall triumph when my bodie's dust.
Yet when I found that my endeavours still
Fell out as they would have't that wisht me ill;
And when I saw the world was growne so coy,
To curbe me as too young then to imploy:
And that her greatnesse though she did not want me,
Or found no calling bad enough to grant me:
(And having scap't some envies which to touch,
Vnto this purpose appertaines not much)
Weighing both that and therewith also this;
How great a shame and what reproach it is
To be still idle; and because I spy'd
How glad they would be that my state envi'd,
To finde me so although the world doth scorne
T'allow me action, as if I were borne
Before my time; yet e'en to let her see,
In spight of Fortune I'd employed be;
Casting preferments too much care aside,
And leaving that to God that can provide;
The actions of the present time I ey'd,
And all her secret villanies descry'd:
I stript Abuse from all her colours quite,
And laid her ugly face to open sight.
I labour'd to observe her waies, and then
In generall the state and tricks of men.
Wherein although my labour were not seene,
Yet (trust me) the discovery hath beene
My great content: and I haue for my paine,
Although no outward yet an inward gaine.

In which because I can with all my heart,
Allow my Countrey-men to share my part,
And cause I thinke it may doe some a pleasure,
One opportunity Ile now take leasure.
And summon up my Muse to make relation;
I may b'imployd ere long, now's my Vacation.

An Jntroduction.

Come then Invention, and call Iudgement in,
Knowledge and Reason fie where have you bin?
Goe whistle of my Muse that wanton,
With Epigrams, Love-Sonnets, Roundelayes,
And such like trifling gaine: bid her come on,
I have found braver prey to seize upon.
Some new inspired power warmes my heart,
And addes fresh courage unto every part:
New bloud hath fild up all my Love-dride veines,
A sacred Fury hath possest my braines:
Something there is swels in my troubled brest,
Till it be utter'd I expect no rest;
For full with matter like a Sibyl Nun,
I shall grow furious if't be long undone.

Then rouse thee Muse, each little Hobby plies,
At Scarabes, and painted Butterflies:
Leave thou such trash, it is not now for us
To flie for pleasure; wee'l in earnest trusse
Leave base attempts to buzzards or the kite,
And checke the bravest in their proudest flight.

But thou me thinks seem'st sickly feathered,
As if thy sprightly heart extinguished,
Had left thee nothing of the same thou wert,
Dejection hath possessed every part,

And thou look'st dull unfit for lofty-things,
As if thy wanton flight had tir'd thy wings.
Lest therefore thou should'st faint, forsake the first,
And turne thy selfe into a Satyrist;
Not of the roughest; nor the mildest sort:
Be most in earnest, but sometimes in sport.
What e'er thou finde to speake be not affraid,
But for assistance crave th' Almighties aide.
And to that grace and power which he shall daigne,
Adde all thy best endeavours to attaine
So thriving an event that men may see,
Heauen had decreed to helpe and favour thee.
Looke to thy taske for know thou must unfold
The strangest nature that was ever told:
Lanch that foule deepe impostumated sore:
Which shamelesse time hath so well skinned ore.
As ripping up thereof some smart will be:
Yet strike it home, and none shall hinder thee;
Search if thou canst, till thou the bottome sound,
Set not too farre lest thou thy selfe confound,
And (by too neere inquirie) smothered lye,
In the unfathom'd depths of villany;
For (doe not mis-conceive what I intend)
No message to th' Antipodes I send:
Nor have I any meaning thou should'st goe
To search th' Earths center, what lies hid below,
Or undermine it for rich Minerals:
Thou shalt not have to doe with Vegetals.
Strange natures have both stones, trees, herbs & plants
Which let them seeke for that imployment wants.

There is a Herbe some say whose vertue's such,
It in the pasture onely with a touch
Vnshooes the new-shod Steed. Within the North
The Scottish Iles eal'd Orcades bring forth

Trees, (or else Writers faine it) from whose seeds,
A certaine kinde of water-foule proceeds.
The Loadstone also drawes the steele unto it,
Yet hath no ginne nor instrument to doe it:
Rare powers in Nature; and yet none of these,
Nor what lies hidden in the vast wilde Seas,
Meane I to speake of: I no knowledge have,
What monsters play with Neptunes boystrous waves:
Nor quality of birds, or beasts I sound,
For soone their open natures may be found:
Mans wisdome may, with little inquisition
Finde out the brutish creatures true condition.
For by experience we for certaine know
The Elephant much love to man will show.
The Tygers, Wolves, and Lions, we doe finde,
Are ravenous, fierce, and cruell even by kinde.
We know at carryon we shall finde the Crowes,
And that the Cock the time of midnight knowes:
By a few daies experience we may see,
Whether the Mastife curst or gentle be.
And many other natures we finde out,
Of which we have no cause at all to doubt:
But there's another Creature called Man,
Note him who will, and tell me if he can,
What his condition is; observe his deeds,
His speech his raiment, yea, and how he feeds,
Try him a yeere, a month, an age, and when
You have so try'd him; say, what is he then?
Retaines he either unto Præster Iohn,
Or else unto the whore of Babylon?
If that you know not which of them to grant,
Is he a Brownist, or a Protestant?
If in an age you cannot finde out whether,
Are you so much as sure that he is either?

Is his heart proud or humble? know you where
Or when he hates, or loves, or stands in feare?
Or who can say (in Conscience I thinke none)
That this mans words and deeds, & thoughts are one
Where shall you him so well resolved finde,
That wants a wandring and a wavering?
Nay he of whom you have most triall, when
You see him dying will you trust him then?
Perhaps you may yet questionlesse he leaves you
A minde misdoubting still that he deceives you.
And no great wonder, for he's such an elfe,
That ever is uncertaine of himselfe,
He is not semper idem in his will,
Nor stands on this or that opinion still,
But varies; he both will and will not too,
Yea even the thing he thinkes and sweares to doe
He many times omits and not alone
Hath from anothers expectation gone,
But least to any one he should prove just,
Himselfe he guiles if in himselfe he trust.

But this same diverse and inconstant creature,
That is so contrary in his owne nature,
'Tis he that now my Muse must here devise,
Whilst he is living to Anatomize;
'Tis his Abusive and ill-taught condition
(Although it be beyond all definition)
She must discover with the boundlesse rage,
Of the unbridled humours of this age
Yet 'tis a mighty taske, whose undertaking,
Would make all Argus eyes, forget their waking:
And I doe feare I may attempt as well,
To dragge againe to light the dogge of hell.
For all Alcides toiles had not beene more,
Though his twice-sixe had beene twice-sixty-score.

So infinite is this I must unfold;
That I might write and speake till I were old,
I know that I should leave unspoken then,
Most of those humours I ave seene in Man;
And still confesse in him that hidden be
Thousands of humors more than I can see,
Somewhat he hath to doe would trace him out
In every action that he goes about:
Or but looke after him and see the path,
He trtades, what contraries it hath.
To finde him by his words were to assay,
To seeke a fish out by his watry way;
Or chase the Swallow to her home at night,
Through all the pathlesse windings in her flight,
But to observe him in his thoughts were more
Than all the labours mentioned before.
The never ending, winding, turning way
That the unbounded minde of man doth stray,
So full of wonder is that admiration
Hath nigh confounded my imagination
With too much musing thereupon: but yet
Sith either want of yeeres or want of wit,
Or lacke of worke, or lacke of all, hath brought me
To be more needfull than a number thought me;
Sith it some time and study too hath cost me,
And many an humour of mine owne hath lost me;
Sith it hurts none and sith perhaps some may
Be benefited by't another day:
Though as I said, the taske be not alone,
Too huge to be perform'd by any one,
But more than all the world can well dispatch;
Looke what I could by observation catch,
And my weake memory well bare away,
I registred against another day:

Nor will I ought that I remember spare,
Save things unfit and such as needlesse are;
Here I will teach my rough Satyricke Rimes
To be as madde and idle as the times
Freely I will discover what I spy,
And in despight of curiosity,
Maske in a homely phrase as simply plaine,
As other men are mystically vaine;
I'l breake the closet of mans private sin,
Search out the villanies conceal'd therein;
And if their sight may not infectious be,
Draw them to view in spight of secrecie;
Greatnesse and Custome shall not have their will
Without controule so to Authorize still,
That though much be amisse, yet no man dare
Seeme to take notice that offences are.
Weele brand them, and so brand them all shall see,
We durst not onely say such faults there be;
But startle those who had securely long
Slept senselesse of all shame and others wrong.
None will I spare for favour or degree,
My verse like death shall so impartiall be,
If that my father or my brother halt,
Though I spare them, I will not spare their fault:
No, mine owne follies that are most belov'd,
Shall not escape their censures unreprov'd,

Now some will say, fit 'twere I held my tongue,
For such a taske as this I am too young:
I ne'er had dealings in the world with men,
How can I speake of their conditions then?
I cannot, they conclude: strong reason, why,
Know none how market goes but such as buy?
We finde that it is oft and daily seene
When a deceitfull shifting knave hath beene

Playing at Cards with some unskilfull gull,
Whose purse is lin'd with crownes and penny-full,
He by some nimble passage may deceive,
Which though the simple Gamester nere perceive
Another may the Cheaters craft espie
That is no Player, but a stander by.
So I aloofe may view without suspition,
Mens idle humors and their weake condition,
Plainer perhaps than many that have seene
More daies and on Earth stage have actors beene.
And tis no marvell: for imployments takes them
Quite from themselves, & so dim-sighted make them
They cannot see the fooleries they doe,
Nor what ill Passions they are subject to:
Then who e'er carpe, the course I have begun,
If God assist me spight of them I'l runne:
And lest the Exordium hath too tedious bin,
What I intended loe I now begin.

Of Man.

Mounted aloft on Contemplations wings,
And noting with my selfe the state of things
I plainly did perceive as on a Stage,
The confus'd actions of this present age;
I view'd the World, and viewing saw my fill,
Because that all I saw therein was ill.
I weigh'd it well, and found it was the Scene
Of Villanie, of Lust, and all uncleane
And loath'd Corruption. Seeing which, my minde,
(That by some inspiration gan to finde
The place was not in fault for this) search't on
To finde the cause of this Confusion.
And noting every creature there, I found
That onely man was the chiefe spring and ground
Of all this uprore: Yea, I soone did see,
Hee there was all in all, and none but Hee.

Then having also a desire to know
Mans true condition; I began to grow
Yet more inquisitive. An old Record
At last I hapt upon, which did afford
Much sacred light. It shew'd, He was a Creature,
First made by God, just and upright by nature.
That in his likenesse fram'd he was compounded
Of Soule and Body: That, this last was founded

Of earth: The first, infus'd by inspiration.
And that, the finall cause of his creation
Was to set forth the glory of his Maker;
And with him to be made a joynt-partaker
Of endlesse happinesse. Growne much amaz'd
To read this of him, for a time I paus'd.
And finding now in Man no mark or signe
That ere he was a Creature so divine;
I knew not what to thinke unlesse the same
Should meane some other creature of that name:
But prying further on, I there found out
The resolution of my present doubt:
I saw the cause of's fall; How with Free-will,
He fell from his first goodnesse unto ill:
I saw how he from happinesse did slide,
Through disobedience and unthankfull pride:
Yea, and I found, how by that cursed Fall
He was bereaved and quite stript of all
That so adorn'd him. His first holinesse
Was chang'd to a corrupted filthinesse;
Then he began to draw a painfull breath,
And was a slave, made captive unto Death:
His body was expos'd to labour, sweat,
And much disquieting. He got his meat
With sorrow, care, and many perturbations,
And then his soule grew subject unto Passions
And strange distempratures. Moreover, he
So perfect miserable grew to be,
That if he had not a Re-generation,
Nothing was left him but meere desperation.

This, having seen, I made no question than,
But it was spoken of that Creature Man,
Which I sought after. Searching further yet,
On some Apocryphall Records I hit.

The works of wise Philosophers; from whence
I yet received more intelligence
Concerning him: for there they do unfold
Each part about his body, and have told
Secrets of nature very rare to finde.
They have considered also of the Mind
The Vnderstanding part: and do relate
The nature of his Soule, and her estate.
Deep Mysteries they be: but seeing, I
Have never searched that Philosophie,
So far as those: And sith, I shall but tell
Such things, as no man can explain so well
As they themselves: I leave you to their books.
In which, who ere with good advisement lookt,
Shall finde it largely handled. As for me,
I mean to speak but what I know, and see
By tri'd experience; which perhaps may give
(Although I have but now begun to live)
Some profitable notes. First, I avow
What-ever Man hath been; that, he is now
A reasonable living Creature; who
Consisteth of a Soul and Body too.
His Body flesh and bloud, to sinne subjected,
And from his very birth therewith infected,
Grows riper in uncleannesse. Then his Soule,
A pure and lasting substance, is made foule
Through th' others filthinesse, and much supprest
By divers hurtfull passions, which molest
And hinder her proceedings: yea, hee's this,
A Creature that exceeding wretched is:
And that he may be sure no fault to want,
Vain, Fickle, Weak, and wondrous Arrogant
And though his nature heretofore were pure,
Now nothing is more fading or unsure.

But Ile omit at this time to relate
The courses I've observ'd in's outward state:
For though the Body that before the Fall
Sustain'd no sorrow, were it ne're so small,
Doth now feel hunger, with heat, thirst, and cold,
A feeble birth, defects in being old,
With thousands more; & though each gasp of breath
In misery he draw untill his death:
Yet all this outward change which I do finde,
Is nothing when I do behold the minde.
For, there inordinate and brutish Passion
Keeps umpire; and hath got predomination.
Full many a pensive thought doth now molest
His troubled minde, whose conscience slept in rest.
His best contents but discontentments are:
His chiefe of pleasures are so mixt with care,
And with so little comfort he obtains them;
Or with such smart, and danger, he retains them;
Or with such feare of losing them, enjoyes them;
That those distastings, in the taste, destroyes them.

Amongst his own desires do hourely rise
So many wondrous Contrarieties,
And vain repentings of what's done before;
As all his good, makes but his ill the more.
This day hee's cheerefull, and to morrow sad,
E'ne from the same occasion made him glad.
The Minde, which sometime harbor'd so much good,
That evill but in name, was understood;
Knows ill so well, as of that good bereft,
The name of goodnesse now is scarcely left.
And unto me a wonder 'tis become
To see, what glories man is fallen from.
The best are bad, yet I observed still,
There are degrees amongst men in their ill.

The basest creatures that here breathe on earth,
(Inheriting corruption by their birth,)
In the condition of their life, are farre
Lesse different from what the worst men are,
Than they are from the best. Perhaps the shapes
(Vnlesse it be some strange disguised Apes)
Remain alike: but their poore soules are quite
Exchang'd to that which we call Appetite.
For, who can name of reasonable give,
To what is made but meerely sensitive?
It was a throne where Vertue ruling sate,
Ioyntly with Reason, her beloved mate:
And they two under sweet obedience, then,
Kept that fair place, th' unblemish't Ile of Man:
But sith with Good vie learn'd to know the Ill,
In stead of Reason, wee have set up Will.

The minde is nothing but a mint of jarres,
Or Little-world of mad domestique warres:
Vertue's depos'd thence, and Vice rule obtaines;
Yea, Vice from Vice there by succession reignes:
Expelling those whom Vertues presence graceth,
And in their steads these hurtfull Monsters placeth;
Fond Love, and Lust, Ambition, Enmitie,
Foolish Compassion, Ioy and Iealousie,
Feare, Hope, Despaire and Sadnesse, with the Vice
Call'd Hate, Revenge, and greedy Avarice,
Choler and Cruelty: which I perceiv'd
To be the onely causes Man's bereav'd
Of quietnesse and rest. Yea, these I found
To be the principall and onely ground
Of all pernicious mischiefs that now rage,
Or have disturbed him in any age.
These losing Reason, their true Prince, began
To breed disturbance in the heart of Man.

Each laid a severall claim (forsooth) and hee
Would be the Monarch in this Emperie
Ruine had got the upper hand, and they
Would be Commanders, that were made t'obey.
Love, (whē as Reason rul'd) you would have thought
Would never have been forc't or drawn to naught.
When God, the Chaos did divide; then he
Set it to look things should not disagree;
And taught it sweetly how to move the minde,
Both for increasing and preserving kinde.
But now, the bound it had, contenteth not;
A vein of domineering it hath got.
And the whole Man is held in slavery,
Within the compasse of that Tyranny.
Such apishnesse it now hath entertain'd,
That all the credit which it had is stain'd.
Yea, 'tis as far from what it was, as we
From our more honour'd ancient English be,
And so unlike unto it selfe doth prove,
We fearce dare give it now the name of Love.

Ambition, that erst gently mov'd Desire
To nought else but to good things to aspire;
Now must be Lord of Mis-rule, and will force
The Minde beyond her bound, from bad to worse,

Revenge doth claim a Princedome, and will be
The sole Commander in this Seignorie.
That cruell Ruffian, that in vain doth strive,
His Of-spring from true Valour to derive.

Despaire and Feare (two Rake-hels more) that Man
Had never knowledge of, till Sinne began;
With mighty troops of terrours, play their part,
To overthrow th' weak fortresse of the heart.
Yea, every Passion strives that onely he
Might Ruler in that Microcosmos be.

Ev'n Hope, (that when this discord first fell out,
Was sent to keep Despaires rude forces out,
And be a comfort to this troubled state,)
Becomes an Actor in this foule debate.
And when she had got footing in his brest,
Vnder the colour of procuring rest,
Built Castles in the ayre; from whence did grow;
Another meanes of Reasons overthrow:
Yea, Choler, jealousie, black Envy, Hate,
And bloudy Cruelty aim'd at this state.
Ioy, (though fare shew it made of discontent,)
And kinde Compassion (though she weeping went,)
Made private means to sway all to their wils,
Without the least care of ensuing ills.
That by their discord (I perceive) began
All whatsoever is amisse in Man.
And therefore I do here intend to show,
Ere I go farther, what ill humours flow
From these fore-named: and I will declare,
To what Abuses most men subject are,
Through every of them: for, when I took view,
Although I saw not all, I found a few.
And here because I will not order break,
I will asunder of each Passion speak.

Of the Passion of Love.

Satyre 1.

First Love, the same I here the first do call,
Because that Passion is most naturall;
And of it selfe could not be discommended,
Wert not with many a foule Abuse attended.
Or so much out of measure, as we see
By those in whom it reignes it oft will be.
For, look where't grows into extremity,
It soon becometh Vertues Lethargie;
Makes them set light by Reasons sound direction,
And beares them headlong by untam'd affection.
Counsel's in vain; cause when this fit doth take them,
Reason and Vnderstanding both forsake them,
It makes them sometimes merry, sometimes sad;
Vntam'd men milde, and many a milde man mad.
To fools it wisedome gives, and makes the witty
To shew thēselves most fools (the more's the pitty.)

Some it makes purblinde, that they do not know
The snow-white Cygnet from the cole-black Crow.
And one to gold compares his Mistris haire,
When 'tis like Fox-fur; and doth think shee's faire,
Though she in beauty be not far before
The swart West-Indian or the tawny Moore.

Oh, those faire star-like eyes of thine! one saies,
When to my thinking, she hath look't nine waies;

And that sweet breath; when I think (out upon't)
Twould blast a flower if she breathed on't.

Another having got a dainty peece,
(Prouder than Iason with his golden Fleece)
Commēds her vertues (which must needs have many
Because she never maketh use of any;)
Yea, swears shee's chast, and takes her for no lesse,
When all that know her, know her ficklenesse.

Another groweth carelesse of his health,
Neglects his credite, and consumes his wealth;
Hath found a pretty Peat, procur'd her favour,
And sweares that he, in spight of all, will have her;
Well, let him take her, sith they are contented,
But such rash matches are the soon'st repented.

Then there is one who having found a peere
In all things worthy to be counted deere,
Wanting both art and heart his minde to break,
Sits sighing (Woe is me) and will not speak.
All company he hates, is oft alone,
Growes melancholy, weeps, respecteth none,
And in despaire, seeks out a way to dye,
When he might live and finde a remedy.

But how now; Wast not you (sayes one) that late
So humbly begg'd a Boon at Beauties gate?
Was it not you that to a female Saint
Indited your Philaretes complaint,
With many dolefull Sonnets? was't not you?
Sure twas, saies he: but then how comes it now
You carp at Love thus in a Satyr's vain?
Take heed you fall not in t'her hands again:
Sure if you do, you shall in open Court,
Be forc't to sing a Palinodia for't.
What? are your brains drie, or your bloud grown cold?
Or are you on a sudden waxen old,

To flout at Love, which men of greatest wit
Allow in youth as naturall and fit?
What reason have you for't else? what pretence
Have you to make excuse for this offence?

To him I answer, That indeed, even I
Was lately subject to this maladie:
Lik't what I now dislike; imploy'd good times
In the composing of such idle Rimes
As are objected: From my heart I sent
Full many a heavy sigh, and sometimes spent
Vnmanly teares. I thought, I must confesse,
If she I lov'd had smil'd, no happinesse
Might equalize it, and her frown much worse
(O God forgive me!) than the Churches curse.

I did (as some do) not much matter make,
To hazard soule and body for her sake.
Having no hope, sometime I did despaire,
Sometime (too much) built Castles in the aire.
In many a foolish humour I have been
As well as others. Look where I have seen
Her (whom I lov'd) to walk when she was gone,
Thither I often have repair'd alone;
As if I thought the places did contain
Some poore contentment, (Oh exceeding vain!)

Yet, what if I have been thus idly bent,
Shall I be now ashamed to repent?
Moreover I was in my Childehood then,
And am scarce yet reputed for a man.
And therefore neither cold, nor old, nor dry,
Nor cloy'd with any foule disease am I,
Whereby the strength of nature is declin'd,
'Tis no such cause that made me change my minde:
But my affection, that before was blinde,
Rash, and unruly, now begins to finde

That it had run a large and fruitlesse race,
And thereupon hath given Reason place.
So that by Reason, what no Reason might
Perswade me from before, I have out-right
Iustly forsaken; for because I see
'Twas vain, absurd, and nought but fooler
Yet for all this, look where I lov'd of late,
I have not turn'd it in a spleen to hate;
No; for 'twas first her vertue and her wit,
Taught me to see how much I wanted it.
Then as for Love, I do allow it still,
I never did dislik't, nor never will;
So it be vertuous, and contain'd within
The bounds of reason: but when 'twill begin
To run at randome, and her limits break,
I must, because I cannot chuse but speak.

But I forget my selfe: Wherefore am I
So tedious in my own Apologie?
It needed not at all; I'le on again,
And shew what kinde of Lovers yet remain.

One sort I finde yet of this loving crew,
Whose quality I think, is known to few;
These seek by all the means they can to gain
Each Virgins liking: Sometime not in vain.
The thing they would, they have, but when 'tis got.
Sorry they are, and wish they had it not:
For peradventure they have plac't their love,
So as it cannot, or it must not move.
And yet if they should faile but to procure it,
'Twould grieve them so they hardly would endure it.
Yea, though in shew (at least) they have said nay,
Their loves with like affection to repay,
If they perceiv't abate, as it will doe,
Both this and that will make them sorry too.

But such as do into that weaknesse fall,
Vnsteady and unconstant I may call.

Moreover, some such humours do infect,
That the same man doth diversly affect:
Now he the Faire approves, anon the grace
Appeares not in the colour of a face.
He spies the Brown, and then that most esteems,
Cause the proportion much more pleasant seems.
Then, he the Wanton likes; then modest Eyes;
Then loves the simple Lasse; and then the Wise:
One for her pase; and for her gesture one
Must be the Mistresse he adores alone;
Yet peradventure ere a little while,
Another wins her from him with a smile.

This, with a look nigh languishing, moves pitty:
That, he commends because shee's bold and witty.
And longs for what anon again he loaths.
Because she seem'd faire in her gaudy clothes.

True worth moves few: but sure I am, not many
Have for bare Vertues sake affected any.
Wealth wins the most, yet they by triall prove,
Though it breeds liking, yet it gains not love.

Then to obtain his Mistresse one man tries
How he can strain his wits to Poetize:
His Passion to relate, his skill he proves?
But in this blockish age it little moves:
Nor do I wonder much true meaning fails,
And wit so little in this case avails,
Sith Dunces can have Sonnets fram'd, and send them
As their inventions, when some others pen'd them.

Another seeks by valour to obtain
His wished prize; but now that triall's vain.

The third brings wealth, and if he do not speed,
The Woman's worth the suing for indeed.

Then he that's neither valorous nor wise,
Comes ruffling in with shamelesse brags and lies,
Making a stately, proud, vain-glorious show
Of much good matter, when tis nothing so.
In stead of lands, to which he neere was heire,
He tells her tales of Castles in the ayre:
For martiall matters, he relates of fraies,
Where many drew their swords, and ran their waies:
His Poetry is such as he can cull
From Plaies he heard at Curtain, or at Bull;
And yet his fine coy Mistresse, Mary-Muffe,
The soonest taken with such broken stuffe.

Another shallow brain hath no device,
But prates of some strange casts he had at Dice;
Brags of his play; yea, sure it doth befall,
He vaunts oft times of that which marreth all.

But some I note (now fie on such a man)
That make themselves as like them as they can,
Thereby to win their loves: they fain their pase,
Order their looks, and strive to set their face
To be demure. Some woe by nods and looks;
Some by their sighs, and others by their books.

Some have a nature must not be denaid,
And will grow furious if they be delaid.
Other again have such a fancy got,
If they soon speed, then they esteem them not.

When women woo some men do most affect them,
And some again for wantons do suspect them:
Besides, we see that fools themselves they make,
What toyes they count of for their Wenches sake.

One, for some certain months, or weeks, or daies,
Weares in his hat a branch of wither'd Bayes;
Or sweareth to imploy his utmost power,
But to preserve some stale neglected flower.

He weares such colours as for Lovers be,
Drinks vowed healths upon his bared knee:
Sues mainly for a shoo-string, and doth crave her
To grant him but a busk-point for a favour.
And then to note (as I have seen) an Asse
That by her window whom he loves must passe,
With what a fained pase the Woodcock stalks;
How scurvily he fleareth as he walks:
And if he ride, how he rebounds and trots,
As if his horse were troubled with the bots:
'Twould make one swell with laughing. In a day
He makes more errands than he needs that way,
Bearing himselfe as if she still espide him;
When as perhaps she flouts, or looks beside him.

Nay, should I tell you all the Vanitie
I have observed in this maladie,
I should shame Lovers: bus Ile now be husht,
For had I said more, I my selfe had blusht.
Yet know; although this passion I have tide
To love of Women, it concludes beside
All whatsoever kinde of loves there be,
Vnlesse they keep the minde from troubles free;
And yeeld to Reason: but of such-like Lovers,
My Muse hereafter other feats discovers.

Of Desire, or Lust.

Satyre 2.

Lvstfull Desire (although twere rather fit
To some bruit Creature to attribute it)
Shall be presented in the second place;
Because it shrowds a vile deformed face
Beneath Loves Vizard, and assumes that name,
Hiding it own fault with the others blame.
'Tis a base Passion, from whose sink doth flow
Many base humours. 'Tis the overthrow
Of all in whom it enters. 'Tis an evill
Worse than to be possessed with a Devill.
This, this is that which oft caus'd publike strife,
And private discord. This makes man and wife
Grow each to other cold in their affection,
And to the very marrow sends infection.
This spoiles the body; this doth make the face
Look wan, pale, yellow, and doth much disgrace
The beauty of it. This bereaveth quite,
The bones of marrow, and the eyes of sight.
It shrinks the sinews; and from thence doth sprout
Griefes of the stomake, Leprosie and Gout,
With other such: beside, it doth decay
Not life alone; but also takes away
Both memory and understanding too;
And many other mischiefes else will doe.

And which way comes that foule disease to us
We call the French, so vile and odious?
I'st not by Lust? Breed not such-like desires
Children begotten by unlawfull Sires?
Strange generations; beds so oft defilde,
That many a Father scarcely knowes his childe?
Or, is't not hence this common Proverbe growes,
'Tis a wise childe that his own Father knowes?
Doth it not others reputation foyle?
And them e'ne of their dearest jewells spoile?
Yes, and from hence a thousand other crimes
Do daily spring: and yet in these our times
'Tis highly made of. Yea, 'tis Lust doth weare
The richest garments, and hath curious'st fare:
The softest beds it hath to take repose
With sweet perfumes; but sure ther's need of those.

Drawn in a Coach it visits, now and then,
Some neare acquaintance 'mongst the Noblemen.
And yet the Court alone frequents it not,
But in the City residence hath got,
Where, in a daily service it imployes,
Young Cocknies, Burgomasters, Roaring-Boyes,
Yea, Porters, Prentises, and all that may
Be service able to it any way.

'Twere much to note the pain that some endure,
And at how high a rate they do procure
Their beastly wills. Ther's many spend their stocks
In Ruffes, Gowns, Kirtles, Petty-coats, and Smocks.
For which, on's paid with that shall make him craul
(If he be friended to some Hospitall.

Another quitted for his well-spent stuffe,
By some grim Serjeant with a Counter-buffe:
A third it brings (if long that course he follows)
First to the Gaole, and so-forth to the Gallowes.

And what have you observed to have bin
The usuall associates of this sin?
But filthy speeches, bold fac't impudence,
Vnseemly actions, riot, negligence;
Or such as these. Yea, to procure their lust
It makes them into any mischiefs thrust,
(How hatefull or apparant ere they be)
Or put in practise any villanie.

Moreover, where it enters once, the minde
Can no true rest, nor any quiet finde.
We see it also maketh them to crave,
Not what is best, but what they long to have.
Yea, Lust hath many mischiefs that ensue it,
Which most men see, but few the lesse eschew it.
Men rather now, as if 'twere no offence,
Are grown to such a shamelesse impudence,
They vaunt and brag of their lascivious facts,
No lesse than some of brave heroick acts.
And, not a few of this same humour be,
That would be thought the foes of Chastitie.
By whom, if I see ill, Ile sure conceale it;
For they themselves will, to their shames, reveale it.

Ther's others, who disliking so to vaunt,
Will, Si non castè, tamen cautè, grant,
(For that's their Motto) they make modest showes,
But what they do in secret, man nere knows.

Some makes a Baud of the divine profession,
(Like Shavelings in Auricular Confession.)
Th' other are bad, and sure of God accurst:
But, of all others, these I deem the worst.

Ther's other Gallants would desire but this,
Without suspition to confer and kisse:
For other pleasures they would never crave them,
Nay, if they might, they sweare they wil not have thē.

So mean perhaps, but time brings alteration;
And a faire woman is a shrewd temptation.

Then many make their feigned love to be
A cloak to cover their immodestie:
These will protest, and vow, and sweare their life
Consists in having whom they woo to wife.
Yet, if the villains can their lust fulfill,
They will forswear them, and be living still.

Some do court all (and not alone to prove;
But for because with all they are in love.)
With such deep Passion, that they cannot smother
Their hot affection till they meet another.

But why will Man against himselfe and Reason
Consent to such a Tyrant in his Treason?
Why will he so his liberty forgoe,
To be a slave to such a monstrous foe?
For what is this same Passion we call Lust?
Is't not a Brutish longing? an unjust
And foule desire, unlawfully to gain
Some evill pleasure? Or, to speak more plain;
A furious burning passion, whose hot fumes
Corrupt the understanding, and consumes
The very flesh of man? Then what's the fact?
What may I terme that vile and shamefull act,
But this; The execution of an ill,
Out of set purpose, and with a good will,
In spight of Reason? Tell me, is't not base?
When men shall so their worthy sex disgrace,
To give their bodies in a deed unclean,
With a foule nastie prostituted quean?
Or, in their understanding be so dull,
As to observe an idle short-heel'd Trull?
A puling female Devil, that hath smiles
Like Syrens Songs, and teares like Crocodyles.

Yet there be some (I will not name them now)
Whom I have seen unto such puppets bow,
And be as serviceable as a Groome
That fears another man will beg his roome.
They have been glad full oft to please their pride
With costly gifts, and forced to abide
Imperious scoffes, with many scornfull words,
Such as the humour they are in affords.
And yet for these they'l venture honours, lives,
If they command it: when on their poore Wives
(Though they in beauty love, and true delight,
Exceed them more than day-time doth the night)
Those common Courtesies they'l scarce bestow
Which they to ev'ry stranger use to show:
Yea, & their Lust doth wrap them in such blindnesse,
They cannot give them one poore look in kindnesse.

Moreover, for their lusts they have not laid
Base plots alone, like him that was convey'd
In a close trunk, because in secresie
He would (unseen) enjoy his venery.
I say not onely therein have they reacht
Their damn'd inventions: it hath also stretcht
Vnto strange Lusts, of which I will not speak,
Because I may offend the minde that's weak:
Or, least I to some simple one should show
Those sinnes by naming he did never know.
Then here Ile leave: there's lurking holes such store,
This stinking Vermine I will hunt no more.

Of Hate.

Satyre 3.

Bvt I have rouz'd another here as bad,
They call it Hate; a worse I never had
Before in chase: I scarce can keep (in sooth)
My selfe from danger of his venom'd tooth.
This is the Passion that doth use to move
The minde a clean contrarie way to Love.
It is an inspiration of the Devill,
That makes men long for one anothers evill.
It cankers in the heart, and plagueth most,
Not him that's hated, but the hatefull host.
And yet there's too too many I do know,
Whose hearts with this foule poyson over-flow:
Of which I have a true intelligence,
By the sharp scoffes and slanders springing thence:
But, where it rules, they cannot well conceale it,
But either words, or deeds, or both reveale it.

Were it just causes that did still ingender.
This passion in them; or if they could render
A reason for't, 'twere somewhat. But their will
Carries them on in spight of reason still.
These are their humours. For a slight offence
They'l hate th' offender for a recompence.
Some malice all that any way excell,
Although they know it farre from doing well.

And many have abhorred (God amend them)
The Stranger that did never yet offend them:
Which they are not ashamed to confesse,
Yet in their hate continue neere the lesse.
But though that they can yeeld no reason why
They beare them causelesse malice, yet can I.
Their hearts are ill, and it is seldome known,
That a sweet brook from bitter springs hath flown.

Ther's some too, when they see a man respected,
Though they are nothing by that means neglected,
They inly grudge, and outwardly disdain,
Being alike condition'd as was Cain.

Some hate their friends that love and count them dear,
As by the sequell plainly shall appeare;
One that a seeming friendship had profest me,
Vpon a time did earnestly request me,
That I would plainly my opinion shew,
What I of his conditions thought or knew:
And that I would without exceptions tell
What things in him did not become him well.

I scorning flattery, with a single heart,
'Twixt him and me my minde did soon impart;
And as a friend that is unfeigned, ought,
Left nothing unreveal'd of that I thought:
Yea, without soothing, him I reprehended,
If I perceiv'd hee any way offended;
Provided alwaies that I did not swerve
From a decorum fitting to observe.
But mark Mans nature: he perceiving I
Had taken note of some infirmity
He would not have unript; And seeing I
Saw more than he wisht any man should spie
Of his ill humours; (though I must confesse
Being my friend, I lov'd him nothing lesse:)

In stead of thanks and liking for my pains,
My company and sight he now refrains;
And for my kindnesse, like a thanklesse mate,
Doth ill repay me with a loathing hate.

This one I know, and by that one I finde,
That there be many beare as bad a minde.
But let us for their true conversion pray;
For never Age could this more justly say,
Truth hatred gets (she of such gain is sped)
While Love and Charity to heaven are fled.

Againe, the wicked hate beyond all measure
The righteous man that contradicts their pleasure;
And that's the fundamentall cause I know,
That many men doe hate their teachers so.
These common humours are observ'd of few,
Yet may a young experience finde them true;
And boldly say, that all in whom th' are found
Have poysoned hearts, polluted and unsound.
Yet they are more corrupt than all the rest,
Who hate their friends they should account of best.
But, let Men strive and study to remove
This Passion from their hearts, and graft on Love.
Let them not harbour such a hellish sinne;
Which being entred marreth all within.
Nor let them think my counsell merits laughter,
Sith Scripture saies, To hate our brother's slaughter.

Of Envie.

Satyre 4.

Then some envenom'd with an envious touch,
Think ev'ry thing their neighbour hath too much,
O Lord say they (if in the field they be)
What goodly Corn and well-fed beasts hath he?
(If in the house) they never in their lives
Saw fairer women than their neighbours wives:
Tis pitty she (a Lasse of such renown)
Should be embraced by so rude a Clown.
That house is too well furnisht, or doth stand
Better than his: or it hath finer land.
This Farme he thinketh more commodious much,
For wood and water he had never such.
Yea, so he grudges inwardly and frets
At every good thing that his neighbour gets

Of these besides there are, that when they see
Any beloved, or in favour be,
Especially in Courts and Great mens houses,
Then the heart swelleth, and the envious rouses;
Ne're resting till that like a spightfull Elfe,
He do displace them, or disgrace himselfe.

Now some are in the minde that Hate and this
Still go together and one Passion is.
Indeed, they foul injurious humors be,
So like, they seem to have affinitie.

And yet they differ (as oft kindred do)
Enough at least I'me sure to make them two.
Hate many times from wrongs receiv'd hath grown;
Envy is seen where injuries are none.
Her malice also is more generall;
For Hate to some extends, and she to all.
Yet envious men do least spight such as be
Of ill report, or of a low degree:
But rather they do take their aime at such,
Who either well-beloved are, or rich.
And therefore some do fitly liken these
Vnto those flies we call Cantharides:
Sith for the most part they alight on none
But on the flowe as that are fairest blowne.
Or to the boistrous winde, which sooner grubs
The stately Cedar than the humble shrubs.
Yet I have known it shake the bush below,
And move the leafe that's wither'd long ago;
As if it had not shown sufficient spight,
Vnlesse it also could o'erwhelm it quite,
Or bury it in earth. Yea, I have found
The blast of Envy flies as low's the ground.
And when it hath already brought a man
Even to the very meanest state it can,
Yet 'tis not satisfi'd, but still devising
Which way it also may disturbe his rising.

This is most true, or else it could not be
That any man should hate or envy me,
Being a creature (ore would think) that's plac't
Too far below the touch of Envies blast.
And yet they do; I see men have espi'd
Something in me too that may be envi'd.
But I have found it now and know the matter,
The reason's, They are great, and Ile not flatter.

Or else because they see that I do scorn
To be their slave whose equall I am born.

I heard (although twere spoken in a cloud)
They censure, that my knowledge makes me proud:
And that I teach so farre beyond my calling,
They every houre do expect my falling;
With many a prayer and prognostication,
To shew their love not worthy revelation.
But what care I? to quit their good surmising,
I do desire fall may be their rising.
Which say should once be, as I hope twill never,
My hope is sure it shall not be for ever;
Or else, because I know it cannot be
Much lower than it is, it grieves not me.

And where they say, my wit augments my pride;
My conscience tells me that I am belide.
For, that poore dram which heaven on me bestowes,
Such lack (of what is yet more needfull) showes
That I am sad to think how much I come
Short of those gifts which are bestow'd on some:
And knowledge of that want doth grieve me so,
I have no joy to boast of that I know.

But let them scandall as I heare they do,
And see whose lot the shame will fall unto.
The shafts are aim'd at me, but I reject them,
And on the shooters may perhaps reflect them,
I care not for their envy, sith they show it;
Nor do I feare their malice now I know it.
For to prevent the venome of their throat,
I'le of their poyson make an Antidote:
And their presaging (though it be abuse)
I hope will serve me to an excellent use:
For, where before I should have took no heed,
Their words shall make mee circumspect indeed.

Yea, I will be more carefull to do well,
Which were a plague for them as bad as hell.

Some I do know, yea, too too well I know them,
And in this place do a remembrance owe them:
These men when through their envy they intend
To bring one out of favour with his friend,
Will make as though they some great vices knew
That he is guilty of, (and not a few)
They'l shake their heads as if they did detest
The course he follows; and that not in jest.

If to the Father they dispraise the Sonne,
It shall be slily indirectly done:
As thus; (I hope there's some will understand)
He lives, I tell you at a second hand.
Should I say all I know 'twould much offend you,
But more such children I pray God ne're send you.
With other words of doubt to breed suspition,
But dare not (being of a base condition)
To name them any fault: And good cause why,
It should be prov'd unto their shames a lie.
Now 'tis a quality I do despise,
As such an one doth him whom he envies;
If any therefore do that love professe me,
Lord, from their friendship I beseech thee blesse me.

Some crafty ones will honour to their face
Those whom they dare not openly disgrace;
Yet underhand their fames they'l undermine,
As lately did a seeming friend of mine.
They'l sow their slander as if they with griefe
Were forc'd to speak it: or that their beleefe
Were loth to credit it, when 'tis well known
That damn'd invention was at first their own.

Some do not care how grossely they dispraise,
Or how unlikely a report they raise;

Because they know if't be so false and ill
That one beleeves it not another will:
And so their envy very seldome failes,
But one way or another still prevailes.

Oh vilanous conceit! an engine bent
To overthrow the truest innocent:
For well they know when once a slander's sown,
And that a false report abroad is blown,
Though they would wipe it out yet they can never:
Because some scarre will stick behinde for ever.

But what is this that men are so inclinde
And subject to it? How may't be definde?
Sure if the same be rightly understood,
'Tis but a griefe that springs from others good.
Tormenting them when ever they heare tell
That other mens endevours prosper well;
It makes them grieve if any man be friended,
Or in their hearing praised or commended.
Contrariwise again, such is their spight,
In other mens misfortunes they delight;
Yea, notwithstanding it be not a whit
Vnto their profits or their benefit.
Others prosperity doth make them lean:
It nigh devoureth or consumes them clean:
But if they see them in much griefe, why that
Doth onely make them jocund, full, and fat.

Of kingdomes ruines they best love to heare,
And tragicall reports do onely cheere
Their hellish thoughts: and then their bleared eies
Can look on nothing but black infamies.
Reproachfull actions, and the foulest deeds
Of shame that mans corrupted nature breeds:
But they must wink when Vertue shineth bright,
For feare her lustre marre their weakened sight.

They do not love Encomiastick stories,
Nor books that shew their predecessors glories;
For good report to all men they denie,
And both the living and the dead envy:
Yea, many of them I do think had rather
Lose all good fame, than share it with their father.
The byting Satyre they do onely like,
And that at some particulars must strike,
Or all's worth nothing. If they can apply
Some part of this to him they do envy,
(As well perhaps they may) then they'l commend it:
And (spight of their ill natures) I that pend it
Shall have some thank. But why? not cause they deem
Me or my writing either worth esteem.
No, her's the reason they my labour like,
They think I mean him they suppose to strike.
So shall my well-meant lines become to be
A wrong to others, and a snare to me.
Heaven shield me frō such monsters; for their breath
Is worse than blasting, and their praise is death.
And let them finde no matter here, but what
May tend unto their glories whom they hate;
To make them either this ill Passion flie,
Or swoln with their own venome burst and die:
Foule Hag of Envy, let thy snakie Elves
Keep Hell with thee, and there torment themselves
Your poysond conversation fitteth men
For no society, but some grim den
Where nothing can be heard nor seen appeare,
But grones and sighes of misery and feare.
Who have you yet possest that pleased stood
With any private, or with publike good?

VVhat mans endeavours think you prosper should
If the event of things were as these would?

(None can resolve me that, for it's unknown)
Nor parents, no nor children, scarce their own:
(I say) their own hand-works are seldome free;
But subject to their proper envies be.

Witnesse a certain Rich-man who of late
Much pitying a neighbours wofull state,
Put to his helping hand and set him cleare
From all his former misery and feare.
But when he saw that through his thrift and heed,
He had well cur'd again his former need,
And grew to pretty means, though he no whit
Vnthankfull was for that his benefit:
Yet being of a nature that did long,
And joy to see anothers case go wrong,
Having no cause, but a repining now
That he once helpt him; all his studie's how
To ruinate the poore mans case again,
And make (through Envy) his own labour vain.

Oh, that a man should so from reason range,
Or entertain an humour that's so strange
And so unprofitable! Tell me, Why
Should we the honours or the wealth envy
Of other men? If we delight to see
Our brethren when in evill case they be,
Lets wish them riches, titles, and promotion,
'Twill make them greedy, proud, & choke devotion:
'Twill plunge them in a floud of misery,
In the respect of which, the beggery
We think so vile is heaven. Yea, I know
It is a thousand more mens overthrow
Than poverty can be. That if we hate,
Or would envy who are in happy state,
In my opinion they must not be such
That titles have attain'd, or to be rich:

But poore men rather, who are combred lesse,
And have indeed the truest happinesse.

But be they rich or poore I passe not whether,
For my part I am sure I envy neither.
So I but reach the glory I desire,
I do not care how many mount up higher:
And if I want not, what hurt is't to me
If I the poorest in the Kingdome be.
Yet from this Passion I beleeve not many
Can be exempted (if there may be any)
But sure more mischiefe alway doth betide
To th' envious, than to him that is envide;
And they have often (who would them bemoan?)
Lost both their eyes to lose their neighbour one.
Yea, there is many a perjur'd envious Noddy
Damnes his own soule to hurt his neighbours body,
But now such men may best by this be known,
They'l speak to no mans honour but their own.
And in their presence if you praise a man,
They'l from his worth detract ev'n all they can.
Such dogs as these are the detracting Momes,
And he whose eyes on each new Treatise romes,
To feed his humour by disgracing it,
More than for his delight or benefit.
But these most commonly do disalow
What they would mend thēselves if they knew how.

But what are they that keep the Criticks Court?
Not any doubtlesse of the wiser fort,
But such poore Pedants as would fain appeare
A great deal abler than indeed they are.
Yea, such as (when among the learn'd they chance)
Are often set by for their ignorance.
For, howsoever their insinuation
Hath gain'd a little vulgar reputation,

They are but Glow-worms that are brisk by night;
And never can be seen when Sun gives light.
Ill-tongu'd and envious, ignorant of shame;
And vile detractors of anothers fame:
But let them carp on what need any care,
Sith they are known for fools without compare?
But think, oh think to know and shun this evil,
This matchlesse inspiration of the Devill.
Remember 'tis a known apparant foe
To Charitie, and friendships overthrow:
A vicious humour that with hell acquaints,
And hinders the Communion of Saints.
Consider that, and how it makes unable
To be partaker of the holy Table.
Do so; survey your selves: and if you finde
Such guests within you, root them from your minde:
Banish that gnawing fury from your heart:
And as one wisely counsells, lay apart
Dissembling, Envy, Slander, Malice, Guile,
With evill-speaking, as most bad and vile;
In those men chiefly, whose Religion saith,
Her mainest Pillar is True-Love; next Faith.

Of Revenge.

Satyre 5.

Rome for Revenge; hee's no Comedian
That acts for pleasure, but a grim Tragedian?
A foul stern Monster, which if we displease him
Death, wounds, and bloud, or nothing can appease him.

This most inhumane Passion now and than
With violence and fury hurries Man
So far from that sweet mildnesse wherewith he,
Being himselfe, should ever temper'd be.
That Man nor Devill can we terme him well,
For part he hath of earth, and part of hell.
Yet this (so much of all good men disdain'd)
Many there are have rashly entertain'd
And hugged as a sweet contenting Passion,
Though in a various and unlikely fashion.

Some are so staid they can their purpose keep
Long time conceal'd, to make the wound more deep;
And these it is not heat of bloud that blinde,
But rather the fell canker of the minde.
Some by respect to time and place are staid,
And some again by nothing are alaid;
But them mad rage oft furiously will carry,
Without respect of Friends or Sanctuary.
Then some of them are fearfull, some are bolder:
Some are too hot, and some again are colder.
Oh, I have seen, and laught at heart to see't,
Some of our hot-spurs drawing in the street,
As though they could not Passions rage withstand,
But must betake them to it out of hand.
But why i'th street? Oh, company doth heart them,
And men may see their valourous acts and part them.

And yet that humour rather I commend,
Than theirs whose fury hath no stay nor end,
Till of their lives they have bereft their foes;
The onely way to both their overthrows.
Oh, poore revenge! behold, he thou hast slain,
Sleeping in rest, lies free from care and pain.
Death is the good mans refuge, which his God
Ordain'd to be his sorrows period.

And he, perhaps, thou in revenge didst slay,
Enjoyes more blisse than thou canst take away;
Whilst thou surviving feel'st the horrid smart
Of many thousand tortures in thy heart.
For say thou scape the rigor of the law,
Thy wounded conscience will have many a flaw;
Feares thou shalt passe by day, and then at night
Dreams all of terrour thy scar'd soule affright.
Orphanes and widowes curses thou shalt have
To bring thee with confusion to thy grave.
Which if in mercy God do shield thee from,
Iustice hath set this unavoided doom,
The plague of bloudshed on thy stock shall lie,
Till she be quit in thy posterity.
Poore world, if these thy best contentments be,
Seek bloud and vengeance you that list for me.
If this be sweet, heaven grant I may forgive,
And never seek for vengeance whil'st I live.

But now (me thinks) I heare our Hacsters tell me,
With thundring words as if their breath wold fell me,
I am a Coward if I will not fight.
True, Cavalieros, you have spoken right:
And if upon good termes you urge me to it,
I have both strength and heart enough to do it,
Which you should finde; yet minded am I still
(Though I am mov'd) to punish, not to kill.

Yet breathes there to my knowledge many a man,
That in his bloudy actions glory can;
He thinks it honour to be said that he
Was the destruction of some two or three.
A brave tall man I promise ye, and may
Take Tyburne for preferment in his way.
What poore renown is there is in such a deed,
For which a good mans heart would inly bleed?

What valour's in't sith a poore flie or gnat
Doth many times performe as much as that?
But I perceive the chiefest cause of this,
Th' opinion of the rascall Vulgar is.
They puffe men up with their infectious breath,
Till swoln it break out to their shame, or death.
But though they think that he which kills his foe
Is most couragious, Reason tells them no:
For he that hath a heart that fact to doe
Is both a Tyrant and a Coward too.
But how is he a Coward (some will say)
That takes in fight anothers life away?
Thus he is one: He having by his might
A power on him with whom he haps to fight,
Thinks if he spare his life in such a case,
He one day may revenge his foule disgrace;
And that with feare of future dangers fills him,
Which to prevent, he like a Coward kills him.
Yet those whose present safety cannot be
Without the ruine of their enemy,
Blamelesse I count, fith nature gives us way,
Things violent by violence to stay.
Yet thou what e're thou be that hast a foe,
Seek not to be his wilfull ouerthrow.
Sith life's a matter of the greatest weight;
If there be any way though ne're so straight,
Whereby thou maist from such an act be free,
Part not such friends as Soule and Body be.
Rather if't may be, keep him living still,
For foes oft prove a necessary ill.
And for thy mercy thou shalt one day finde
Much comfort and contentment in thy minde.

Foes I have some, whose lives I do not grutch,
For they have done me service very much,

And will do still. These wheresoe'er I go,
Do make me carefull what I speak or doe:
And if I step aside have so much grace,
To tell me all my folly to my face:
Whereas my friend, till I were quite undone,
VVould let me still in my old vainnesse run.
Or, if he warne me, it is so in sport.
That I am scarce a whit the better for't.
But this good-evill few of us can use,
For we do better things than these abuse.
Mans natur's ill, and I have noted this,
If we upbraided be with what's amisse,
We cannot brook it, but are readier still
To hate them that reprove, than mende what's ill:
Nay, to the mildest sort men know not how
To speak their mindes without exceptions now:
We must not our mad lusty-blouds gain-say,
No, not so much as in a yea, or nay;
But presently we die for't, (if we will)
They have both hand and heart prepar'd to kill.
Let them but thinke a man to them injurious,
Although he be not so, they'l straight grow furious,
And are so quickly up in a Bravado,
They are for nothing but the Imbrocado:
And in this humor they respect not whether
They be unto them friends or foes or neither;
All are alike and their hot Choler ends
Not onely love and friendship but their friends.

I know twere vaine if I should tell to these
The peacefull minde of ancient Socrates:
Or if I should Lycurgus vengeance show,
How he behav'd himselfe unto his foe.
'Twere but much labour lost; forthere's no doubt
Our Bedlam Gallants would but grin and flout

At their well-temper'd passions, sith they deem
Nought but their brainlesse humours worth esteem.
The small discretion that doth guide this age,
Hath left them so to their unbridled rage
That men most foolish desperate, who care
For nought, but little wit enough to dare
Some beast-like combate (without lawfull ground)
Are now the onely men that are renown'd
Amongst the vulgar. And forsooth, to gain
A little fame that way, though ne'er so vain,
They'l put their lives in danger: nay, there's some
Had rather have it than the life to come.

Alas, poore men, what hath bewitch't your mind?
How are you grown so senselesse and so blinde,
Thus to affect vain shadows, and let slide
The truer substance as a thing unspi'd?
Is Reason in you grown so great a stranger,
To suffer an affection of such danger,
To settle in you? Banish't from your brest,
And there let mercy and forgivenesse rest;
It is a token of a humane mildenesse:
But vengeance is a signe of Brutish wildenesse,
Not fitting any but the Tyger, Beare,
Or such like creatures that remorselesse teare
What ere they light on. Cast it from you then,
Be in condition, as in shape ye'are Men,
And stand unmov'd, for innocence ere long,
Will shew herselfe abroad in spight of wrong:
When of your patience you shall not repent,
But be avenged to your own content.

Yet some may say, the counsell I have given,
Is hard to follow, strict, and too uneven;
And whatsoever show I seem to make,
Such as my selfe would hardly undertake.

Know you that think so, I am not afraid,
If that it be a burthen I have laid
To bear't my selfe; nay, I have undergone,
If this be hard, a more uneasie one.
For, but of late a friend of mine in show,
Being (indeed) a spightfull secret foe;
I know not why, (for I did ne're in ought
Wrong him so much as in a word or thought)
Yet this man having wisely watcht his time,
When I (a stranger in another Clime)
Left mine own Countrey: did mean while repaire
To my best friends, and with dissemblings faire,
And shows of love and griefe, did there unfold
The grossest slander ever villain told.
A damn'd invention, so exceeding vile,
That Gallants, 'twould have made your bloud to boil
And out of your abused bodies start,
I know it would have broken veins or heart.
If you had felt that tongues envenom'd sting,
You would have fret, fum'd, stampt, done any thing,
Or angry, rag'd, like mad-men in your fit,
Till mercilesse revenge had quenched it.
And what did I? At first I must confesse,
I was extreamly mov'd, who could be lesse?
But when I felt my troubled thoughts begin
To joyne with brutish Passion's force within,
And raise disquiet humours in my breast,
I fear'd if I should yeeld 'twould mar my rest.
And therefore to my selfe I patience took,
Which, whilst I have about me, I can brook
Any misfortune. Then that patience
Grew so much stronger through my innocence,
That I, as much as flesh and bloud could do,
Forgot both injurie and vengeance too.

Yet might I wanted not to do him ill;
All the defect that was, was in my will.
It is well known the Coward dares not stand,
T'abide the Vengeance of my wronged hand,
Were his strength tripled: nay, were I in bands
Of impotencie wrapt and had no hands.
Yet I have friends (whom if I had not prai'd,
And beg'd unto to have their fury stai'd)
Had heapt confusion on him for my sake.
Yea I am halfe perswaded he would quake
A twelve-moneth after; had he but the daring
To thinke upon the Vengeance was preparing
For that lewd slanderous tale of his which he
Aswell might raise on one unborne, as me.

But when that course my Reason did gaine-say,
I was allow'd Revenge a better way.
Both Law and Iustice profer'd me the scourge,
To whip him for it: which though friends did urge,
(Shewing me motives to allure me to it)
Yet was I much unwilling still to doe it:
For though I might (beside submission) gaine
No little summes, my heart doth much disdaine
To adde unto my substance through his shame;
Or raise it with the ruine of his fame.
Yet cause perhaps there's some may thinke I faine,
Or speake a matter fram'd out of my braine:
Know; this backe-biter lives and may doe long
To doe me more, and many others wrong.
And but that I am loth to staine my Verse,
The name of such a Monster to rehearse;
For others satisfaction (to disgrace it)
Vpon the Margent here my pen should place it.
Yet that perhaps would Vengeance counted be,
For that would never be reveng'd by me.

Nor had I thus much said but to make knowne,
So truly these opinions are mine owne,
That I doe wish no other men unto,
More then I gladly of my selfe would doe.
Thus was I wronged and I thus withstood
My own mad Passion in the heat of bloud:
Yet thinke my selfe in as good case as those,
That have reveng'd themselves with stabs and blows.

In my opinion it is now as well
As if that I should pack his soule to hell
With danger of mine owne, and here remaine
To grieve and wish he were alive againe;
Nay, now 'tis best, for why? he may repent,
Whil'st I with a safe conscience live content.

But grant that some misdeem'd my innocence,
(Because they saw that I with Patience
Endur'd the wrong) by thinking I did know
Myselfe in fault because I tooke it so:
What's that to me? Indeed if all my care,
But to make shew of what I should be were,
I might be much displeased when I see
Men thinke me not, what I would seeme to be.
But he whose onely aime is Vertues path,
And that true aime by his endeavour hath
(Which God grant me) so much sweet comfort gains
Within his conscience, that he nought complaines
Of Mens opinions; but above them borne,
Doth both their censures and supposings scorne.
And why should I doe lesse who never weigh'd
My innocence by that which others said?
Whether I patient were, or storm'd at it
It quits me of the slander ne'er awhit.

He that condemnes my milde and gentle course,
May in his wisdome light upon a worse.

I must confesse I let his errour passe;
Nor have I done amisse; for say an Asse
Had struck me with his heels; how should I quit
The harme he doth me? You would blame my wit
If I should kill him. If I went to law
Who would not count me the most Asse? a Daw,
Or worst of fools? And pray, what were I lesse
If I had don't to his unworthinesse?
One that's so ignorant of his offence,
He seems as if hee had no spark nor sense
Of understanding: one, whom if I touch,
Or offer to lay hands on, tis as much
As if I in my anger would begin
To break the stool that erst had broke my shin.

In this and that I found the cause was one,
And therefore did I let revenge alone:
Onely I mark't him (for this cause indeed)
That other men might (knowing him) take heed;
And he himselfe, with a repining shame,
Reading his follies Emblem in his name,
Might grieve he did into that errour run.
Which hoping he by this time now hath done,
I cease to brand him, and forgive him too:
Others might thus by my example do.

But to thy task my Muse, for there remain
Mad humours many more yet to explain;
Such as are theirs who use to take in hand
A lawlesse pilgrimage to Calice sand;
And think if they by tricks can blinde the Law,
Of God they never need to stand in awe.
These onely deale in blows. But there be other
Who their revengefull mindes as ill can smother;
Yet cause they have not hearts to deale with swords,
Like valiant Champions fight it out with words.

Such fraies have made me oftentimes to smile,
And yet they prove shrewd combates other-while:
For from such brawls do sudden stabs arise,
And sometimes in revenge the quart-pot flies;
Ioyn'd-stools and glasses make a bustling rumour,
Yea, this is grown a Gentle-man-like humour.
But in my minde he that so well can fight,
Deserveth to be dub'd an Alchouse-knight.

Is't not a shame that men should at their meeting
Welcome each other with a friendly greeting,
As I have seen, and yet before they part,
Bandy their swords at one anothers heart?
Wondrous inhumane! Oh, the savage Bore,
Or wilde Armenian herds can do no more:
But such beleeve not it is God hath said,
Vengeance is mine and I will see't repaid.
For if they did they would not dare to be
Such carvers for themselves as now we see.

No good remaines, if long this fit endure,
Friendship is quite extinguished: and sure
The Devill doth so much possesse them than,
They have no honest thought of God or man:
Which you may note, if you do ever see
Two hare-brain Ruffians when at ods they be,
All th' ones ambition is the others fall,
Without compassion or respect at all.
Which fury so unlimited doth prove,
They have to man-ward not a sparke of love:
Nor no regard of God shall you espie,
If you observe their damned blasphemy,
When Standers by would stop their bloudy will;
Stark mad with rage, the heav'ns wide eares they fill
With horrid, bloudy, fearefull cannon-oathes,
Such as no honest Christian man but loathes

Almost to heare them nam'd. Yea seeme to teare
Christs man-hood peece-meale from him when they sweare
For foote, heart, nailes, still using God withall
Their fowle-mouth'd-rackets, like a tennis-ball
Doe bandy to and fro: His bloud and wounds,
Adde to their hellish bravings such strange sounds,
As if the powers of heaven they did contemne,
And meant in this wilde fit to challenge them.

Oh base proud clay! who by their deeds can gather
These men beleeve a power above, but rather
That they are viler than the brutest creature:
For that is taught more reverence by nature.
But these bold Champions dare him: yea when they
Cannot have Vengeance their desired way
(As if they scorn'd the threatning of his rod)
Thus thinke they to avenge themselves on God;
Who were he not as mercifull as just,
Might with a blast consume them into dust.

Of Choler.

Satyre 6.

Bvt now the cause of mans Revengefull thirst
Proceeds from rash unbridled Choler first:
Which Passion flowes from imbecility,
And bring us unto much absurdity:
Yea, those that are infected with this crime,
Are (in a manner) mad-men for the time.
'Tis a short Fury, wherewith man possest,
Resembles most a wilde untamed beast.

It makes the wisest so beside their wit,
They speake and practise many a thing unfit:
Yea, those in whom I finde this Passion raigne,
I have oft seene to storme for things but vaine;
And chasing fret at poore halfe-penny losses,
As if for some intolerable crosses.
In a slight trifle or some flender toy,
You would suppose consisted all their joy:
For should a wise man every sorrow prove
This world could heape, it would not so much move
His setled patience as one Rascall fit
Would on no ground in these distemper it.

There is this weakenesse, which in Cholerick men,
I have observed raigning now, and then,
They are not onely ready to beleeve
The least report that may occasion give
Of discontents; but so doth anger blinde them,
As, if no causes be, they'l seeke to finde them,
And (in light matters, if they should contend)
Would pick a quarrell with their dearest friend.

Yea, I have seen where friends, (nay more) where brothers
That be, or should be, dearer far than others,
Have in their heat of anger, turned foes,
And mixed strange words with far sharper blowes.
Nor doe, nor can they in this humour spare
Any degree. For reverence nor care
Doth them remaine; although they be most sure
Their heedlesse words not foes alone procure,
But lose their friends: nor doe they in that case,
Respect the time, nor company, nor place.

Besides, there is this over-sight in some
(Where Choler doth the Reason overcome)
They doe not onely blame him that offends,
But are displeas'd even with their dearest friends;

And with the like displeasure do pursue
All that are in their presence or their view.
Yet if that any should but tell these men
Such anger were without just reason, then,
Although it be so, and they know it right.
Their fury would the more increase with spight:
They cannot bear controule; neither can they
Brook him ought better that doth nothing say;
For then indeed they presently suspect,
He carelesly their anger doth neglect.

Some Masters and some Tutors I espie
Too much orecome with this infirmity.
They are so hot and confident in this,
That all their anger still with reason is:
As if they think their servants do offend,
They must not their suspected crimes defend,
Guilty or no; but yeeld to all they say
What-ever shame or wrong betide them may.
And so be sure to make it an offence,
Though but by wronging their own innocence,
Which is meer tyranny. And he that can
Force to such slavery the minde of man,
By my opinion shall for ever passe
For an imperious, foolish, wayward Asse,
Who looks so much what duty others owe,
That he himselfe doth scarcely manners know.

This Anger is a wondrous head-strong Passion,
And hath a beastly frantick operation;
From which how can we any man release,
When we must neither speak nor hold our peace?

Some will be angry if they cannot make
All others their opinions undertake.
But let them keep from me, or I should chaufe them,
For out of that fond humour I would laugh them.

Others have meanings but they cannot show them.
And therefore fret at all that do not know them.
And I have seene (that anger may be holy)
A good man moved for anothers folly.

The hurt that through this Passion doth ensue
Is great although observ'd by very few.
For that which hath ensu'd on one mans spleene,
The ruine of a State hath often beene.
And therefore (though I none excuse the while,)
I hold it much lesse seemely and more vile
In men authoriz'd, than in those that be
Borne to a lower fortune or degree,
For, when this fit possesseth private men,
They trouble but themselves; or now and then
Their private families: when if it ceaze
On eminent and mighty personages.
It doth distemper thousands and thereby
Whole Provinces do oft oppressed lye.
In my opinion, hee's unfit to weeld
The sword of Iustice, that doth basely yeeld
To such a brutish Passion: howsoe'er
In other things he most sufficient were:
Though some in places of esteeme there be,
Whom therewith strangely overcome we see.

Oh why should they to governe others fit
Who know not how to rule themselves as yet?
The angry and incensed Magistrate,
On them to be aveng'd whom he doth hate
For private causes, drawes the publike sword;
And all extremity the Lawes afford
He makes to serve his rage. And if that faile,
Hee'l straine his conscience, but he will prevaile.

But divers thinke, that such as hasty be,
(For so they title this infirmitie)

Best-natur'd are. But yet I see not how,
I that Position may for truth allow.
For, (whosoere 'twas first that saying taught)
If they are best, I'le sweare the best is naught.
Moreover, there be many doe suppose,
It is a signe of courage. What meane those?
Where is their judgment? they me thinks should gather
That it were weakenesse did produce it rather:
Or else, why should the feeble and the sick,
Women and Children be most cholerick?

Againe, there's some whose judgement is as rude
As to suppose it quickens Fortitude.
Which cannot be; for they must grant me then,
That Vice, assist to perfect Vertue can:
Which I cannot beleeve nor come to see
How fortitude and anger can agree.
For one a resolution is that's steady,
And rul'd by reason, th' other rash and heady:
Yea, th' one doth nothing but on consultation,
The other cannot take deliberation,
But head-long unadvisedly doth tend,
Till it in sorrow, shame or ruine end.
And though some thence much help would seeme gather
To whet true valour on; it hinders rather:
Yea so unreasonable is this Passion,
It overthrowes in man all seemely fashion;
Making him speake if ought but discontent him,
Yea doe the thing of which he shall repent him:
And such a dangerous kinde of Lunatick
Is he who useth to be Cholerick
That of a friend if I might chuser be,
I'd rather have a man that's mad than he.
Yet men doe rarely seeke to stop this ill
But as they grow in yeares, that groweth still.

As if it were a humour whence could rise,
Not any thing which them might prejudice.
And they so yeeld themselves to the invasion
Of this strange frenzy on the least occasion:
That when they thinke the fury to suppresse
Of this disease, they can doe nothing lesse.
For he that will a certaine med'cine finde
For such a malady must have a minde
Setled in good, and an unfain'd intent
To prosecute what he in shew hath meant.

Light trust he must not give to all reports,
Nor take too much delight in idle sports.
On toyes his love should never so be set,
To make him for their absence grieve or fret.
He must be wary still, not to adore
Treasure or Honours (heapt upon him) more
Than will befit such things as needs must perish,
For oft that folly doth this Passion cherish.
Let Dogs, nor Hawkes, nor any pleasure move,
But as it doth indifferent things behooue.
At no time let him rashly speake or doe,
What selfe-conceit doth urge or prompt him to,
And not alone this my advice embrace,
But learne of Cotis, that wise King of Thrace,
Who having many precious vessels sent
Of britle metall (fearing discontent)
Might for their losse another day arise
The Messenger he richly gratifies;
And then before his face against the stones
Dashes the costly present for the nones:
To shew that those, who angers flames would hinder
Must first remove the Fuell and the Tinder.

Of Iealousie.

Satyre VII.

Bvt though these angrie ones soon bread a braul,
And are pernicious to converse withall;
Not one jot better is the jealous head,
That ever seares his wife hath wrong'd his bed.

Sometime this Passion (as it may appeare)
Proceeds out of a too much love, with feare,
Sometime again the mischiefe doth arise,
When he that worth in his beloved spies,
Is forced that deserving to confesse,
And privy to a selfe-unworthinesse.
Which is indeed the cause that brings the smart
Of Iealousie upon the greatest part.

The first is seldomest, and it is sent
Of God, as a peculiar punishment
To those who do the creature so affect,
As thereby their Creatour they neglect.
Love is the highest and the noblest blisse.
That for mankinde on earth ordained is:
But when true measure it exceeds, and gets
Beyond the decent bounds that reason sets,
God turnes it to a plague, whereby he will
Shew them their folly, and correct the ill.
He adds, a feare of losing of their joy
In that they love: which quickly doth destroy

All their delight; and strewing good with ill,
Makes things seem lost though they are with thē still

Thus doth it oftentimes with that man prove
Who keeps not moderation in his love.
He having got a wife not onely faire,
But modest, honest, wise and debonaire,
At first so wondrous meritorious deems her,
As worthy all affection he esteems her,
And waxeth so assur'd hee dares be bold
She will not be allur'd to ill by gold,
Honour, nor beauty: but as she is chast,
So is perswaded will be to the last.
And to himselfe so well doth seem to thrive,
He thinks his own the happiest choise alive.
All which is good, and if no more I tell,
You cannot say wherein he doth not well:
But there he doth not his affection stay,
Further it tends, and further it will stray
This man not having learned to possesse
With temperance so great a happinesse;
Oft his affections grow to that extreame,
As well he knows not if he wake or dreame,
Then doth his Love, (such love will ever do it)
For a Companion take in Feare unto it.
A feare of losing what he loves so much:
And then the nature of this feare is such,
That it begets suspect; which creeping in,
Doth by a little at the first begin
To make him doubt his Spouse may loosely live.
But then her well-known vertuous minde doth give
Such blamelesse testimony of her good,
As that surmise is for a time withstood,
Till this disease upon him growes more strong,
Then he begins to think she doth him wrong:

Which if he doe, that one false thought's enough
To give all former truthes the overthrow.
And why? Suspect grows thereupon so great,
She thrusts true judgment quite besides her seat.
Which being done, then straight begins to wane
The good conceit he of his blisse had tane:
His onely labour's how to bring't about,
To be assur'd of what he seeketh out.
A Cuckold he esteemes himselfe, and he
Were e'en as good indeed a Cuckold be:
Nay, rather than he'll be deceiv'd, the elfe
Will try to make a Cuckold of himselfe.
In borrowed shapes to bed her he will trie;
Sometimes he courts her by a deputy:
And if all fail to tempt her unto ill;
Yet, he remains himselfe a Coxcombe still.
For if his friend do to his house repaire,
He thinks tis onely 'cause his wise is fair:
Or if a stranger come he'le pawn his life
All his intent is to corrupt his wife:
Yea, though the businesse to himselfe he finde,
He thinks 'tis but a Hood to keep him blinde.

Thus all the sweet he had is turn'd to sowre,
Fain would he think well, but hath not the power;
Much care torments his heart, and yet he will
Be prying farther to increase it still:
Yea, he will seek, although he truly know,
The more he seeks, the more he findes his woe.

Besides, Suspect reviveth in the head
All things that may be mis-interpreted;
And the best thought her vertue's like to win
Is onely this; It serv'd to cloak her sinne.
In briefe, his former love he marreth quite,
And there he loathes, where once he took delight

But wherefore? onely 'cause he doth mistrust,
And not on any proofe that shee's unjust.

Vnhappy man, thus thy ill nature shall
Convert the hony of thy life to gall.
And haplesse woman she that comes to wed
So meere a sot, and such a jealous head;
An Owl-ey'd buzzard that by day is blinde,
And sees not things apparant, yet can finde
That out which never was. The feare to lose
The jewell he above all gemmes did choose;
That feare, I say, of wit doth so bereave him,
He thinks that's gone which means not yet to leave him.
Oh, foolish man, that having gain'd a blisse,
Dost make't a curse, by using it amisse;
If judgment be not blinded in thee, look;
Try if thou hast not all this while mistook:
Is not thy wife still faire? and to the eye
Seems she not yet to have that modesty
Thou didst commend her for? Is she not wary
With whom she walks, or speaks, or where to tarry:
Is she not still as carefull how to please;
As loving too as in her former daies?
In shew he sees it, but he thinks 'tis fein'd.
Out blockish dolt that art most justly pain'd:
Thou but a few supposed shadows hast
That makes thee to account thy wife unchast;
But many firme substantiall proofes make cleare
That shee's unstain'd, and ought to be as deare
As e're she was: Why then should faults in thee
Make her seeme evill untill such she be?

A woman that is faire shall much be view'd,
And have perhaps unlook't-for favours shew'd.
She shall be courted wher'er she will or no;
Nay, be resorted to: and though she show

Scarcely so much as common courtesies,
Shee shall be censur'd by mis-judging eyes,
And false reports will flie: But what of this?
Wilt thou that hast had triall what she is,
And never knewst her erre, wilt thou, I say,
Cast all the good conceit thou hadst away,
And straight grow jealous, trusting the surmise
Of the lew'd Vulgar more than thine own eies?
It were mad folly; and yet I do know
Some that are thus besotted: more's their wo.
And pitty 'twere but they had horned him,
Wer't not a greater pitty so to sinne.

Should you but sit with such an one at table,
To hold from laughter you were scarcely able,
To see what note the jealous Woodcock takes
Of his wives words, and every look she makes;
In what a feare he eats his meat, and drinks,
What signes he uses, how he nods and winks,
With twenty scurvy gestures, though he see
No reason he should so suspicious be.
Now some have cause enough, and I beleeve
Such seem to have a colour why they grieve.
But yet ther's no just reason any one
Should over-strive to hold what will be gone,
Vexing himselfe so for anothers ill,
Which he can never help. Let him that will.
This I know true, to seek much to restrain
A womans will, is labour spent in vain;
And he that tries to do it might have bin
One of the Crew that bedg'd the Cuckow in.
Why should a man go put himselfe to pain,
As some have done, a businesse to fain?
And then at night come lurk about his house,
Where be it but the stirring of a Mouse

He doth observe it: Wherefore doth he so?
Since, if thereby he ought amisse do know,
The greatest good that he shall hereby finde,
Is more vexation to molest his minde:
For then the mischiefe he but fear'd before,
Hee's certain of, and need not doubt it more.
A goodly meed: but sure those wretched elves,
Take pleasure in tormenting of themselves.
They hearken, watch, set spies, and alway long
To heare some tales or inkling of their wrong.
And he that can but whisper some such fable,
Shall be the welcom'st guest that sits at table.
(Though it be ne'er so false) they love so well
To feel the torture of this earthly hell.
But I do muse what Devill keeps their heart,
They should affect the causes of their smart;
Those ever-buzzing-deadly-stinging flies;
Those that of Ecchoes onely can devise
A slander 'gainst thy selfe. What e're they say,
Thy love from her thou must not draw away
On bare reports. Thou must behold the crime,
Or keep her as thy best belov'd her time.
Better or worse, thou surely must abide her,
Till from thy selfe the death of One divide her.
Then tell me, were it not (by much) lesse pain
A good opinion of her to retain?
Could'st thou not be contented by thy will,
At least to think that she were honest still?
Yes, in thy heart I know thou would'st be glad,
Vnlesse that thou wert void of sense, or mad.
Why, shake off all these claw-backs then that use
Thy soon-beleeving nature to abuse;
For (trust me) they are but some spightfull elves,
Who 'cause they have not the like blisse themselves,

Would fain mar thine; or else I dare be bold,
If thou the truth couldst warily unfold,
They are some lust-stung Villaines that did court
Thy honest wife to some unlawfull sport:
And finding her too chast to serve their turne,
Whose evill hearts with foule desires did burne;
To spight her (being farre more evill doers
Than Daniels Elders, faire Susanna's wooers)
To thee they do accuse her of an ill,
Whereto they labour'd to allure her will.

Let me advise thee then, what e're he be
That of such dealings first informeth thee.
Believe him not what proofes soe're he bring,
Do not give eare to him for any thing:
And though he be the nearest friend thou hast,
From such like knowledge shut all sense up fast;
Flie and avoid him as thou wouldst the Devill,
Or one that brings thee messages of evill.
Let him be to thee as thy deadliest foe,
A Fury, or some one thou loath'st to know.
And be assured, whatsoe'er he shewes,
He is no friend of thine that brings that newes;
Sith if that thou wert his most deadly foe;
For any wrong it were revenge enough.

Now some men I have noted love as well
The husbands faults unto the wife to tell,
And aggravate them too: as if thereby
They either meant to feed their jealousie,
Or else stir up their unbeseeming hates,
Against their guiltlesse welbeloved mates.
But of these monsters (fairest Sex) beware,
Of their insinuations have a care:
Beleeve them not, they will coyne tales untrue,
To sow foule strife betwixt your loves and you

Out of ill-will: or else here is my doome,
They hope to get into your husbands roome,
Through the advantage of the discontent
They would work in you. But this their intent
They'l so disguise, that you shall never spie it,
Till you are snar'd too surely to deny it.

But oh! consider you, whose excellence
Had reasonable once for difference,
This Passion well: if ill your Spouses do,
Amend your selves, and they'l grow better too.
Look not upon them with o'er-blinded eyes,
Nor grieve you them with causelesse jealousies:
For most of them have ever this condition,
Though they are bad they cannot brook suspition.
Strive not with them too much. For as the Powder
Being fast stopt, makes the report the louder,
Sending the bullet with the greater force:
So he that seeks to barre a womans course,
Makes her more eager, and can ne'er out-strive her,
But on she will because the Devill doth drive her.

Let those then that thus matched are, begin
By love and gentle means their wives to win.
And though no hope they see, yet patience take,
So there is none shall know their heads do ake.
And let all wary be that no surmises,
Or flying tale some envious head devises,
Make them to wrong their chast and modest wives,
Who have with vertue led unspotted lives:
For though they stand unmov'd, yet that's the way
To make a woman soonest go astray.
And so I will conclude these jealous humours,
Which part I found b'experience, part by rumours;
I feel it not, yet know it is a smart
That plagues the minde, and doth torment the heart.

And I could wish but for the others sake,
Their thoughts-tormenting-pain might never slake:
For, none's so jealous, I durst pawn my life,
As he that hath defil'd anothers wife.

Of Covetousnes.

Satyre 8.

Bvt how mist I of Avarice to tell,
Whose longing is as infinite as hell?
There is no Passion that's more vile or base,
And yet as common as to have a face,
I muse it scap't so long, for I'le be plain,
I no where look but there I see it reigne.
In all this spacious Round I know so few
That can this slavish dung-hill vice eschew;
I neither will excuse sex nor degree,
Young folks, nor such as middle-aged be.
Nay, I perceive them given most to crave,
When they had need to dig themselves a grave.
Like earth-bred Moles still scrambling in the dust,
Not for the treasure that shall never rust,
But for vile cankred drosse is all their care,
As if the same their Summum bonum were:
When all that they have with their labour bought
(If well consider'd) is not worth a thought.

I have known Chuffes, that having well to live,
Sufficient also both to lend and give,
Yet nathelesse, toyl, moyl, and take more pain
Than a Iews bond-slave, or a Moore in Spain.

All day they brook the rain, hail, frost and snow,
And then, as if they had not drudg'd enough,
They lie and think all night with care and sorrow,
How they may take as little rest to morrow.
'Tis strange their mindes so much for gold doth itch,
And being gotten, that it should bewitch:
For 'tis by nature in a prison pent,
Vnder our feet i'th basest Element:
And should wee pluck't from dungeon, filth, & mire,
To giv't the chiefest seat in our desire?
'Twere want of judgment; which brave spirits know,
Counting it base with those that prize it so.

I've heard those say that travell to the West
Whence this beloved metall is encreast,
That in the places where such Minerals be,
Is neither grasse, nor herbe, nor plant, nor tree.
And like enough; for this at home I finde
Those who too earnestly employ the minde
About that trash, have hearts (I dare uphold)
As barren as the place where men dig gold.

This humour hath no bounds; 'tis a desire
(Or disease rather) nothing can expire:
'Tis hell, for had it all the world, why yet
'Twould long as much as if't had ne'er awhit;
And I with pitty do lament their pain
Who have this never-quenched thirst of gain;
This ever-gaping whirle-poole, that receives
Still, yet the selfe-same roome still empty leaves.

Hee's mad that food to such a Vulture gives
That's never full: and ev'n as good fill sives.
Or vessells bottomlesse, as still endeavour
To gorge a Monster that will hunger ever.
All that men can perform will be in vain,
And longing will for evermore remain.

Like those foule issues that must still have vent,
Till strength of nature and the life be spent.
It makes men tire themselves like him that drinks
Brine, or salt-water, and still thereby thinks
To slake his thirst, although he feel it more
Augmented at each draught than 'twas before.
Yea, wealth doth as much lessen this desire
Of Avarice in men, as flames of fire
Alay the heat: Besides, though they have store,
This makes them to themselves exceeding poore.
And howsoever they may seem, yet such
Vntill their dying-day are never rich.
They very seldome have respect or care
To promise or religion: they'l not spare
To wrong their neighbour, friend, or God himselfe,
Thereby to adde unto their cursed pelfe.

They neither reverence the right of laws;
Nor are they touched with the poore mans cause.
They could be well content to shed their blouds,
Lose soule and heaven but to save their goods.
To talk to them of better things twere vain,
For they are onely capable of gain.
They never live in true society,
Nor know they friendship, love, or piety.
And in a word those that are thereby led
Never do good till they be sick or dead.
And therfore with those vermine we may place them
That serve us to no use till wee uncase them.
And I've observ'd that such mens children be
Borne many times to greatest miserie.
For they have neither meanes nor education
According to their kindred, state, or nation;
Whereby we see that they do often run
Into vile actions, and are quite undone.

And then perhaps the Parent grieves at this,
But ne'er considers that his fault it is.

'Tis greedinesse that makes a man a slave
To that which for his servant he should have:
And teaches him oft to esteem of more
The vicious Rich-man, than the honest-poore.

How many in the world now could I name
Injurious villaines; that but to defame
Or spight their neighbour, would their God forswear
As if they thought that no damnation were?
(Provided when they thus their conscience strain
It be out of a hatred, or for gain.)
Yea, there be idle theeving drones a many,
That have no vertue (nor will ne'er have any)
That for their wealth shall highly be respected,
When honest men (their betters) are neglected:
And then we also see that most men do
Impose such worthy titles on them too,
That such base scums shall oft intreated be
With, Good your worship, and with cap and knee.

But sure the world is now become a gull
To think such scoundrels can be worshipfull.
For in these dayes, if men have gotten riches,
Though they be Hangmen, Vsurers, or Witches,
Devils-incarnate, such as have no shame
To act the thing that I should blush to name;
Doth that disgrace them any whit? Fie no;
The world ne'er meant to use her Minions so.
There is no shame for Rich-men in these times,
For wealth will serve to cover any crimes.
Wert thou a Crook-back't Dwarfe, deform'd in shape
Thyrsites-like, condition'd like an Ape;
Did'st never do a deed a good man ought,
Nor spake true word, nor hadst an honest thought;

If thou be rich, and hap to disagree
With one that's poore, although indeed he be
In every part a man; and hath a spirit
That's truly noble, worthy well to merit
Ev'n praise of Envy; yet if thou wilt seem
A man far worthier, and of more esteem,
Although thou canst invent no means to blame him,
Yet I can tell a trick how thou shalt shame him:
And that's but this, Report that he is poore,
And there is no way to disgrace him more.
For, so this Passion doth mens judgment blinde,
That him in whom they most perfection finde,
If so he be not rich they count him base;
And oft hee's fain to give a Villain place.

Moreover, the desire to gain this pelfe,
Makes many a brave man to forget himselfe.
Some I have known that for their worthy parts,
Their vertue and their skill in many Arts,
Deserved honour; and (if any can
Iudge by the outward look the inward man)
They to command mē (you would think) were born,
And seem'd a slavish servitude to scorn,
Yet have I seen when such as these (alas!)
In hope of gain have croucht unto an Asse;
Observ'd a Dolt, and much debas'd their merits
To men of vulgar and ignoble spirits.

How many of our finest wits have spent
Their times and studies in meere complement;
Greasing with praises many a fat-fed Bore,
Of whom the world hath thought too well before?
How many now that follow'd Mars his troop,
Whom force of death could never make to stoop?
How many also of our great Divines,
That should seek treasure not in earthly mines,

Descend to basenesse and against the haire
(As goes the common Proverb) can speake faire?
Flatter for gaine and humour such base groomes
As are not wovthy of their horse-boyes roomes?
They wrong themselves: but those are counted wise
That now adaies know how to temporize.
Yet I abhorr'd it ever and I vow;
Ere I to any golden Calfe will bow,
Flatter against my conscience, or else smother
What were to be reveal'd to please another:
Ere I for gaine would fawne upon a Clowne,
Or feed Great fooles with tales of the renowne
Of their reputed fathers, when (God mend them)
Themselves have nothing why we should commend them:
Or e're I'd coine a lie be't ne'er so small,
For e'er a bragging Thraso of them all
In hope of profit: I'd give up my play,
Begin to labor for a groat a day;
In no more cloathing than a mantle goe;
And feed on Sham-rootes, as the Irish doe.
For what contentment can in riches be,
Vnlesse the body and the minde be free?

But tush: what's freedome look where gold beares sway,
It takes all care of what is fit away;
Corrupts the Iudgement and can make the lawes
Oft-times to favour an ungodly cause.

Moreover, worldly men doe so affect,
Where wealth abounds, and beare so much respect
To those that have it, that their vice they deeme
To be a vertue, and so make it seeme.
For, say they use extortion, no men more,
Vndoe their Country, hurt and wrong the poore,
Be such damn'd Vsurers, they keepe a house
That yeelds not crummes enough to feed a Mouse;

Yet they'l not say they are covetous; oh no,
But thrifty and good wary men, or so.

Another though in pride he doth excell;
Be more ambitious than the Prince of Hell;
If his apparell be in part like us,
Italian, Spanish, French and Barbarous;
Although it be of twenty severall fashions,
All borrowed from as many severall Nations;
Yet hee's not vaine nor proud; What is he then?
Marry a proper, fine, neat Gentleman.

Or if there be a Ruffian that can swagger,
Make strange brauadoes, weare an Ale-house-dagger,
Instead of valour, quarrelling professe,
Turne Hospitality to lewd excesse;
Quaffe Soule-sicke healths untill his eies doe stare,
Sing baudy Songs and Rounds, and curse and sweare;
Though he use gaming, as the Cards and Dice,
So out of measure that hee mak't a vice;
Convert his house into a loathsome stewes,
Keep whores and knaves and baudes (and that's no newes)
Yet if he be a rich man, what is he?
A rude ranke Ruffian, if he aske of me.
A Ruffian? Gup Iack-sauce-box with a wannion,
Nay hee's a merry and a boone Companion.
This is the worlds milde Censure. Yet beside,
Another quality I have espide.
For that disease in which they shun the poore,
They doe abhorre a rich man ne'er the more.

Him I have knowne that hath disdain'd to sup
Water or beere out of a poore-mans cup,
For feare of poysoning or some thing as bad,
Although he knew no malady he had;
Yet have I often seene that curious Asse
Pledging a rich-man in the selfe-same glasse,

When he hath knowne the party sweating lie
Of the abhorred French foule malady.
Which proves this Proverbe true; Birds of a feather
Will fearelesse use to flocke and feed together.

But I oft wonder and doe yet admire,
Men hunt for riches with such strange desire.
For being once possest thereof it fils
The owners of it with a thousand ils,
More than they can conceive. For first we finde
It choakes and marres the vertue of the minde.
Then (by much businesse) it brings annoies
Vnto the minde; and hinders truer joyes
From seating there & though some stormes it cleare
It drives men into flouds of greater feare:
That oft the rich are more in sorrow tost,
Than those that have no riches to be lost.

But further over and above all this,
Hence a much greater disadvantage is;
It makes us to grow arrogant, unjust;
Drawes unto pleasure and provokes to lust:
More powerfull in a deed of villanie,
Than helpefull in a worke of honesty.
It ne'er contents the owners that enjoy it;
And those that have it many times imploy it
To corrupt justice, or else to allure
Matrons or Virgins to an act impure.
It hireth murtherers, makes men seditious,
Full of suspect and envy or ambitious:
It breedeth claw-backs, pick-thanks, flattery,
Makes many theeves and causeth perjury.
It hinders knowledge; for most that have lands,
Live neither by their wisdome nor their hands,
But following sloth and pleasure hate the schooles,
To leave much wealth unto a race of fooles.

This is the fruit of riches, which alone
Is now the faire reward that every one
Endevours for; and that which to attaine,
(Or keepe once gotten) none refuseth paine,
Labour nor danger, nay oft men expresse
In the pursute thereof, such earnestnesse,
As if that onely did indeed appeare
The speciall end that they were plac'd for here.

Oh Gold! what mortall god is so divine?
What beauty is there so ador'd as thine?
The fairest creature never so much mov'd,
As that it was of every one belov'd.
The little infant in his cradle lying,
One promise of a penny staies his crying:
Those that in youth for nothing seeme to care,
To keepe thee still their friend, respective are.
Old dotards almost dropt into the grave,
That neither sense of sight nor hearing have
Are by their touching thee preserv'd alive,
And will maintaine thou art restorative.
Fooles that know nothing, know the use of thee,
And for thy sake will oft perswaded be.
The wise men of the World that disapprove
Young mens affections and make scoffes at love;
He, who out of his judgement cals him Asse,
That dotes upon the beauty of a face,
Can play the Idiot twice as much himselfe,
By doting on a heape of duty pelfe.

Nay further, to their conscience I appeale
That seeme nought else almost but faith and Zeale,
Whether with all their show of Sanctity,
They doe not oft commit Idolatry,
And this great Mammon secretly adore:
I feare they doe, and more his helpe implore

Than their Creator's. For this cursed Riches
So much the soule of every man bewitches,
That very oft times they forgetfull be
Of what beseemes profession and degree.

What He, on earth, so great or mighty is,
(Or who so proud) that will not bow to this?
Where's he though Noble that will now disdaine
To be a suter for his private gaine?
See we not those that seem'd to looke more hie,
Turne all their worship to this Deitie?
It is apparant, Great men that were wont
For honour onely, in times past to hunt,
Both pawne and forfeit it for Riches sake:
And they whose glory 'twas to undertake
Such things as might their Country benefit,
Seeke rather now how they may begger it.

What Monopolies, what new tricks can they
Find to increase their profit every day?
What Rascall poling sutes doe they devise,
To adde new Summes unto their Treasuries?
Which had their noble Predecessors sought,
Such meanes of gaine for ever had beene thought
Dishonour, and a staine of Infamie
Enough to taint their whole Posteritie.
And then, beside their ever shamelesse craving,
They oft times also are as basely saving:
And so much doth their avarice abate
Of that becomming and commended state
Which their fore-fathers kept; they would not know them
(If they were living) or for shame not owe them.

Those that have much on Ancient gentry stood,
And will to this day glory in their bloud,
Doe not disdaine (if there be wealth) to grace
With their dear'st issue some ranke peasants rac

Or take himselfe (if there be wealth to wed)
An old Mechanick widdow to his bed.
The childe for this, the parent will undoe:
And parents sell the childs contentment too.
It is of power sufficient to preferre
The untaught sonne of a rude Scavenger,
To some Lords daughter and in twelve-moneths can
Make a known peasant deem'd a Gentleman.
Beare Armes confirm'd, and shew a pedigree
Shall from before the Norman Conquest be.
And in his pride, some one for gentry brave
Vnto whose father, his was sworne a slave.

Nay so much sway the love of gold doth beare,
He that but sonne unto the hangman were,
A noted villaine of as false a heart,
As ever rode to Tyburne in a Cart,
One whom that place had long time groned for,
And all men as earth's scum did most abhorre;
Yet if this rake-hell could but thrive so much
By any villanie, as to be rich
One yeere or two, would not alone agen
Get him more credit than three honest men;
But great ones would salute and speake him faire,
Labour how they might be inscrib'd his heire;
And still observe him so obsequiously,
As if the world within his gift did lie.

Or which is more, he that once scorn'd to see
Himselfe attended, by such groomes as he,
Will yeeld this beast his only child should wed,
And force her peradventure to his bed.
Where spight of Vertue this damn'd ruffian shall
Vnworthily, enjoy a blisse which all
The most deserving of the Land would woe.
(And when he hath her once, despise her too)

But doubtlesse, if he can but at his death,
When he is forc't to leave the world, bequeath
A petty legacy unto the poore;
Somewhat to stay the railing of his whore;
And leave rich heires behind: why then the Asse,
On a faire pile of Marble, Iet and Brasse,
Shall have a Table faire engrav'd, to shew
A Catalogue of Vertues he nere knew.
Thus much can gold performe, and such you see
The goodly fruits of this foule Passion be:
That were there not a greater power which still
A secret judgement heaped on this ill;
It were enough to make all men despise
The love of Vertue, and nought else devise
Save to be rich: which way they soone may finde,
That thereto onely doe apply the minde.

But as herein men often doe amisse,
So are they in the opposite to this;
The Prodigall runs out as farre astray
From this absurdity another way.
And e'en as greedy men are set on fire
With an unquenched and a foule desire
Of hoording Riches (God in heaven amend them)
So doth he strive and hie as fast to spend them.
And as the first in elder folks is stronger,
This raignes most violently in the younger,
Their humors diverse. Some vaine-glorious asses,
Consum't in gaudy cloathes and looking-glasses,
Others blowne up e'en with the selfe same bellowes,
Seeke to obtaine the love of all good-fellowes:
These at the Ale-house have their daily pots,
Though they be there or no, and looke what shots
Are in their presence, spent though ne'er so many
He doth them wrong that thinks to pay a penny.

These feast at Tavernes their supposed friends
That pay with Thanks, We ne'er shall make amends.
Yea, and in more things they have lavish bin;
But those are paths I've no experience in.
Yet such no doubt e're many yeeres be past,
Will wish that they had held their purses fast,
When for their kindnesse and their former cheere,
They hardly shall procure a cup of Beere.
But there must needs be some men borne thereto,
Or how the Divell shall our sharkers doe?

Yet can I not say rightly that these be
From Avarice and greedinesse quite free:
For though they doe consume it knavishly,
And spend on vaine pleasures lavishly,
They gladly would their evill course maintaine,
And therefore over slip no meanes of gaine.

Some have bin forc'd to (through this indiscretion)
Secret and open Robberies, Oppression,
And diuers tricks: which shew the Spending vice
May have a reference to Avarice.

Others there are (but few) who having store,
Neglect their wealth and rather would be poore;
And why? It stops the way to heaven they say:
Sure, being misimploied, so it may.
And therefore rather than they should abuse it,
'Twere good they had it that knew how to use it.
For such are lightly weake in resolution,
And men but of a simple constitution;
Or else by some seducing Villaine taught,
That their goods rather than their good have sought.

Now I suppose the man that well obtaines
His wealth and in an honest calling gaines,
More wisdome shewes in using it aright,
Than such a Cynicke that contemnes it quite:

Men will be in extreames; but sure the lesse
Is to neglect wealth: for much greedinesse
Makes not the body onely leane and foule,
But also spreads infection to his soule,
And clogs her so with things of no account,
That she is over-poiz'd too much to mount.
But those men that doe goe astray are loth,
Must use endeavours to avoide them both.

Of Ambition.

Satyre 9.

Here next to be arraign'd a Monster stands,
Worse than the Giant with the hundred hands
Stay you that seeke or love the peace of man,
And I'le describe his nature if I can.
This is the same that we doe call Ambition,
The principallest stirrer of sedition.
'Tis a proud humour which doth ever search
The stout-high-minded, and attempts to pearch
In men of spirit. It doth farre surmount
The force of Love and makes but small account
Of Nature or Religion. Tis not law,
Nor Conscience that can keepe this fiend in awe.

It is supposed that it hath no bound;
For never was there limit in it found.
And such are these in whom it overswaies,
No strength of reason there aspiring staies.
Till like the fire whose fuell quite is spent,
They flash and die for want of nourishment.

There's no estate contents them; peace and strife
Are both alike to them: yea death and life,
Wives, children, friends, no, none but such as may
Be unto their Ambitious plots a stay
Shall be respected, and so they may reape
What they desire they will not stick to heape
Murther on murthers: yea, and think't no sinne,
Be it of strangers or their nearest kinne:
They have such flinty-breasts they can out-beard
Danger it selfe and be no whit afeard.

Yea, (maugre all their daring) just Confusion
Of such proud spirits proves the said Conclusion.
And he that first was ruin'd by this evill,
Was he that first was guilty of't, the Devill:
Who did aspire so high that higher Powers
Wrought his just fall, and now he seeketh ours.
Ev'n he first shed this ill into our breasts,
Thereby to hinder and disturbe our rests.

This most unreasonable, strong desire,
And too exccessive longing to aspire
To honour and promotion (which indeed
Doth from a sottish, ignorance proceed)
Is both a wilde and a disordred Passion,
And a great enemy to Contentation.
For whatsoever state man hath attain'd.
'Tis e'en as if that he had nothing gain'd;
Sith he thereby hath still a farther scope,
And never reaches to the end of's hope.
That which he doth possesse he nought respecteth,
But altogether things unknowne affecteth,
And counts them best; which whatsoever they seem'd
Being once gotten too, are not esteemd.

Now, what's the reason that they doe abhor
The things possest that they have labour'd for?

What may the cause be that they doe contemne
(Or cannot use things) having gained them?
Sure hence it is; They doe not truly know
What the things are that they doe long for so,
And they obtaine them oft, ere they have might
Or knowledge how to governe them aright.

Had many of our reaching Yeomanry,
That have grown wealthy through good husbandry,
(And some of our proud Gentry that have sought
Titles and undeserved Honours bought)
But knowne before hand what disgracefull shame
And beggery would follow on the same,
In knowing not, to what they did aspire;
Those Dignities had yet beene to desire:
And so indeed they might have walkt the street,
And not have fear'd the Counters nor the Fleet;
Or might with Good-man have contented bin,
Where now there's scarce a good man of the kin.
Ambitious men will ever envious be,
Regarding neither love nor amity;
And though that they may make a goodly show,
With reason it can never stand I know
They should be faithfull or with justice deale,
Either for Prince or Friend or Common-weale.
For why? this humour makes them to attend,
Yea all their labours, and best counsell spend
In their owne plots: and so they have no losse,
They care not whose proceedings they doe crosse.

Vertuous endeavours this doth also let;
Yea, makes men many a good thing to forget.
And though I'me loth to speake it, I protest
I thinke it raignes not in the Clergie least.
For you at first great humblenesse shall see,
While their estates and fortunes meaner be.

They are industrious and take pains to teach,
And twice a week shall be the least they'l preach:
Or in their poverty they will not stick
For Catechising, visiting the sick,
With such like sacred works of piety
As do belong to that fraternity.
But if they once atchieve a Vicarage,
Or be inducted to some Parsonage,
Men must content themselves, and think it well
If once a Month they heare the Sermon-bell.
And if to any higher place they reach,
Once in a twelve-month is enough to preach.

Alas! we must consider that Devotion
Is but a busie thing that lets Promotion;
And if that they should give their mindes to't all,
Who should have greater places when they fall?
No, no, 'twere fitter they their ease did take,
And see what friends and Patrons they can make
For the next Bishoprick; or study how
To humour and to please the Great-ones now:
And if they can in that adventure speed,
They'l be more painfull. Yes; 'tis like indeed,
If in their climing they so high can wex,
To gain the title of a Pontifex,
'Tis very like (perhaps) that we shall heare,
They use the pulpit once or twice a yeare.
Nay, it is well if it be done so oft.
For this Ambition beares men so aloft,
They from performance of their duties slide.
But of all others this same Clergie-pride
I hold not onely to be odious
To God and men, but most pernicious
To Prince, to Church, and to the Common-good.
Witnesse the Beast of Rome, and his foule brood

Of climing Cardinals; who from base states
Are gotten to be Kings and Princes mates;
Yea, their Superiors too; and all by this,
A painted show of Humble holinesse.
Even this is it of which the divell makes
That cruell engine wherewithall he shakes
Religions soundnesse: and rends in it chinks,
Which he dawbes up againe, with what he thinks
Shall ruine all in time. And is't not hence
He had his meanes to marre the innocence
Of Romes first Bishops? godlinesse grew strong;
And flourisht while it was supprest with wrong.
But when the worthy Emperours embrac'd
The Sacred truth, and with their favours grac'd
Their good proceedings, they soone gan to leave
Their humble nature off, and closely weave
Vnto religious shewes (not a bare Miter,
It fits not the successors of Saint Peter)
A triple Diadem and such a state,
As never any earthly Potentate
Enjoi'd a greater (all with humble Preaching)
A long degree I tak't, beyond the reaching
Of temporall Ambition, Heav'n I pray,
Ere the first beast his time be done away,
There rise not up another Monster here
'Mongst our ambitious Churchmen I should feare
A second Antichrist, but that I hope
They either shall be kept within their scope;
Or the last judgement whose nigh time unknowne
Shall cut him off ere he be wholy growne.

Thus much some reason makes me bold to speake,
And there is no mans sight I thinke so weake,
But sees the same. Which though (I know full well)
Twould better others fit than me to tell;

Sith all neglect it, I have thus begun
To Satyrize and o'er their follies run.

Yet by my former words let none suppose,
That I th' opinion do maintaine of those
That doe our Bishops disallow,
Let them that can; for sure I know not how.
Nor would I have the world to understand
That I tax all the Clergey in the Land,
Or the whole Hierarchy: Thinke not so;
For why? this presently Age doth yeeld I know
Men that are truely worthy: and so many,
That I beleeve few times (since Christ) had any
More knowing or more painefull than some few.

And whatsoe'er men thinke, yet here to shew,
Though I Satyrically carpe at those
That follow Vice and are true Vertues foes;
I have not such a spitefull cankerd spirit,
As to conceale or smother Worth and Merit.
For I'l in Canturburies praise be bold
This on my owne experience to uphold,
The Sea was never governed as yet,
By any one more rev'rend or more fit.
For over and above his Country cares,
Wherein he neither time nor counsell spares;
Besides Church-businesse, whereto he applies
His minde to further it, what in him lies,
Besides all this his publike care at large,
Few Ministers have in their private charge
Tooke greater paine. That now the truth I tell,
London and Lambeth both can witnesse well.
And thou unhappy wert O London, then,
When thou didst lose this rare one amongst men:
Yet thou wert blest againe thy fate did bring
In place of such a Father, such a King;

So vigilent a watch-man in his place,
That were it not my purpose here to trace
The worlds mad humors, I from these had matter
To make a Panegyrick of a Satyr.
Yet is my Muse so constant in her frowne,
Shee shall not sooth a King for halfe his Crowne
Nor would slie thus much here have sung their praise
Had she not thought them to be what she saies.

But peradventure some will now condemne
This my particular commending them.
As if my setting of their vertues forth,
Would be detraction from anothers worth.
Which cannot be. For as this addes no more
Vnto that reall worth these had before:
So neither can I lessen, blot nor smother
The good that is apparant in another.
Nor doe I wish it should for might I here
Stand to make bead-rols of who worthy were,
I could adde divers that may claime this day
As much to be extold by me, as they.

Here I could name some other of their place
That cannot basely fawne to winne them grace:
Nor pick a Thank by seeking to condemne
Those that are not in place to answer them.
I know there's some who seeke the Churches good,
And never at their Princes elbow stood
With their lowd whisperings to stop his eare,
Lest he should what did more concerne him here.
I know there's such, and they will praised be,
Though never knowne, not mentioned by m.

But let this passe; whilst I so busie am
About the Clergie, some are much to blame.
The Court is factious growne through the desire
Tha every one hath gotten to aspire.

None doe esteeme their owne, but by compare:
All would be somewhat more than others are.
Yet he that's greatst, 'mong those that greatest seeme
Is only great in other mens esteeme.
And therefore sure hee's vaine who for such winde
Can feed a restlesse humour in his minde,
That's so unprofitable as at best
It makes him onely in appearance blest.
But when I weigh it, then I wonder much;
Mans love unto this Passion should be such,
As without understanding to let lie
A reall good for an uncertainty.

Those I have seene that have had riches store,
Great Offices, and favours no men more;
Honour and credit, yea and wisdome too:
But (loe what an ambitious head will doe)
Climing too hie, they got so low a fall,
They forfeited their honours lives and all.
Me thinks ere they in such an act should stur,
'Twere not amisse to thinke on Æsops Cur,
Who catching but to get a shaddow more,
Did lose the substance which he had before.

I might a while upon examples stand
Of former times; but that within this Land,
The present Age which I will onely view,
Can yeeld enough to prove my sayings true
And here, of many in this Kingdome showne,
I at this present will remember one;
And that shall be the late Ambitious plot,
The like whereof the world sure yeeldeth not;
I meane the Powder-treason, an Invention,
Brought (had not God assisted) past prevention.
And yet, ere they could clime to their desire,
Ev'n when they were to mount but one step higher.

(Let God be honour'd for't) downe tumbled all,
And gave these Monsters a deserved fall.

Which blest deliverance, if no happier song
Tune in our too-forgetfull eares ere long
(If heaven assist my purpose and the Times
Be but auspicious to my homely Rimes)
I meane to sing thereof, that after daies,
Seeing Gods love to us, may tell his praise;
And in such colours paint that hellish plot,
It shall not for some Ages be forgot:
But unto men unborne a Treason show
More vile than ever any Age did know.
And let them see that Ruine and Perdition
Are the last periods to conclude Ambition,
But to that purpose I may labour spend,
And peradventure all to little end:
Men will not thinke thereon, but still we see
So lofty minded in their actions be,
And with such thirst of titles have they sought them,
As at deere rates they many times have bought them.

Some have ambitious heads, but cannot rise,
Because the want of meanes and friends denies
What they aspire unto: whereat they vex,
And their unquiet soules oft times perplex
Beyond all reason. Oh strange humor'd men!
Leave off this folly and grow wise agen.
Be with your states content: for who doth know
If his desire be for his good or no?
Yea sure, one thinks; if I could but attaine
Such offices; or so much wealth to gaine
As this or that man hath, my wish were ended
And such or such a fault should be amended.
With that thou hast not yet how dost thou know
Whether thou canst be well content or no?

I tell thee this, though thou maist thinke it strange,
With the estate tht minde doth also change:
And when in one thing thou hast thy desire,
Thou wilt not stay there but mount som what higher
And higher still, untill thou dost attaine
Vnto the top, or tumble downe againe.

Be wary then you that ambitious are,
And to restraine this madnesse have a care:
Else at the last 'twill certainely deceive you:
But you must have your wils, to which I leave you.

Of Feare.

Satyre 10.

See you this Passion here that followes next,
That shakes and lookes as with a fever vext?
This is the pale and trembling caitife, Feare,
Whose dastard humors I will make appeare.
Note him and know him; This is he that mars
All our delights on earth: 'tis he that bars
Man the right use of pleasure, and 'tis hee
That was at first ordain'd our plague to be.
Come not too neare him, you that look for rest,
Lest he insinuate into your brest:
For entred once, it doth the body num,
Makes it distemper'd or deform'd become,
And sometime with illusions grim and foule,
Doth startle and affright the very soule:
The cause of it (if I may trust my skill)
Is but a false opinion of some ill,

That's present or to come. It inly stings;
And for companions ever with it brings
Both Paine and Shame: And diverse have I seen
That with this Passion much abus'd have been.

Some men there are, whose feare so foolish proves
It many unto game and laughter moves.
One came in lately almost out of breath;
As if he hardly had escaped death,
What was his feare? Alas, I tell you hee
Tooke a white poast some walking sprite to be;
Which strong surmise doth such impression take,
That though he since hath seen 'twas but a stake,
If on occasion, he be there be-nighted,
Hee's yet with presence of the place affrighted.

Another once I knew halfe staring mad,
And he had seene the Divell, that he had,
In an old house, sit cowring on a block,
When all at last prov'd but a Turky-cock.

Thus men oft feare when cause of feare is none,
Making themselves a jest for every one;
Yea, feare hath made a number so affraid,
That they have oft their dearest friends betraid:
For which cause onely I doe nere intend
To chose a coward to become my friend.

And if that women will advised be,
To make in this a Counsellor of me,
Let them admit no Coward in their love,
Left their conclusions doe as hopelesse prove,
As that poore Lasses unto whom befell
This sad adventure which I meane to tell.

Not farre from hence there dwelt not long agoe,
As blithe a Girle as any one I know,
A Gentlewoman of so good a ranke,
Her favour seem'd t'have well deserved thanke.

And cause in face and dowry few did match her,
Many a Gallant tride his wit to catch her;
While being kept but narrowly at home,
She car'd not so she might be gone, with whom.
And so, blind Fortune (that will seldome part
Her favours unto men of more desert)
Brings to the house a fellow that in show
Seem'd worthy of the prize, but was not so.
Yet having opportunity he tries,
Gets her good will, and with his purchase flies.
But ere 'twas long, the parents mist their daughter,
Rais'd all the towne and following closely after,
Were by meere chance unto an old house led,
Where this young couple were new gone to bed.
You that have ever in such taking bin,
Iudge what a case these naked folkes were in.
But what was done? The gallant left his prey,
And like a fearefull Coward slunke away.

Out on such asses, how could he for shame
So leave a woman to beare all the blame?
And for the griefe she suffers with her friends,
How can the villaine make the whore amends?
I know not: but for playing such a part,
'Tis certaine he hath lost the wenches heart:
And she for climing to a cowards bed,
Hath lost her credit with her Maiden-head.

Here's one effect of feare. And yet from hence
Springs also Cruelty, Impatience,
Breach of our promises, with much Envying;
That hurtfull and abhorred vice of Lying,
Murthers and Treasons: nay, there's nought so base,
So full of villanie, shame or disgrace,
The fearefull would not act withall his heart,
To free himselfe from feare of death or smart.

Yea, some would be contented very well
So they might scape death, to goe quick to hell.
Such is the nature of it that I've seen
Feare cause those evils that had else not been.
To some it sicknesse brings and some beside
E'en with the very feare of death have di'd:
And many of them have so carefull bin
To rid themselves from feares that they were in;
That as the Ship which doth Charybdis shun,
They ranne on Scylla, and were quite undone.
The reason is they so amazed be
With apprehending dangers which they see
Pursuing of them, as they thinke not on
The other mischiefes they may runne upon.
And evermore it is the Cowards error
To thinke the present danger ful'st of terrour.

The feare of evill more tormenteth some,
Than doth the thing they fear'd when once 'tis come
Men dread what is, what will be, and (alas!)
Many a thing that nere shall come to passe:
For if they only fear'd apparant things
(That likely-hood of some affrighting brings)
As troops of enemies, or theeves, or treason,
Pirats or stormes at sea, there were some reason,
Or colour for it then, but they will quake
At fictions: at meere nothings, their hearts ake
At their owne fancies superstitions,
At tales of Fairies or of Visions:
Yea, I have seene one melancholly sad
Vpon some foolish dreame that he hath had.

Oh what meanes man that having mischifes store,
Must in his owne conceit needs make them more?
Thinks he those will not grim enough appeare,
Vnlesse he apprehend them first by feare?

Sure 'tis a plague the Divell did invent,
To worke in man a lasting discontent,
And taught it Adam; whereupon he said,
I saw my nakednesse and was affraid.
It is our weaknesse: yet I cannot see
A reason why we should so fearefull be.

May we not joy and be as merry still
With hope of good, as sad with feare of ill?
Sure I thinke yes; and will on hope so feed,
No ill shall feare me till tis come indeed:
For that which seemeth likeliest to betide me,
God in his mercy yet may put beside me.
And though much proofe had bred within my brest
That resolution yet, of all the rest
This last confirm'd it most: for the other day,
When the hard frost had stopt the Scullers way,
And left faire Thames with Ice so strongly archt
That on the melting pavement people march'd:
Amongst the rest one bolder than was fit,
All heedelesse of his way fell out of it,
Vpon a peece of Ice, which with a cracke,
Rent from the maine, and stopt his going backe:
This Icie fragment from the rest did swim,
And to the Bridge a prisoner carried him,
Where the spectators signes of pitty gave,
And had a will but not a power to save.
Which in his Passion then conceiving well
Downe on his knees in that poore Arke he fell,
And lifting up his hands did him implore
That sav'd old Ionas without Saile or Oare.
And see Gods mercy: when he drew so neare,
No hope of safeguard seemed to appeare;
When he had there just three times whirled bin,
And that the Arch was like to suck him in.

Then quite beyond all hope, e'en in a trice,
There thrust-betweene a greater peece of Ice,
Which comming downe as if it scorn'd to stay,
Beat by the lesser peece to give it way.
A while that staid: yet he had beene faine,
When that was gone to take his turne againe,
But that, next God the people stood his friend,
And sav'd him by a rope, that's some mans end.

Whereby I gather, we may sometime now
Escape a mischiefe though we see not how.
And in my minde this argument is cleare,
That we have as much cause to hope, as feare.

More trembling humors I might here unfold,
Which some will be unwilling should be told
And therefore passe them But I doe protest
This hurtfull Monster I so much detest,
That I am much unwilling to omit
The least occasion of disgracing it.
Yet doe I not allow their resolution,
Who meerely of a hellish constitution,
Have hearts obdurate, and so hard in evill,
They neither seeme affraid of God nor Devill.
Such I have noted too, but truly they
Are in as bad though in another way.
They prate and sweare as if they could affright,
Or make Hobgoblin run away by night;
When questionlesse as bold as they appeare,
They are perplexed with an inward feare:
Yea, I have knowne a trifle or a blast,
Hath made such Champions oftentimes agast.

There is an honest Feare that hinders sin,
Which hath of all good men allowed beene:
And there's a feare that keepes a Kingdomes state
From ruine if it be not tane too late.

It is not Servile feare that slavish crime;
But rather 'tis a providence betime,
That makes men very heedfull to fore-thinke
Danger to come and not (as we doe) winke
At our owne nakednesse; as without care
Who spide it; so our selves we see not bare.

This Feare it is that makes men to provide
Against a storme, they may the better bide
The fury of it: this tis keepes off wrong.
And makes a Citie or a Kingdome strong.
And I much doubt, the wanting of these feares
Will make us smart for't yet ere many yeares.
For since we are become a pretty number
Although we can but one another cumber,
Or serve to make a Hubbub; we suppose
There are no Nations dare to be our foes.
We thinke a wonderous policy we shew,
If once in foure yeares we doe take a view
Or count the number of our able men.
Flattering our selves therewith; as if that then
(Having so great and huge a multitude,
Though we were ne'er so inexpert and rude)
There were no cause of feare. But a Realmes might
Consists not in the number that must fight;
As in their skill, and of good Souldiers ten
Will foile an hundred unexperienc'd men,
Such as are we. For 'tis a shame to speake
How wonderfull unfitly, and how weake
This ignorance makes most of us; except
Whom brave South-hamptons government hath kept
In warlike order; I doe meane indeed
Our Hampshire Ilanders; of whom for need
A hundred Boies that ne'er had haire on chin,
Shall from five hundred of up-landish, win

Both field and Towne. Whereby it may appeare,
Good government, with profitable feare,
Within a few short yeares so well will thrive,
One shall become to have the ods of five.

Those therefore that are wise enough to tell
When they do any thing amisse, or well,
Still in this Passion doe observe a meane,
And not to Feare, or to Presumption leane.

Of Despaire.

Satyre 11.

No more of Feare, for lo, his impious brat
Looks now to be admitted. This is that
We call Despaire: with gastly look he stands,
And Poysons, ropes, or poniards fill his hands,
Still ready to do hurt: one step (no more)
Reaches from hence unto damnations dore.
This is that Passion giveth man instruction
To wrest the Scripture to his own destruction:
And makes him think, while he on earth doth dwell,
He feels the tortures and the plagues of hell.

It makes men rave like Furies, scritch and howle,
With exclamations horrible and foule
More Monster like than men. Onely damnation
Is in their mouthes; no mercy, no salvation,
Can they have hope of, but possesse a feare,
Whence monstrous shapes and visions do appeare
To their imaginations: and the pain
That they in soule and conscience do sustain,

All earthly tortures doth so much exceed,
As if they had within them hell indeed.
This is that last-worst instrument of Feare,
Which our Grand-foe (and hells great Enginere)
Raiseth against the fortresse of the heart:
But many times God frustrates quite his art.
For when he doth assaile the same (with trust
He from their fortresse faith and hope shall thrust)
It makes them unto Christ their Captain flie,
Leave to be too secure and fortifie.
God also makes this Passion now and then
His scourge to lash the proud presumptuous man,
And tame the Reprobate, who by this rod
Is made sometimes to feel there is a God.
By this strange wonders brought to passe I've seen,
Those humbled that have once the proudest been:
Yea, some I've known whose hearts have been so hard
They with no feare of judgment could be scar'd;
Yet after this hath seiz'd them, it hath made
These daring spirits tremble at their shade.
Shake at meere apparitions; nay, at nought
But what hath being onely in their thought.
And in respect of what they were, no change
That ever I observed seems so strange.
Those friends and pleasures that once seem'd most deare,
Most odious to them in such fits appeare:
And greatest comfort they do finde in them,
Whose waies and persons they did most condemne.

Oh, what repentant lives some vow to live,
If God would but once more vouchsafe to give
Them health & hope again! then they would spend
Their lives and goods unto no other end
Save wholly for his glory: yet there's now
Some living that have quite forgot that vow,

God give them grace to look into their errour,
Or they will one day feele a double terrour.
But many in this agony hath nought
More than the way unto their ruine sought;
And still our busie enemie the Devill,
Author and chiefe procurer of this evill
(Vnlesse Gods mercie his black plots prevents)
Is ready to provide him Instruments,
But I ev'n quake to think what humours be
Attending on this hellish maladie.
Which I had rather labour to eschew,
Than to be overcurious here to shew.

Now, some do think this Passion being taken,
Can very hardly be again forsaken:
For (far above all mischiefs raging) This
The cursed traytor to our safety is;
And will not means permit us to apply
Ought that may bring us ease or remedy.
But there are courses to prevent this sinne:
And (though it be insinuated in)
God that doth ever pitty our distresse,
Will not forsake us in our heavinesse.
Nor can we say that he hath left us voide
Of help, for ought wherewith we are annoyd
Through Sathans guile. He pittieth our case,
And daily makes us offers of his grace,
If wee'll lay hold on't. For, how truely deare
We to the Father of all mercie are,
He shew'd in giving for a Sacrifice
His sonne, to pay for our iniquities.
In whom (if unbeleeving make not blinde)
For every griefe of body and of minde,
There is a Salve. And every Christian knows
(Or should at least) a Sacred Spring, whence flows

A precious liquor; whose rare vertue can
Cure ev'ry griefe of minde that tortures Man.
But we must be advis'd how to apply
This med'cine rightly to our malady:
For some that have presumed on their skill,
Out of things good, have drawn effects as ill,
And so the Sacred-Truth is now and then
So wrested by the false conceits of men;
As thence they gather means to sooth their Passion,
And make more obstinate their Desperation:
Which from your soules pray heaven to keep as farre,
As is earths center from the highest starre.

But there's a two-fold Desperation reignes;
One sort is that which a distrust constrains
In things that do concern the soules salvation:
The horriblest and feareful'st Desperation.
But th' other is alone of earthly things,
And nothing so much disadvantage brings;
Yet like enough in little time to grow
Vertues main let, or utter overthrow.
For where it entrance gets, it makes men loth
To undertake great matters, cause through sloth
They do despaire to reach them. Yea, it breeds
A carelesnesse in man, and thence proceeds
Not a few Treasons; for one breach of Law
Brings many times offenders in such awe,
That in despaire of pardon for their ill,
They not alone hold out their errour still;
But being guilty of one crime before,
To scape the lash for that, adde twenty more:
And cause at first they thought themselves undone,
At last to desperate Rebellion runne.

Besides, there's some despairing of their cause,
Who being brought to triall by the lawes

For their offence are obstinately mute:
And unto these (forsooth) some do impute
A manly resolution; 'cause thereby
They carefull seem of their posterity.
But sure there is no wiseman will commend
Him that so desperately seekes his end,
Or thorow wilfulnesse undoes himselfe,
(Body and soul perhaps) to save his pelfe
To some Survivours; whereas if he bide
On hope, and stand contented to be tri'd
According to the Laws, he may be clear'd,
And quitted of the danger he so fear'd,
As some have been. Besides, When we endure
Any small pain, if we despaire of cure,
Ease, or amends, 'twill make it seem to be
Almost unsufferable. But if we
Have any hope, the rest we look to win,
Will mitigate the torture we are in.
His winter-toyle what Plough-man could sustain
If he despaired of his harvest-gain?
And the strong'st army needs must faint and flie,
If it distrust before of victorie.

But to conclude this; be it understood,
Despair's a thing that doth so little good,
As to this day I cannot yet observe
That purpose whereto man might make it serve,
Vnlesse to help a troop of Cowards fight:
For, could a man lead them past hope of flight,
Where they should see there were no remedie
But they must die, or get the victorie;
Despaire in that case might give them the day,
Who would have lost it to have run away.

Of Hope.

Satyre 12.

Thrice welcome Hope; the Devill keep home the tother.
Despaire and Feare are fitting for no other.
This is the Passion that of all the rest
We have most reason to esteem of best.
For if it be with good advice applide,
A salve it is God did himselfe provide
To ease not onely every outward griefe;
But when the Soul wants comfort or releefe
It will redresse her pain; although it were
The shaking off that hideous Monster, Feare.

This is a Balme so precious, had we power
To take it to our selves at such an houre
When black Despaire doth pinch us; this indeed
Would so expell it, as we should not need
The drugges of Rome: But what (alas!) can wee
Rightly apply, and not instructed be?
Vnlesse some power assist us, it is true
Our nature so unapt is to pursue
The way it should, that we do follow still
The crooked'st paths and lose our selves in i'l.
Hope is a blessing but we so abuse it,
As to our hurt more than our good we use it.
Yea this, that was of all the Passions best,
We have as much corrupted as the rest;

Ev'n that, on which our chiefest good depends,
And to our highest of contentment tends.
For we must note well that this Passion's double,
One Hope is certain, th' other full of trouble,
And most uncertain. Now the first attends
Things meere immortall, and alone depends
On th' expectation of the certain'st things,
With that perfection of true joy, which brings
No trouble with it. This, through Faith we gain;
And 'tis sufficient to make any pain
Seem short and easie. 'Tis the life of man,
And such a comfort as no mortall can
Live if he want it. And yet sometime this
Each way as idle as the other is.
For oftentimes we see the same is found
To be erected on no other ground
But ignorance, or meere securitie.
Which ruine all who do on them relie.
Some praise their own deserts, and on that sand
Would fain have the divinest hope to stand.
Which no contentment doubtlesse can assure,
Nor without wav'ring to the end endure.
And if it do not, to small end will be
That idle trust and confidence which we
Can have elsewhere; since every other kinde
Of Hope, which I amongst us men do finde,
Is of uncertain earthly things; and such
As neither long endure, nor please us much.

Then the best likelihoods that may be shown,
And the strong'st humane reasons that are known,
Are nothing worth to ground a hope upon,
But in the turning of a hand, all's gone.
Were all the men on earth procured to
Some thing that lay in one mans power to doe.

And all were well resolv'd to see it done:
(Yea wer't but one daies work, and that begun)
Well might we hope that they would bring to passe
So small a thing as that; but yet (alas!)
None can assure so much, because none know
A warrant from above it shall be so.
And therefore though I wish that every man
Should take upon him the best hope he can
In all his outward actions, yet should he
Take care on honest grounds it builded be.
And therewith be so wel-prepared still,
That if his doubtfull hope do fall out ill,
He ne'er repine, but tak't as if the same
Had been expected long before it came.
And sith that fickle-trust did nought availe him,
Depend on the true-hope shall never faile him.
For what is plac'd on humane wit or strength,
Is vain, and most uncertain; 'cause at length
How-e'er it may seem sure, it may deceive him,
And when he hath most need of comfort leave him.

This Hope is now become the Patronesse,
And chiefe maintainer of mans wickednesse:
Ther's not a villany man doth intend,
Vnlesse that he have this to be his friend.
Hope egges him on, and with a thousand wiles
His much abused confidence beguiles.
Hope tells the theefe, if he will rob, he may
Have twenty means to hide himselfe away.
Hope doth entise the Prodigall to spend,
And will not let him thinke upon his end;
But doth perswade him, some good boty shall
Hap at the last to make amends for all.
And never ceaseth thus to beare him faire,
Till she undoes, and leaves him to despaire.

Shee soothes the Gamester in his trifles vaine;
And draws the Pirate on with hope of gaine.
She makes the Courtier into treason run;
Our Great-mens Followers serve till they're undone,
And for the present (having nought to give)
Vpon reversions all her servants live.

Now every man unto this hope is led
By sundry other Passions in him bred,
As Love, Ambition, Avarice, or such:
And true it is, in these our hope is much.

But oftentimes we into errours run
So blindely on that we are quite undone,
Because indeed we hopefully expect
Many such things as we can ne'er effect;
And give to our desires a larger scope
Than will admit of any likely hope.
So we our selves abuse, and are disgrac'd
Oft-times with that, which wer't with reason plac'd
Vpon an honest and a certain ground,
Would seldome be so vainly frustrate found.
But Lovers hopes, and such as are so bold
On every paultry trifle to lay hold,
Neither last long, nor for the time indeed
Can they one jot of true contentment breed.

Ambitious men, what e'er they do intend,
Have still new hopes to bring their plots to end.
But they are all so built on such weak props,
That e'er they be possessed of their hopes,
All overthrown we in a moment spie,
And they with their inventions ruin'd lie.
Into which mischiefe he yet never fell
That knew but how to use this Passion well.

Of Compassion.

Satyre 13.

Bvt as the former Passion was abus'd,
So this that follows is but hardly us'd.
Yet it is known a kinde and tender Passion,
In it own nature worthy commendation:
And if discretion guide it, well may be
Of neere alliance unto Charitie.
If not; it with the rest from vertue swerves,
And so with them alike reproofe deserves.
Which some will wonder at; such as suppose
A man through pitty cannot erre: yet those,
If they have any judgment of their own,
Shall say, Compassion may amisse be shown.

Or if you put no confidence in me,
Come to our Courts of Iustice, and there see
How shee's abus'd: there mark and you shall finde,
It makes the Iuror many times so blinde,
They see, but stumbling by do tread,
Beside the way their Evidences lead
There you may spie the reverend Iudge compeld
Through an effeminate tendernesse, to yeeld
Vnto this melting Passion: Sometime by
A Personall respect tane by the eye;
Sometime because th' offender (it may be)
Already hath sustain'd much miserie.

And this think they is Charitie aright;
(Through ignorance indeed) forgetting quite,
Whil'st they an ill deserved life prolong,
Therein they do not onely justice wrong;
But by their indiscreet and fond Compassion,
Vnwisely hazard e'en their own discretion.

Some through this pitty (when they much implore)
Though they unjustly favour him that's poore,
Deeme they do not amisse, and why? they trust,
(Because their meaning's good, their doing's just.

Some there are also, who would fain be deem'd
Wise men, that have through weaknesse mis-esteem'd
Those orders which for wandring rogues are made,
As though that begging were a lawfull trade;
They pitty those that justly punish'd be:
And often erring in their Charitie,
They boldly have accus'd the laws therefore,
As if their rigour injured the poore.

But he I feare whose judgment is so slender,
Or hath a yeelding heart so fondly tender
To stoop unto this Passion; neither spares
The lawes of God nor man; but oft times dares
Pervert them both; supposing his intent
Shall free him from deserved punishment.
And though that God himselfe saies Kill, reply
With, No, alas, 'tis pitty he should die.
And for their weaknesse merit equall check
With him that spar'd the King of Amaleck,
For verily, as vertuous as it shows,
A foolish pitty quickly overthrows
In warre an Army, and in peace a State:
And this I'le stand to, 'Tis as bad as Hate:
For that and bribes to such a power is grown,
Iustice and conscience are quite overthrown.

Certain it is (and cannot be withstood)
That Pitty sometimes hurts the Common-good.
Yea, God himselfe it many waies offends,
And therefore that man who indeed intends
To beare himselfe uprightly, ought to see
How far this Passion may admitted be.
For seem how 'twill, all pitty is unfit,
Vnlesse Gods laws and mans do warrant it.

But I have seen a tender-hearted Asse
That's worth the laughing at, and doth surpasse
For foolish pitty (but he, he alone
Is hurtfull to himselfe, or else to none)
To such as he read but some Tragedie;
Or any peece of mournfull historie;
And if the matter which you do relate
Be sorrowfull or something passionate,
Though it were done a thousand yeares ago,
And in a Countrey he did never know,
Yet will he weep (kinde-heart) as if those men
Were of his friends, and the mischance but then
Before their eies in action: nay, unfold
Some new made tale that never yet was told,
So it be dolefull, and do represent
A strange and lamentable accident:
Although not onely (as I said before)
It be a matter meerly fein'd, but more,
Although he know it so, he cannot keep
His melting eyes from teares but he must weep
Which is a weaknesse whence more mischiefs grows
Than any at first thinking would suppose.

I might touch Parents also in the City
That marre their children by their cockring pitty,
If other Passions call'd me not away.
And yet before I leave, thus much I'le say;

Want of rebuke elsewhere, and rods in Schools,
Hath almost fill'd the land with knaves and fools.

Then you that think we need no pitty shun,
Forsake the errour whereinto you run,
With those Divines that admonitions spare,
Or in reproving over-easie are;
With many more of different degree,
But unto these I'le not o're-bitter be.
And you that are, or you that would at least
Be counted men, and beare within your breast
That vertue which befitting manhood is,
Shun such base humours as fond Pitty is.
For why should you be there-with over-born,
When 'tis a Passion that now women scorn?

Of Crueltie.

Satyre 14.

Bvt here's another beares us further wide,
(If we embrace it) on the other side.
And therefore whilst we seek how to beware
Of foolish Pitty; we must have a care,
But this do over-run us: 'tis a thing
Whose very name doth seem enough to bring
All men in their opinion to confesse,
Tis an inhumane hellish wickednesse.
A monstrous Passion, so unfit to rest,
Or harbour in a reasonable brest,
That beasts, in whom it rather should remain,
Do, for the greatest part, the same refrain.

And yet as odious as it doth appeare,
Vnlesse men look to their affections neare,
'Twill steal upon them, and they shall begin
Not onely to be quickly snar'd therein:
But (though at first they do abhorre it much)
The nature of this Passion still is such,
It will become delightfuller, and make
So deep impression in the heart, and take
So sure a root, 'twill hardly be displac'd,
Whilst that the body by the soule is grac'd.

Though many doe suppose it may with ease
Be left or taken as each man shall please:
Such men are wide; and they are over-bold
And too much trusting to themselves that hold
We need not this same Passion discommend;
Since nature of her selfe doth reprehend
So vile a fault. For thus, say they,
Our Reason never can so much decay
To make us our humanity defile
With any Passion that is known so vile.

Indeed, it is a monstrous villany,
And most, I think, can rail at Cruelty:
Yet let none be secure for this is true,
Those odious vices we do most eschew,
Grow pleasing by degrees. When Hazael
Was told what he should do to Israel,
Full little thought he then his gentle heart
Should ever give consent to act a part
Of such a Tragick Scene; and yet we finde
He be came after of another minde,
For mans intents and best affections be
Exceeding subject to uncertainty
What least we think to doe (unlesse each hower
We have remembrances) such state is our,

We often minde not. For which cause the Sire
Of that bold Grecian King, who did aspire
To be the worlds third Monarch; knowing well
Himselfe to be a man, mistrusted still
To what he might through humane frailty fall,
And therefore still appointed one to call
Thus at his window (e'er the day began)
Philip, Remember that thou art a man.

And sure as hatefull as this Passion is,
To have some caveat is not much amisse.
For though no such things in our selves we spie,
In secret oftentimes 'twill lurking lie.
And when it breakes forth into any act,
With colour of some vertue hides the fact,
As justice, or the like: and then it will
So harden by degrees the heart in ill,
As that we shall not think we do amisse,
When as our Cruelty extreamest is.
He deemes himselfe no such that without shame
Doth rob another of his honest name
By raising false reports; nor that hard lord,
Who to his tenant grudges to afford
What law and conscience gives: nor he that takes
The common profit to himselfe, and makes
His own good of it, when he knows thereby
Many a poore man's brought to beggery.
These think with cruelty they do not deal,
What wrongs soe'er they do the Common-weal,
This vice so hardens them. The damn'd Vsurers,
And cut-throat Brokers, Mammons Treasurers
(Who by the small use they of riches make,
Do for another seem their care to take)
Though not content with Statute-vsury,
A thousand other polling tricks they trie;

100

Increasing their lewd gains by bribes and gifts,
And many viler or more lawlesse shifts:
Though they do make no conscience what they doe
So they may act it, and scape justice too,
Pinching poore Debtors, till their greedy hands
Have got possession both of goods and lands,
Would not be cruell thought, although that this
Be as true Cruelty as any is.

And what are Lawyers that can brook to see
Christians like beasts that still at variance be;
And when it lieth in their power to part them,
Do, for their own gain, unto discord hart them?
Or nourish still the strife by adding fuell
To discords flame? Trust me, I think them cruell:
What-e're they deem themselves: and not alone
The mercilesse offender; but each one,
Who when he doth perceive that there is need,
Is slack to do a charitable deed.
What may be thought of them whose chiefest care
Is pampering the flesh with curious fare;
Largely providing for the bodies good,
Whilst the poore soule is hunger-starv'd for food?
Are not they cruell? Is it like that such
Who can neglect their dearest souls so much,
Are mercifull to others? You well say
Murder is cruelty. Then what are they
That by false doctrine, fraught with errours foule,
Do murder, or do worse than kill the soule?
Them to be guilty none can will deny.

But you will say, 'Tis not that Cruelty
You understood: As if you did suppose
None through this Passion did offend but those
That seek for bloud. Indeed, that is the worst,
And of all cruelty the most accurst;

101

Which for no other purpos'd end is us'd,
But a meere longing to see things abus'd.
Then 'tis at highest when men use to see
Or act some deed that's full of Crueltie;
Onely for that 'tis so; or 'cause their will
Findes devillish contentments in their ill.

Such was his humour, who (out of desire
To see how Troy burnt when it was on fire)
Caus'd Rome in many a place at once to flame;
And longing to behold from whence he came,
Ript up his mothers wombe. So in the height
Was also his that took so much delight
In seeing men extreamly tortured,
That he out of his bounty promised
A large reward to him that could invent
The cruell'st and unusuall'st punishment.
Which Phalaris demanding, was therefore
The first that made his brazen Bull to roare.

Such is theirs also whose unmanly natures
Can be the needlesse death of any creatures,
Or torture, or behold them pleasingly,
Whilst they abused and tormented die.
Trust me; bee't but a dog, nature denies,,
And God forbids that we should tyrannize.
Much more on man: yet there is many a one
That to this hellish Passion is so prone,
With boasts he glories in his mischiefes too,
And uncompell'd would make no more adoe
To murder till a Countrey were unman'd,
Than doth a School-boy with a walking wand
To lop down Thistles. But all such men be
Extreamly cruell in the high'st degree.

And though the first rehearsed be not so,
Yet thereto they may very quickly grow;

102

(Vnlesse they have oft warning to beware)
Sith they already halfe-way entred are.
Especially the greedy hungry Elfe,
That would for profit gladly damne himselfe.
For Avarice doth harden so the heart,
In any mischiefe he may beare a part:
No cruelty the Covetous refrains,
Murther nor Treason so he may have gains.

More I could say against this Passion yet:
But would men of themselves well ponder it,
A little meditation of their own
Might profit more than all that I have shown.
And therefore I will here conclude with this,
As he is blessed that meek-hearted is:
So on the Cruell lightly doth attend,
A heavy curse, and a most fearfull end.

Of Ioy.

Satyre 15.

Of all the Passions handled hitherto,
With this that follows I had least to doe.
By some small trials though that I have had,
I finde 'tis better far than being sad:
And that no greater good on earth might be,
If it would last, and were from combrance free.
But that can never be, our state is such;
And Destiny moreover seems to grutch

103

Ought should be perfect in mortality,
Lest we should leave to seek Eternitie.
Never could any yet that Ioy obtain
On which there follow'd neither shame nor pain:
For he (no question) that's allowed most,
Doth dearely pay for what is quickly lost.

But sure the reason why mans joy so soon
Is chang'd to sorrow, is because there's none,
Or very few, that do their gladnesse found
Vpon a solide, firme, substantiall ground:
But on such subjects, as no marvell though,
It doth receive so quick an overthrow,
And brings so sharp a farewell. For one joyes
In Dogs, Apes, Monkies, or some such like toies;
And when they faile, (as how can they last long?)
Their mirth is finish'd, they must change their song.

Some in their honour all their joy do place;
And then if but a frown or some disgrace
Adde the least motion unto Fortunes wheele,
Sorrow takes place, and little joy they feele.

Take but away his substance, you destroy
The miserable Richmans onely joy.
And soon by sicknesse that delight's defac'd,
Which man in beauty, or in strength hath plac'd.
Yea, the best joy in transitory things,
They being lost, at last a sorrow brings.
All men should therefore make a carefull choice
Of that wherein their meaning's to rejoyce,
And not affect things so extreamly vain,
As make them to repent their joy again.
Yet many do so settle their delight
On things unworthy, that they are e'en quite
Bereft of understanding when they see
They must of them again deprived be.

104

One foole hath lost his Hawk to day, and he
Can neither eate, nor drink, nor merry be:
There was his onely joy, and now 'tis gone,
Without all doubt the Gentleman's undone.

Young Mistresse Vanity is also sad
Because the Parrat's dead she lately had.
Alas! and blame her not if that she houle,
The Parrat was (I warrant) halfe her soule.

But weigh this you that have your better parts
Of an immortall fame, awake your hearts,
And from delight in drosse and clay remove
Your joyes, to place them on the things above:
So shall you still have reason to rejoyce,
And not with sorrow thus repent your choyce.
This that you so much doat on is a toy
So far from meriting the name of Ioy,
That either 'tis not thorowly obtained;
Or if it be in such a measure gained
As you would wish it, then you are no lesse
Endanger'd by an over-joyfulnesse.
For had you seen men that were calm'd at Sea,
And forc'd the leasure of the windes to stay,
Halfe starv'd for food, brought to some happy shore,
Where is of victualling with all things store,
And there through hunger greedily begin
To glut their stomacks that have fasting bin,
With the long-wish'd-for cates; Lo, while they eate,
They grow extreamly faint with wholsome meat:
And thorow weaknesse by disuse of food,
That which was for their comfort and their good
Turnes to their bane. Right so it fares in this;
For he that long time in some sorrow is,
And tost upon the boistrous seas of care,
If for his comfort he be landed there

105

Where joy abounds; his heart (where none hath bin
Full many a day before) receives it in
So out of measure, that it even makes
The soule unquiet; and thereby he takes
A surfeit: whose strong violence is such,
The body faints, or is endanger'd much.

Some of mine own acquaintance I have seen
That with this Passion have o'er-charged been
And at relating of some news that's good,
Have almost senselesse and amazed stood:
Yea, been so ravish'd with the joy they took,
That they have for a time their lives forsook.

But neither can not will I e'er commend
Such joy as this; for when we apprehend
That we delight in with too deep content,
God laies that on us for a punishment;
To shew what danger and uncertainty
Is in the best of earths felicity:
And that no joy can sweet or lasting prove,
Which from his speciall favour doth not move.

Somewhat still follows every other joy,
That doth with bitternesse the sweet destroy:
And sure this may some reason of it be,
Men in their mirth are carelesse to foresee
What ill may follow, and (beyond all measure)
Give way unto their false conceived pleasure.
Which hurtfull liberty they must restrain,
If they will any true contentment gain.
And I am of this minde, If every man
Would curb rebellious thoughts but what he can,
Armes of resistance he might better weeld,
And not so basely to this Passion yeeld.
Neither befits it Man that ought to be
At all times fenc'd with magnanimitie,

106

To suffer any mischiefe to annoy
His minde, through either too much care or joy:
But so the one should of the other borrow.
He might be sad with mirth, and glad with sorrow.
Thus I advise; and here my pen shall stay;
The reason is, I have no more to say:
But when with joy I am acquainted better,
I'le tell you more, or else remain you debter.

Of Sorrow.

Satyr. 16.

Of this sad Passion I may knowledge take,
And well say somewhat for acquaintance sake.
'Tis a disease that doth possesse so many,
It neither doth forbeare nor favour any.
Come when it will an ill report it gains,
And every one of his hard usage plains.
Then, tis beside so troublesome a guest:
None that do harbour it have any rest:
And which is worse, though he his host diseases,
'Tis thought he cannot rid him when he pleases.

And yet methinks if man would use his might,
He may asswage, if not out-weare it quite:
It is at least his duty; for should he
That must on earth th' Almighties Viceroy be?
Should he to whom the Soveraigne Lord hath given
A countenance that should behold the heaven?
With Sorrows visage hide his manly grace,
And groveling turn to earth his blubber'd face?

107

Is't not a shame to see the man who saith,
That he a Christian is, and seems t'have faith,
Should for misfortune without remedie,
Be passionate in such extremity,
That childish teares not onely stain his face,
(Which may be born withall in many a case)
But also raves, grows furious; and extends
His griefe past reasons limits? who commends
A man for that? Say, is it any lesse,
Than to deny by deed what words professe?
For who would think which sees how he bewailes
The losse of breath that in a moment fails
That he beleeves, but rather thinks 'tis vain
To hope or trust the flesh shall rise again?
Or that there were, as holy Scripture saith,
Any reward for them that die in faith.
It's a plain token of a mis-beleefe,
When Christians so o'er-whelm themselves in griefe:
And therefore, though I do not discommend
The moderate bewailing of a friend;
I wish th' extream hereof men might despise,
Lest their profession they do scandalize.

Beside, (though as I seem'd to say before)
Vnles't be common, 'tis no common sore,
Because it hurts but those that entertain it,
Yet good it were if all men could refrain it.
For it not onely makes mans visage be
Wried, deform'd and wrinkled as we see;
Himselfe exiling from the common eye,
To vex and grieve alone he knows not why:
But also brings diseases with his death,
By the untimely stopping of his breath.
It makes his friends to loath his company,
And greatly hinders his commodity.

108

For who to deale in his affaires is fit,
Vnlesse with good-will he attendeth it?
And howsoe'er it seeme; yet surely this,
As farre from vertue as bad pleasure is:
For as through th' one we to much evill run,
So many good things the other leaves undone.

I wonder that this Passion should touch
The hearts of men to make them grieve so much
As many doe for present miseries?
Have they no feeling of felicities
That are to come? If that they be in paine,
Let hope give ease; it will not alwaies raine.
Calmes doe the roughest stormes that are attend,
And the longst night that is, will have an end.

But 'tis still bad thou saist: take't patiently,
An Age is nothing to Eternity.
Thy time's not here; envie not, though that some
Seeme to thee happy; their bad day's to come:
And if thou knewst the griefe they must sustaine,
Thou would'st not thinke so hardly of thy paine.

I must confesse, 'twas once a fault of mine
At every misadventure to repine.
I sought preferment and it fled me still,
Whereat I griev'd, and thought my fortune ill.
I vext to see some in prosperity,
Deride and scoffe at my adversity.
But since, advis'd and weighing in my minde
The course of things I soone began to finde
The vainenesse of them. Those I saw of late
In blisse (as I thought) scorning my estate,
I see now ebbing and the once full tide
That overflow'd the lofty banks of pride,
Hath left them like the sand-shore, bare and dry,
And almost in as poore a case as I.

109

Besides I view'd my daies now gone and past,
And how my fortunes from the first to th' last
Were link'd together: I observ'd, I say,
Each chance and deed of mine, from day to day,
That memorie could keepe; yet found I none,
Not one thing in my life that was alone,
But still it either did depend on some
That was already passed or to come
Yea the most childish, idle, trifling thing,
That seemed no necessity to bring,
In that, hath the beginnings oft bin hid,
Of some the weightiest things that ere I did.
But chiefly to abate th' excessive joying
In worldly things, and to prevent th' annoying
Of any sorrow, this I noted thence,
(And eversince have made it a defence
For both these Passions) I have truly seene;
That those things wherewith I have joyed beene
Highly delighted and the dearest lov'd;
E'en those same very things have often prov'd
My chiefest care. And I have found againe,
That which I deem'd my greatest losse or paine,
And wherewithall I have beene most annoi'd,
And should have deem'd a blessing to avoid;
That which my heart hath ask'd for: and wherein
I thought me most unhappy, that hath bin
The ground of my best joyes. For which cause, I
Advise all men that are in miserie
To stand unmov'd. For why, they doe not know
Whether it be to them for good or no.
They ought not for to murmure, or to pine
At any thing, shall please the power divine
To lay upon them, for my minde is this,
Each sorrow is an entrance into blisse.

110

And that the greatest pleasure we attaine,
Is but a signe of some ensuing paine.
But to be plainer; this our life's a toy,
That hath nought in it worth our griefe or joy.

But there are some base-minded dunghill Elves,
That sorrow not for any but themselves.
Or if they doe, tis onely for the losse
Of some old crest-falne Iade: but that's a crosse
Past bearing; be it but a rotten sheepe,
Or two stale egges, they will such yelling keepe
As if thereby had perished a brood
In which consisteth halfe the kingdomes good.

But I intreat them (since cares must befall)
They would be patient; Who can doe withall?
And also let them of much griefe beware:
For they have heard what dangers therein, are.
And every one almost can tell them, that
'Tis an old saying, Cars will kill a Cat.
Then let them take heart: chiefly, sith they see
None live but sometime they must losers be.
Which is an ease: for I have heard them tell,
With mates they care not if they goe to hell.

But in good earnest now let us not run
Willingly here into as we have done.
Avoid it rather as a hurtfull foe,
That can effect nought but our overthrow.
And for the same receive into our brest
An honest mirth, which is a better guest.
And whatsoe'er our former griefe hath bin
Let us ne'er sorrow more but for our sinne.
So with this Passion end the rest will I,
Because it ends not till our end is nigh.

111

The Conclusion.

Thus have I labour'd some effects to show,
That doe from mens abused Passions flow:
Which with examples of old ages past,
And wisemens sayings I might more have grac'd.
But that I am resolv'd to tie my Rimes
As much as may be to the present Times.

I also might amongst these here have told,
The bodies passions, as Hunger, Cold,
Heat, Thirst, and such like: but their force is seene,
And most men have sufficient carefull beene
How to prevent them. They last not so long,
Nor are by much so violent and strong,
Or dangerous as these. But if men knew,
Or with the eie of Reason would o'er-view
These soule-bred maladies (as sure they ought)
They would with greater diligence have sought
The cure of them, before the worst disease,
That doth the body and no more displease.
But now the reason men disturbed are
For the most part with such preposterous Care,
Is this; Through their corrupted judgement they
Doe only on things seene depend and stay.
Which being most apparant to the sense,
So muffles up the weake intelligence,

112

And blinds her that shee hath no power to see
The better things that more subsisting be.
When if they could conceive but halfe so well
The soules estate they'd labour to expell
All those corruptions that may cause her woe,
And those fell Passions that molest her so.
But some men have in this opinion stood,
That every Passion's naturall and good.
Indeed Philosophers the same doe call,
A motion of the soule that's naturall.
And in some sort, we may not be affraid
To hold for truth as much as they have said.
But we must make a difference of it then;
And grant that two-fold Passions are in men:
One sort unto the noblest things aspiring
And such as what is meerely good desiring,
Therein rejoyceth: moderate and weake
In operation. And the truth to speake,
We have it rather by Gods inspiration,
Than bred within us at our generation.

The other (as the effects thereof doe show)
Doth by our owne corrupted nature grow;
For, it is head-strong, rash, insatiate,
Wonderous disordred and immoderate.
Of which kinde these are, whereof I have spoken,
And they are oft the cause mens sleepes are broken
'Tis that, which makes them rave or grieve, or joy
So out of measure for a trifling toy.
Yea, that tis onely makes them oft so teastie;
Their friends seeme troublesome, their beds uneasie.
And lastly these are the occasions still
Of all misfortunes and of every ill.
Th' effects they doe produce we also see.
Contrary to our expectations be.

113

For he that hopes or lookes for to attaine
Great joy and pleasure, haps on griefe and paine.

But by what meanes may men these Passions kill?
Sure, not by the procuring of their will,
As some imagine. For first it may be
A thing that's not in possibility
For them to reach unto. But say it were,
Will the ambitious minded-man forbeare
To be ambitious if he once fulfill
His longing thoughts? No, he will rather still
Increase that Passion which at first he had,
Or fall into some other that's as bad.
For altering the condition or estate,
The soules vexation doth no more abate,
Than changing roomes or beds doth ease his paines
That hath a Fever: sith the cause remaines
Still in himselfe. But how and which way then
May these diseases be recur'd in men?
Why, by Philosophy, Counsell and Reason:
These being well appli'd in their due season,
May doe much good. Else seeke the cause whence rise
These hurtfull and pernitious maladies.
Let them consider that, and so they may
Cut off th' effect by taking it away.
But if they cannot the occasions finde,
Ile tell them, tis a basenesse of the minde;
Or else a false opinion that's in some,
Of good or evill present or to come.

Respecting good things thus: They doe desire
And are too vehemently set on fire
With coveting what seemes so; or annoying
Themselves with an excessiue Over-joying
In the obtaining. In regard of ill,
They are oppressed with some sorrow still.

114

So that we see if men would goe about
To change their minds and drive that basenesse out
Through magnanimity (And note well this,
That Passion but some false opinion is,
Fram'd by the will and drawne by the direction
Of judgement that's corrupted by affection)
Me thinks they might by reasons helpe confound
The former terrors that have tane such ground
In their weake hearts and learne for to esteeme
That which doth neither good nor evill seeme
(And in their soules such perturbation wrought)
As things nor good nor ill; and that which ought
(Being unworthy) neither to molest,
Nor breed no passions in their carefull brest.

By these, and other such like meanes as these,
The wise Philosophers in elder daies
Kept out those furies. And 'twere now a shame
If that we Christians could not doe the same;
Having besides these helpes whereon they staid,
A certaine promise of a better aide,
If wee'l but aske it. Let's demand it then,
To rid these evils from our soules agen.
If that wee feele them yet not stirring in us,
Let us preuent them ere by force they win us.
For 'tis more easie (every one doth know)
To keepe him out, than to expell a foe.

If any thinke I from my purpose swerve,
Cause my intent was chiefly to observe,
And not to Teach: let them not blame me tho;
For who can see his friends lie sick, and know
Which way to cure them? But you'l say my skill
Cannot instruct you: yet may my good will
Be worth accepting: and that howsoever
Is not to be rejected altogether.

115

For, I have seene when in a knowne disease,
Doctors withall their Art could give no ease
To their weake patient; a poore Country dame
Hath with a home-made med'cine cur'd the same:
And why not I in this? Yes, Ile abide it;
Being well us'd, it helpes for I have tride it.

Thus much for that; but still there doe remaine
Some other Observations to explaine:
I have not done; for I am further taskt,
And there's more humors yet to be unmaskt,
Wherein because I will not step astray,
Nor swerve from Truth a jot beside the way,
I'l say no more (lest men should seeme belide)
Than what my owne experience hath espide:
And then, if any frowne (as sure they dare not)
So I speake Truth let them frowne still I care not.
But if my Muse you should so sawcy finde,
Sometime to leave her notes and speake her minde
As oft she will when she perchance doth see
How vaine, or weake, or fickle most men be.
Yet blame me not, 'tis out of much good will
I beare to you and hatred unto ill.
Which when I see my purpos'd course I breake,
Because indeed, I am compell'd to speake.
Yet thinke not, though I some-where bitter be,
I count my selfe from all those vices free:
Rather imagine 'tis to me well knowne,
That here with others faults I tell mine owne.

The end of the first Booke.