University of Virginia Library

The Argument of this tenth Satyre.

In all the lands, from Gades vnto the East
To Ganges, few there are who know what's best,
Or worst, though error's mist were quite remoued:
For what with reason is there feard or loued?
What in conceit hath ere so well begun,
Which hath not in the end been wisht vndone?
The gentle gods giuing as men would haue them,
Haue taken from them all that ere they gaue them;
They by their granting all that ere men craued,
Haue vndone many a house they might haue saued.
In peace, in warre, most hurtfull things are sought,
Thus flowing eloquence hath come to nought,
Murdred it selfe. Thus Miloes wondrous strength
Wherein he trusted, was his bane at length.
But heapes of coine hoorded with too much care
Strangle; and so doth wealth which is so rare
Exceeding others, their estates and all
As doth the Brittish Whale the Dolphin small.
Thus, in those cruell times, when Nero bad
The Souldiers rifle all the goods men had,
They get them presently to Longines house,
To Senecaes rich gardens, where thy rouse,
And spoile, and beare away what ere they can,
And then beset the house of Lateran:
These doe they rob, while as the poore man sleepes,
Seldome the Souldier in a cottage peepes.
Beare but a little of thy siluer plate
At night about thee, when thou trauelst late,
The sword, the speare, the shaddow of a reede
Shaken in Moone light, filles thee full of dread:
Whereas the empty traueller goes by,
And sings before a thiefe full merily.
The chiefest vowes in euery Church most knowne,
Are riches, wealthes increase, our cofers growne;
And yet in pitchers poysons are not ta'ne,
In cups beset with gemmes suspect thy bane,
Or when the Setine Wine thou maist behold,
Burning within a burnisht pot of gold.
Now which of these two wise men dost thou praise,
Or he which laught, or he which wept alwaies?
A laughing censure is an easie thing,
But strange; whence t'others teares should alwaies spring.
Merry Democritus did alwaies smile
And beate his lungs with laughter; yet meane while
Within those Cities where this wise man bode,
There went no purple golden coates abroad,
There were no Fasces; Chaires of State as then,
No swooping traines or litters borne by men.
O had be seene the Prætor mounted hye,
And in his chariot through the street passe by
In mighty Iupiters owne robes yclad,
Or in his gowne with gawdy colours made,
Or else the circle of his massie crowne
Such as might waigh & presse his shoulders downe.
The loade whereof in publike makes him swet,
Now least this Consull might himselfe forget,
Within his Coach his seruant sitteth by,
Teaching his Masters pride, humilitie,
Anon he takes his mase of iuory,
On top whereof Ioues bird sits perching high,
There may you heare a noise of Corneters,
And here a ranke of other Officers;
Others attending at the horses raines,
All which he hires, and with his mony gaines.
Democritus was wont in the same sort,
At euery one he met to laugh and sport,
Whose wisedome shewes, that so it may fall out,
Lords may be borne amidst the witlesse rout;
Mens ioyes and sorrowes he a like disdain'd,
And at their teares would laugh whē they cōplain'd:
When fortune frown'd, to him it was no matter,
Hee'd send a halter to her, and point at her.
Thus man desires both vaine and hurtfull things,
For which vnto the Gods his vowes he brings.
Others desirous to be great and knowne,
Haue been enuied, and thereby ouerthrowne,
Their Catalogue and all their acts defaced,
Their honours lost, and they themselues disgraced,
Their statuaes spoiled, and dragged along the street,
Their Coach-wheeles broke, and al trod vnder feet,
And their proud horses which in triumph went,
They must be slaine, and for their Masters shent.
And now the smoke and fire begins to flame,
And that adored head which had such fame,
Mighty Seianus; he who was so great,
Begins to frie amidst the flaming heat,
And of the ashes of his honoured face
Pitchers are made, and vessels of disgrace.
O who could thinke that euer great Seian'
Should being burnt, become a dripping-pan.
Where are thy Lawrels, thy triumphant bayes
Thy buls for sacrifice, the people sayes?
Seianus to his death is led forth right,
And goes along in all the peoples sight,
Whereat the enuious multitude is glad:
Looke (say they) what a face, what lips hee had
Saith one, I neuer lou'd this haughtie man,
I did foresee this end when he began.
But say, now tell me what was his offense,
Who his accusers, vpon what pretense,
What proofes, what witnesses did any bring
Against Seianus when they wrought this thing?
Tut! none of these; it was sufficient
There was a letter from Campania sent,
Which to the Senate came: O ho, wa'st so;
No more; I guesse now how the world doth goe.
But what? meane while, what doe the people say?
As alwaies; that which fortune does, doe they.
Fortunes inconstancie they æmulate:
Whom Fortune loues they loue, whō not, they hate.
Though a mans life his death may well commend,
Yet doe the people hate a man condemn'd.
And yet these people, these selfe very same
Who now cry out vpon Seianus name,
Had yet the Goddesse Nurscia him defended,
Or had the Princes life with age been ended
Tha [illeg.]y houre wherein the Prince had di'd
God [illeg.]ue Seianus! had the people cride.
He had been made Augustus, he alone
Had had the peoples acclamation:
But since it is not now, as erst of old,
Since now the peoples voices are not sold,
Indeed they once did giue the Empery
The Fasces, Legions, and each dignity,
But now they leaue, and lay aside this care
And with their bread and sports contented are.
Meane while some of the people herewithall
Begin to feare to see Seianus fall,
T'is said (saith one) there's more then he proscribed,
Nay t'is too true, a mighty fire's prouided
As I came by, I met Brutidius
At Mars his shrine who look't most piteous:
O how I feare lest Cæsar should pretend
That we the people doe him ill defend?
Whereof accused, to 'scape a greater ill,
With Aiax, many a one himselfe will kill;
Come then and let vs while his body yet
Lies on the shore, trample it vnder feet;
And let our slaues looke on lest they denie
And bring their Masters into ieopardie.
Thus Seian' falles, and thus the people speake
Thus fortunes frownes ambitions neck doth break.
And wilt thou now since this is come to passe
Desire to be saluted as he was,
To haue his wealth, his chiefest seate of all,
Ouer the Armie to bee Generall,
The Princes guide, who out of Rome doth sit
With Caldie Wisards practising his wit?
Thou faine would'st haue (is not thy mind so bent)
His Launce, his troopes, his horse, his stately tent?
Thou wishest these might fall vnto thy lot,
This thou dost aske, and saist, why should I not?
For some there are which would not kill their foe,
Which wish yet to be able to doe so.
But in this world what can so happie be,
What hope from feare? what State frō danger free?
Our honey sweets with bitter gall are blended
And all our ioyes with sorrowes are attended:
Which of these two then had'st thou rather be,
Or great Seianus in his surquedrie.
Or else some Officer, some simple man
A wing the Fiden and the Gabian?
Clarke of the marquet like a Iudge to sit,
Breaking their measures as thou thinkest fit?
Sure thou wilt say, Seianus he was wood
Who wish't and had, but wist not what was good,
He which to too much honour did aspire,
And, not content, did too much wealth desire,
He rais'd a turret ouertopping all,
The higher t'was, the greater was his fall:
Fortune that rais'd him threw him downe againe,
And when he gan to fall he fell amaine.
What ouerthrew Crassus and Pompies state,
And him which did the Romans subiugate,
But honours thirst, by proud ambition wrought?
While as the Gods vouchsafd thē all they sought.
Few Kings doe die which are not murthered,
Seldome a Tyrant dieth in his bed.
Since honours fal then is so violent,
Another wisheth to be eloquent,
Famous as Tully or Demosthenes;
Wherfore he praies, it might Minerua please,
(And therefore celebrates her fiue dayes feast,
And buyes Mineruaes picture at the least
Which in a Casket he doth trimly keepe)
That he may haue their eloquence so deepe:
But out alas! they both gaue such offence,
That both did perish by their eloquence;
Each of them had a fluent tongue indeed,
But this alone did both their mischiefes breed:
Tullies owne wit cut off his head and hands;
A meaner Orator securely stands
All day at barre, and pleades the best he can,
And no man seekes to hurt the honest man.
When I was Consull Rome was fortunate,
Said Tully once, but this procur'd no hate:
Had all the rest he spake, been like to this
He might haue skorn'd a world of Anthonies,
But t'was not so, that which his throat did stick
Was his so famous second Philippicke.
Thus he whom Athens did so much admire,
Whose words did set his auditors on fire,
Who in the Theater the raines did hold,
And led the common people as he would;
This mighty torrent of swift eloquence
Came to his end by his fierce vehemence:
Hard was his hap, and sinister his fate,
The angry Gods made him vnfortunate;
Whose father almost blind in both his eyes
With soot and smoke, which from his forge did rise,
From middest his rust, his hammers, and his tooles,
From Vulcans shop he sent him to the schooles.
O but the spoyles and trophies of the warre,
The Gorget, Helmet hewd with many a skarre,
The broken Chariots, Flags and Ancients torne,
The captiue prisoners looking all forlorne;
These high renownes doe noble breasts enflame
And make them hazard all to purchase fame:
This doth the worthie Romane and the Greeke,
This the Barbarian doth also seeke;
This makes them feare no dangers, this doth make
Them all so many labours vndertake;
(So farre the thirst of honour doth exceed,
On learnings praise, on sacred vertues meed:
For who will euer after vertue looke,
If vertues guerdons be from vertue tooke).
Yet lust of praise, the glory of a few,
Our State and countrey sometimes ouerthrew.
O what a goodly thing it seem'd to some
To see their titles grauen on their tombe!
Which yet a fig, a shrub in little space
Their taking root, would ruine and deface:
And can a toombe then fame perpetuate?
Alas, it selfe is subiect vnto fate.
Weigh Hanniball and see how many pound
Within this Captaines ashes may be found.
This is that Hannibal whom Africa
(Which westward stretcheth to th' Atlantick sea,
Eastward as farre as Nilus slimy sands
To Æthiopiaes mightie Elephands):
All which cannot great Hannibal containe,
But to these Kingdomes he vniteth Spaine.
Ouer the Pyrenæan hilles he goes,
Vntill he come toward the Alpian snowes,
Where natures selfe would seeme to stop his way,
But all in vaine; nothing can make him stay,
He teares the rockes, and melts the snow with fire,
And fretteth out his way with vineger.
And now is he possest of Italie,
Where with his armie he doth onward hie.
All this is nought (saith he) yet must we come
And breake the gates, and rase the walles of Rome,
Where in Suburra in the market place
Weel' spread our colours, and the Romans chace.
O what a martiall countenance had he?
How braue a sight his picture drawne would be?
When with one eye like to a pettie God
Vpon an Elephant he proudly rode.
But what became of all this pompe and state?
O false vaine-glory, most vnhappie fate!
Great Hannibal is ouercome and flies,
And for his safety into Syria hies:
From thence he gets into Bithynia,
And seekes for succour of King Prusia,
Where at the Court he stands without the gate,
And for the Kings returne from sleepe doth waite:
He which so much disturb'd the world with strife
From whō nor sword, nor speare could take his life.
He which at Cannes the Romans ouerthrew,
This man at length his poyson'd owne ring slew.
Go mighty mad man! climbe the Alpes againe,
And then come downe and rifle all the plaine,
Make matter for each boy to worke vpon,
Wherewith to stuffe his declamation.

One world will not containe great Alexander,
To finde out other worlds he needs must wander:
He hath not elbow roome, but puffes and blowes,
This world wants aire, it is too straite and close
Alas! to Alexander t'is no mo
Then is the island Giare or Seripho.
And yet this great one for the world too great,
At Babylon lies in a narrow seate;
Death takes vs downe, death doth alone confesse
How much our bodies then our mindes are lesse.
It is beleeu'd mong other tales of old,
Which lying Greece hath in her story told,
How Cyrus dig'd downe Athos, how he came,
And with his Nauie ouersaild the same:
How in the sea on ships a bridge he set,
O're which his armie and his troops might get:
And how the Persian souldiers passing by,
Haue at one dinner dranke whole riuers dry,
He which made land be sea, and sea be land,
(saith Sostratus) who could his power withstand?
And yet this Cyrus with his flying fame,
What was he when from Salamine he came?
He which with whips was wont to scourge ye wind,
(To whom great Æolus was farre more kind)
He which would lay vp Neptune fast in chaines,
Or bore him through the eare with gentler paines,
Can any thinke the Gods (O monstrous blindnes!)
Would any of them doe this foole a kindnesse?
How came he backe then? onely with one boate
Which mōgst his slaughtered mē in blood did float:
Thus glory ends, and thus ends he which sought it:
Thus was it sold, and thus he deerely bought it.

Great Iupiter! (saith one prolong my dayes:
Thus somtimes merrie, somtimes sad he prayes:
Meane while the man that liueth to be old
Sustaines more miserie then can be told:
Old age with many sorrowes is distrest,
And those vncessant that it cannot rest:
How fowle and ougly t'is to looke vpon?
Full of diseases and corruption.
O how vnlike a man it makes a man,
His soft white skinne it doth like lether tan,
It makes his cheekes hang flag, wrinckles his brow,
Hollowes his eyes, and makes his shoulders bow,
In Tabracena like an old Bitch-Ape
Among the trees, so doth he rub and scrape.
Mong young men many differences be,
He is more faire then this, and this then he,
One is more swift, another stronger is,
Each ioyeth in his proper qualities:
But old mens faces all doe looke as one;
His limmes doe tremble, and his voyce doth mone,
He shakes his head, and like an infant goes,
And coughes and driuels through his snotty nose;
He suppes his meat, and softer bread he chawes,
Alas, a crust would bruse his toothlesse iawes;
A knife he cares not for, giue him a spoone,
Feede him with pap, and milke, and sleepe at noone:
Old man alas! he is vnsauory
Vnto himselfe, his wife and progeny.
He which would be his heire cannot abide him,
Cossus, he stops his nose, and doth deride him:
The rellish of his meate and drinke is past,
For now his palate is quite out of tast.
The pleasures he was wont in youth to find,
Are now long since forgot and out of mind;
He can doe nothing now as heretofore,
Those daies be gone, he can doe so no more.
His bodie's chill, his lusty blood is cold,
Alas, put cloathes vpon him, now he's old.
If he pleas'd others in his youthfull time,
They shall doe well if now they cherish him;
They must not looke for former pleasures still,
VVithout performance what auailes the will?
But now behold! another losse appeares,
The noise of musicke pleaseth not his eares,
No, though Seleucus sing with all his skill,
Or all his consort with their trumpets shrill:
It skills not in the Theater where he sit,
Cornet or trumpet he heares neare a whit,
His boy, which tells him who comes in and out,
And what's the clocke, must in his deafe eare shout;
The little life, which in his pulse doth beate,
Is warmed onely by a feuers heate.
A swarme of old diseases crawle about him,
Aches and paines within him and without him;
Whose seuerall names if any man desire;
Sooner I might expresse (did neede require)
The names of those which haue with Hippia laine,
How many patients Themison hath slaine,
How many young men Basilus hath spoild,
How many pupils Hirrus hath beguild,
How many men long Maura in one day,
Hath swallowed quick, and brought them to decay:
I could in lesser time at large expresse
How many Townes Licinius doth possesse,
Who now into the Senate house doth passe,
Who erst no better then a barber was:
One of his shoulders, this of his loines complaines
Anothers hips are weake and full of paines.
A fourth hath lost both eyes, and doth enuie
A very blinkes that hath but halfe an eie,
His pale wan lippes, whilome so cherry red,
Must from anothers fingers now be fed,
Whose hungry appetite at times of meales,
Was wont to gape and ring the kitchin peales,
Like a young Swallow waiting for her dam,
He now sits gaping while they doe him cram;
But which is worst, he turnes directly sot,
His friends and seruants names he hath forgot.
They which did sup with him but yester night,
Before next morning are forgotten quite:
Nay, his own children, flesh and bloud (which came
Out of his loines, bred by him (fie for shame!)
These are vnknowne, nay, he is so misled,
That his owne heires are disinherited,
And Phiale, that Witch, that common Whore,
Gulles him, and turnes his children out of doore:
And all the goods this doating foole ere got,
Must fall at length vnto this harlots lot.
A mischiefe on't! can it be prosperous,
When old age dotes and must be lecherous?
No, no, gainst nature this is done, to spite her,
And fortune certainely at length will right her.
O ist not braue to see a foule ranke Goate,
Hunting traine-sent vpon a peticoate;
To see an old deformed crooked Ramme,
Raging with lust vpon a silly Lambe?
'Tis odious madnes, natures selfe doth hate it,
And sense and reason doe abhominate it:
Yet sense and reason here can doe no good,
Nature disswades, but is not vnderstood.
Hence she growes malecontent, & hanges the head,
And seemes to liue, but she indeede is dead;
Nature and sense, and reason hence are gone,
Madnesse and lust predominate alone.
When age and lust, drie wood and fire do meet,
How can the flame be quencht? when did you see't?
Thus to liue long, and then to be a foole,
Grant it, O Iupiter to him that woole.
But say that sense and wit remaine intire,
And age and wisedome happily conspire,
When strength and outward beauties are declin'd,
Yet vertue still suruiueth in the mind,
Is not this length of daies to be desired,
As deepely wisht, as worthily admired?
Yes certainely: and yet this happy age
Is but a scene vpon a tragicke stage;
While like a sad spectator he must see
Life mixt with death, and ioy with miserie;
He liues indeed to see his kinred die,
His brethren and his sisters destinie:
But this most makes him weary of his life,
Death lets him liue, but killes his deerest wife;
This is the paine which longer life attendes,
Still to bewaile the fortune of its friends,
To see ones house perpetually to wast,
And to be spent and quite consum'd at last;
Onely himselfe, now like a man forlorne,
Is left aliue their funerals to mourne,
Vnhappie he must sorrow all alone,
For all his friends alas are dead and gone.
King Nestor (if that Homer hath not lied)
Did liue three hundred yeeres before he died,
Was he not happy, which from yeere to yeere
So long together could his death deferre?
Counting his yeeres vpon his fingers ends,
And drinke new wine so oft among his friends?
But marke, I pray, a while, and Nestor cries,
And doth exclaime against the destinies
Of too long life. How much did he complaine,
When deare Antilochus his sonne was slaine?
How did he hate to liue, and wish to dy,
When as his sonne was burnt, and he stood by?
Alas (quoth he, and then he turnes about,
And makes his mone to all the gazing rout).
What haue I done? Why doe the Gods me wrong,
Against my will to let me liue so long?
Antilochus, Antilochus my sonne,
Why doe I liue? Alas, what haue I done?
Antilochus! and with that word, amaine
His teares burst out, his griefes begin againe;
So oft his speech doth faile, his words supprest
With sighes and sobbes, which cannot be exprest:
Onely he wrings his hands, lifts vp his eyes,
And faine would speake, but can speake nought but whies.
Why? Why? (saith he) O Why? nay tell me Why?
Could he speake more, hee'd say, Doe I not dy?
And thus old Peleus liued with griefe to see
His sonne Achilles mournefull tragedy:
And thus Laerta liued to heare men say,
Her sonne Vlisses ship was cast away.
Had Priam died before the siege of Troy,
He might haue met Assaracus with ioy,
With great solemnitie and festiuals,
His children had performed his funerals,
And Hector and his brethren had him borne
Vnto his graue, while all the people mourne!
Cassandra had gone weeping all before,
And then Polyxena with garments tore.
O had he died before that Paris went
To build those ships which he for Helen sent!
Though this vntimely death might him displease,
Yet had he gone into his graue with peace;
Then had he died, he should but once haue died,
(In length of daies, alas! what good is spied?)
But liuing longer, woe is me therefore!
He liues to die ten thousand deaths and more:
He liues to see all spoil'd and ouerturned,
Asia with fire and sword consum'd and burned,
When like a souldier which with feare doth quake,
He layes aside his Crowne, and Armes doth take,
He flies, and on great Iupiter he calles,
And downe before his altars dead he falles,
Euen as an Oxe with age and toile quite done
Vnder the yoke for wearinesse doth grone:
So aged Priam ouercharg'd with woe,
Fainted and fell and could no farther goe:
And Hecuba his wife, which did suruiue,
Till she was turned into a dogge, did liue.
I haste vnto our owne, and will passe by
The King of Pontus long-liu'd misery,
And Crœsus too, to whom wise Solon said,
That till the end none could be happy made.
Marius liu'd long, and suffered banishment,
Cold irons, durance, and imprisonment,
And in Minturnaes marshes hid his head,
And at the losse of Carthage begd his bread;
This man! O had he died, when he had led
In triumph those whom he had conquered;
When all his warlike pompe had now been ended,
Assoone as from his chariot he descended,
Nature in earth, Rome neuer had possest
A Citizen more fortunately blest.
Campania did for Pompeies fame prouide,
For with a Feuer there he should haue died,
Had not the peoples prayers then preseru'd him,
And for a worser after death reseru'd him:
With Ciuill warre he did the Citie waste,
Which from his body smote his head at last.
Which punishment and death yet Lentulus
Escap't, and Catiline and Cethegus,
They were not cut or cast into the fire;
But being dead, their bodies were intire:
For they were hang'd, forsooth, their throates were broke,
And nothing but a halter did them choke.

Next now the tender mother on her knees,
When she but Venus Temple onely sees,
Softly she prayes for beauty for her sonne:
But for her daughter she will ne're haue done;
They both forsooth, must beare away the prize,
And be admired and wooed by each mans eyes,
Why should they not? Did not faire Venus ioy,
To see Dan Cupid, and to busse the boy?
Did not Latona smile, and laugh to see
How beautifull Diana seemed to bee?
Yet though this beauty make the mother glad,
So faire a face as once Lucretia had
She doubts to wish; she was too faire, alas!
Her ruine and her death her beauty was.
Her beauty 'twas which Tarquin did admire,
Her beauty 'twas which set his heart on fire.
Her beauty 'twas which brought him to her bed,
Where for her beautie she was rauished,
Which when she knew, she so abhor'd the deed,
With her owne hands she made her own hart bleed.

Virginia was as faire as faire might be,
As faire as any Virgin Rome did see,
But Rutila a cromp-backt monster was,
And ill complexion'd, and deform'd her face,
Then she, a fouler no where could be found,
No beast so ougly liuing on the ground.
And yet how oft did faire Virginia
Wish in her heart, she were foule Rutila:
That she could faces change, that she might be
As Rutila, and Rutila as she.
Oh if that this could euer haue been done;
And each could haue each others face put on.
Virginia might haue liu'd and neere been eyed:
Nor by her fathers hand at length haue died.
But this was her vnhappie beauties fate,
It was pursu'de with lust, far worse then hate.
Graue Appius her beauty gins to note,
And in the end must needs vpon her dote.
Who would beleeue it? Appius is a man
That's wise and stay'd; who also wisely can
From his experience younger men aduise:
Who sayes that Appius loues Virginia, lies:
For is not Appius old, Virginia young:
Sweet is Virginias breath, but his like dung:
Shee's soft, hee's hard, and how can these agree?
He may her father, she his daughter be.
This Appius knowes, and this so kils his heart,
That to himselfe scant dares he this impart,
From others therefore he his thought doth hide,
He would not for a world it were descride;
And yet for all it is so closely pent,
His heart must breake, or he must giue it vent.
Maugre his head this makes him sadly mone,
And with deiected eyne walke all alone,
Where he doth meditate, and mainely plot
How for his lust Virginia may be got,
Mean while he sighs, looks wild, & somtimes weeps,
Forsakes his meate, and God knowes how he sleeps.
Tokens of loue he sends and pretty gifts,
And vseth twenty thousand other shifts:
He still pursues her, wheresoere she goe
Onely to talke and looke on her, no moe.
But when he cannot come vnto her right,
Vnder her window then he walkes in sight.
When shee's away; how will he looke about?
What pretty trickes hee'le vse to finde her out?
When being found, nought hath he else to say,
But how doo'st pretty sweet Virginia?
Or tell some tale, or else himselfe commend
Somewhat aloofe, for feare he might offend;
His loue (he doubts) she will not entertaine,
Which makes him be afeard of speaking plaine,
In a third person he his tale doth tell
Lest she (perhaps) his ranker lust might smell,
With deerest words of loue he doth her flatter,
But dares not neerer come vnto the matter.
Whereby much time in idle talke is spent
In wanton courting, and in complement.
Himselfe meane time growes flag and waxeth leane,
And no man may suspect what this doth meane:
A silent tongue he hath, but speaking eyes,
Yet who saies Appius loues Virginia, lies.
Fie Appius! fie for shame! ne're be so weake,
VVhat! be fraid vnto a girle to speake?
How can'st thou thus endure to liue in paine?
And, where thou wilt not be deni'de, complaine:
The man that spares to speake must spare to speed,
Who will not speake, shall neuer doe the deed.
Then Appius speake thy mind, and be a man;
And so he doth as much as silence can:
For Appius (if you aske him) all denies:
VVho saith that Appius loues Virginia, lies.
Appius is chiefe of the Decemuiri,
And liues in glitter and authoritie:
He couets mightily that he may please
The common people, and enioy his ease,
He punisheth and pardons as him list;
But many a fault in silence yet is hisht:
To feare and flattery he doth encline,
VVhich is the ruine of all discipline:
To see a fault, and not to reprehend it,
Doth often make a fault, but neuer mend it.
Hence comes disorder, pride and luxurie,
Discord, and in the end an anarchy;
Romes youth hereby become effeminate
And dissolute, and scorne the magistrate.
How can they chuse? Let modesty auaunt,
As long as Appius doth vse his haunt.
If Appius loue! how can the younger fry
But liue and wallow in foule luxurie?
VVhy? doth not Appius thus (say they) and thus,
And shall it not be lawfull then for vs?
If Appius his Uirginia must haue,
Some liberty, as well as he wee'le craue.
Thus when Superiours doe a fault commit,
The people presently doe follow it.
Their ill example hurts a great deale more,
For all will follow, as they goe before.
Meane while the Sabines such incursions make,
That idle wanton Rome begins to quake;
Their men and cattell now are driuen away
They to their enemies are made a prey.
To Appius all this harme some doe impute:
No maruell then, if Appius walke so mute,
Barbatus railes vpon his gouernment:
And this some say doth cause his languishment.
Some one, and some another tale deuise,
But who saies Appius loues Virginia, lies.
Alas poore wench! Virginia all this while
Thinkes Appius like her selfe without all guile;
And therefore bids him welcome, and is glad
VVhen Appius comes, shee's sory when hee's sad:
Good sir (saith she) why are you male-content?
VVhere are your stories and your merriment?
VVhich she doth speake with such simplicity,
So harmelesly, and with such modesty,
That though her gentlenesse inflame him more;
Yet her chast modest looke makes him giue o're:
So that when he of purpose would impart
His secret thought, he dares not for his heart:
Sometimes he therefore knowes not what to say,
But then heele gaze, yet will not goe away.
Anon some idle matter he pretends,
Some wrong he hath receiued from his friends,
He did not thinke they would haue vs'd him so,
And such a one, but let that matter goe;
His answeres like his thoughts are torne and rent,
And interrupted and impertinent.
He sees shee's chast, and should he talke of loue,
Out of the way (perhaps) she would remoue;
So might he loose her company and sight,
And this would kill him and vndoe him quite:
And therefore to preuent such misery,
On any termes hee'le haue her company.
By this way then no good is to be done,
Some other course must therefore be begun;
VVhich he so carries in such subtill wise,
That who saith Appius loues Virginia, lies.
But loue encreasing, hatcheth fearelesse lust,
And lust proceeds to fury. Appius must
Enchaunt Virginia with some philtrous drug,
And for to second it looke trim and smug:
Her vncle Numitorius must be made
Hot Appius pandor, and he must perswade
His neece Virginia to come off and yeeld:
Thus Appius hopes at length to win the field,
Thus must it be (saith Appius) Numitorius,
Must first be made, and then Virginius.
And Numitorius hee must write or speake,
And all the matter to Virginia breake:
Perchance at first the motion will distast,
But yet I doubt not to preuaile at last,
Faire promises and importunitie
VVill make her wearie of her chastitie,
And il'e pursue her closely at an inch,
Let her say what she will, I will not flinch:
Shee'le say that I am foggy & too old,
Her vncle then shall tell her of my gold,
And of my office the Decemuirate,
And what a ioynture I will to her state.
I am not faire indeed, nor am I foule,
Nor doe I alwaies smile, nor alwaies scowle,
Good meate I loue, and good clothes I put on,
Shee knowes I am a boone companion,
And hath not many a one more old then I
Enioy'd as young as she full merily?
Why should I not then hope and hopefull wooe,
And see what Numitorius will doe?
Those and a thousand other tricks he tries,
Yet who saies Appius loues Virginia, lies.
But Numitorius is too wise a man,
And Appius here must faile, doe what he can;
What then? is here an end? is Appius spent?
No no: Virginiaes father must be sent
Vnto the warres; and then when hee's away,
Appius assures himselfe to haue the prey:
For Claudius straight, a Client of his owne,
He sends; and vnto him anon makes knowne
His minde, coniuring him to secrecy,
And then instructs him for the villanie.
T'is so (saith he) I must Virginia haue,
And thou must challenge her to be thy slaue,
And bid her follow thee, tut! let her weepe,
Take thou her home, and there thou shalt her keep,
Say that she neuer was Virginius child,
But that thou wa'st of her long since beguild:
She in thy house was born and stollen from thence:
And vntill now did'st neuer see her since.
If she resist, bring her by force to me,
And thou shalt haue her home I warrant thee.
Now Claudius hath his errand and is gone,
And with Virginia he meets anon.
VVhom rudely he begins to apprehend,
And tels her that 'tis bootlesse to contend:
VVhereat her nurse and she with feare cry out
VVhich made the people all come in a rout:
VVho when they had but heard Uirginias name,
They all cry out on Claudius, fie for shame!
And round about they stand in her defence,
So that she now is safe from violence:
Saith Claudius then: I pra'y be still, t'is so
Along with me Virginia must goe,
She is my slaue, I doe not doe her wrong,
That which I doe i'le iustifie ere long,
Before the Iudge the matter shall be knowne,
And you shall see I onely seeke mine owne.
Forthwith he brings her whereas Appius sate,
And there begins the matter to relate,
(VVhich Appius knew sufficiently before)
And Claudius now doth earnestly implore
His aide, craues iustice, that he may haue right,
And that he be not ouerborne by might;
She is not daughter to Virginius,
But doth belong to me Marke, Claudius:
And if Virginius doe not say the same,
Let me be punish't then and beare the blame:
Meane while I say she is my slaue, and so
She ought in reason home with me to goe.
Nay! (say her aduocates) alas yet stay!
Her father in the warres is now away,
VVithin these two dayes he may well be here,
If any will but send a messenger,
And t'is vniust (he absent) to contend,
That he his daughter present should defend;
Wherefore they beg of Appius that the doome
Might be deserted vntill her father come,
And that (according to his owne decree)
Till then Virginia might be counted free,
And not to hazard her Virginitie,
Before shee's iudged to loose her libertie.
Saith Appius, Then the Law which you commend
Doth shew how much I haue been freedoms friend,
And now as you desire, I am content,
That for Virginius some man may be sent,
And to deferre the sentence till he come:
But Claudius meane time must haue her home,
So that he promise to returne her here,
Assoone as ere Uirginius shall appeare.
Hereat, alas! Virginia gins to cry;
The people murmur, but none dare reply.
At length her Vncle Numitorius
And (he to whom she was betroath'd) Icilius,
These hastily come crowding through the presse,
And call vpon fell Appius for redresse:
But Appius cries againe, Take them away,
Sentence is past, and they haue nought to say.
Nought? saith Icilius, Yes: and moughtst thou know
'Tis such a tale shall make thy eares to glow:
Threats cannot driue me hence or hide thy lust,
Who takes me hence, doe it by force he must.
Know Appius that Virginia is my Spouse,
And ere that Claudius get her to his house,
Yee Gods and men! marke what Icilius saith,
He'll sooner loose his life, then breake his faith.
The people feare lest this his vehemence
Should hurt Virginia, and the Iudge incense;
For now the Lictors round about him get,
Yet after all they dare no more but threat.
So powerfull is the strength of innocence,
That it doth curbe the rage of violence,
A wicked conscience when it is most bold
Is but a coward, and it's courage cold.
Goe to, saith Appius, you Icilius,
Would seeme to patronize Virginius,
But 'tis another matter makes you chat,
You would be Tribune sir: say, would you not?
And to make way to your ambition,
You thinke it best to raise sedition:
But you shall faile for once of your intent,
And for to day Claudius shall be content
To leaue his right; Virginia home shall goe
Not for your sake Icilius, thinke not so:
But for Virginius sake who absent is,
And for the name of father, more then this.
Meane while (Icilius, you and such as you:)
I tell you this: and you shall find it true,
If that Virginius by to morrow day
Appeare not here; know that I know the way,
Nor want I meanes or power my selfe alone,
To crush the Authors of sedition.
Thus for the present is the Court dismist,
He for Virginius may goe who list.
But Appius staies a while till they be gone,
Least he might seeme t'haue sate for this alone.
Virginius friends in sending are not slack.
Appius meane while plots how to keepe him back.
Icilius brother straight without delay,
And Numitorius sonne doe post away.
But what doth Appius now? he doth not sleepe,
He writes to his Collegues, that they should keepe
Virginius there, nor giue him leaue to part
Till they did heare from him, this was his art.
But this, as it fell out, did not succeede,
His letters came to late to doe the deede;
For at first watch Virginius went his way,
But Appius letters came not till next day:
When as Virginius so fast doth wend,
That by this time he's at his iournies end,
Where he doth find his louely daughter sate,
In mourning habite all disconsolate,
With griefe and thought so pin'd away and worne,
That now she seem'd not what she was beforne;
She that was erst so faire, with grieuous mone,
Now looks like death, she's nought but skin & bone
Her meate and sleepe she doth forgoe, and why?
Because she will not liue, but faine would dy.
But all in vaine; Appius by breake of day,
Towards his feate of Iustice takes his way,
Where all the Citie at the barre doth stand,
And still expects Virginius out of hand,
The common people lou'd Virginius well,
When will he come (say they) pray' can you tell,
Come, come way Virginius, quickly come.
Yonder he is, saith one, I pray' make roome;
Whereat the people euery one lookes out,
And on his tip-toes castes his eye about,
Each ouer t'others head doth seeke and spie,
If he see any man approching nie,
Which if he doe, as farre as he can see,
O now he comes (saith he) sure this is he:
So soone men credit to affection giue;
For, what men wish, they willingly beleeue.
But Appius thinkes he's safe enough for that,
When loe! vnlookt for, oportunely pat,
In comes Virginius, Appius bends his brow,
A mischiefe (saith he) on Virginius now:
But sad Uirginius like a man forlorne,
With many Matrons which with him did mourne,
In sordide and neglected weedes doth bring
His lambe-like daughter to the butchering.
The doubtfull people round about them presse,
And all lament and pitie their distresse.
Virginius at length thus weeping said:
Good sirs! I beg not, but require your aid,
For you, your wiues and children in the warres
My life I haue expos'd, receiued these skarres,
And for all this, shall this be my reward?
Shall I my daughter loose without regard?
My dearest childe, the onely childe I haue,
Shall she by violence be made a slaue?
Thus to the people did Virginius crie,
And made his mone to all as he past by:
Icilius also told them all the same,
Whereat they wept and murmurd, and cried shame:
But cruell Appius mou'd with no remorse
(Such is lusts rage) became a great deale worse,
Vp to his iudgement seate he soone ascends,
Where he all right and equitie pretends,
And Claudius now demaundes his slaue againe,
And of their wrong that keepe her doth complaine:
But ere that he could any farther hie,
Or that Virginius could make replie.
Enraged Appius swolne with lust and wroth
Doth burst in twaine and interrupts them both:
This brall of yours (saith he) doth me offend,
Take her home Claudius, and there's an end.
VVhat though Virginius and the youth repine,
She is thy slaue, take her I say, she's thine.
At first the people each on other gazed,
And at the horror of it stand amazed,
And Claudius boldly in his hands her hent:
But sadly all the people did lament,
Virginius knowes not what to say, but stands
And to the people stretcheth out his hands,
VVho after he had wept, with sorrow thus,
He cries aloud to wicked Appius:
My daughter, Appius! is no slaue, but free,
Her haue I giuen to Icilius, not to thee;
And I haue brought her vp still heretofore
To be a wife, but not to be a whore.
VVhat? shall we liue like beasts promiscuously,
VVithout distinction in foule luxurie?
O age and sexe shall no regard be had?
Shall each man by his beastly lust be lad?
If these (the people here) shall this permit,
Others I know which will not suffer it.
VVith this the women doe together band,
And round about Virginia they stand,
They driue Marc Claudius away, and cry,
Now let her goe, she shall haue liberty.
Hearing this noise, the Crier bids them peace,
And Appius beckens to them for to cease.
VVhich done, and silence made, in sullen wise,
Thus subtill Appius to the people cries:
Icilius spake his pleasure yesterday,
And tell me now what doth Virginius say;
Doth not he raile and rage as much as he?
If not sedition, what then may this be?
But more then this here in the Citie they
Haue met at night, they sham'd to meet by day,
So that I must thus guarded hither come
For preseruation of the peace of Rome.
I come not here to wrong the innocent,
But to suppresse their purpose and intent.
Lictor make roome, remoue the company,
And let the Master and his slaue passe by.
This spake he angerly, and with that word
Backe went the people of their owne accord:
So that Virginia can no longer stay,
To lust and violence she's made a pray.
Her selfe poore heart! for pittie seemes to wooe,
Her father knowes not what to say or doe:
But downe vpon his knees poore man he falles,
And weepes, and cries, for helpe and pitie calles:
Now Appius! take pitie on my woe,
Let not my onely childe thus from me goe,
Forgiue my hasty words; I was dismaid,
And in my griefe I knew not what I said,
Impute it to the weakenesse of my age,
To my affection. O let this asswage
The rigour of they sentence, heare me speake,
Doe not with sorrow cause my heart to breake.
I am the wofullest wight that e're did liue,
I know not what to doe: Appius forgiue!
Indeed I was too blame, and yet alas
She is my daughter, I her father was:
Her father was? What am I not so still?
Why doe I liue? this word my heart doth kill.
Yet giue me leaue to take her nurse aside
To aske her this, by her I will be tride;
That so if falsely I thus termed be,
I shall then part with her more willingly,
And let the wench goe with vs; let me die!
If so I doe not bring her by and by.
I will not goe farre hence, not out of sight,
I will but onely aske of her the right.
Appius could not denie this small request,
But lets them goe: Virginius much distrest,
Looking about anon he had espide
A butchers stall, and thitherward he hied,
Where being come, he cries and weepes amaine,
Lookes on his daughter, and then weepes againe:
My onely ioy! my deerest childe (quoth he)
What shall I doe? how shall I set thee free?
Shall I? no, no: I am her father, I:
But shall she be a slaue? first mought she die!
Sooner I'le murder her while she is chast,
Then be the father of a whore at last.
But then returning to his child againe;
Now God forbid! (saith he) she should be slaine!
How saist? sweet girle! (and then he gan to crie,
Surely (saith he) the wench is loath to die);
Now tel me prety heart! which hadst thou rather
That Claudius were thy Lord, or I thy father,
I alwaies lou'd thee dearely, did I not?
Yes wench, I did, it cannot be forgot?
VVhat was the pleasure thou desiredst most,
But I would get it, whatsoere it cost?
Nothing me thought could be too much for thee,
For thou wa'st all my hearts felicitie:
I cannot tell (if thou to Claudius goe)
VVhether that Claudius will loue thee so.
Say, wilt thou liue with Claudius or with me?
His slaue hee'le make thee, but i'le keepe thee free.
The silent girle with feare doth trembling stand,
And still doth eye her fathers busie hand.
She answeres not a word, but sighes and gaspes,
And in her griping armes her father clasps.
Into his bosome she with teares doth flie,
As if, she said, good father, let me die,
Rather then liue with Claudius as his slaue,
And loose Icilius which to me you gaue.
The good old man now layes his necke on hers
And all her bosome with his teares he blurs.
And then he kisseth her, and then he cries,
And then doth gaze vpon her blubbred eyes,
Poore wench (quoth hee) thou shalt not bee their slaue,
I'le sooner see thee laid full low in graue:
Yea that I will; I will my pretty soule,
Rather then thou shalt suffer their controule,
I'le take such order that thou shalt escape,
I will deceiue them of their wicked rape;
O God! saith he, now tell me, i'ft not best?
And then he wept and kist his daughters breast,
No no, it is not: i'ft not? yes; what? kill her?
Yes rather then these lustfull beasts shall spill her:
But is she not thy flesh and blood, thy child?
Yes that she is; but shall she be defil'de?
And is she not thine only child, thine heire?
Looke in her face, how sai'st? is she not faire?
Yes, too too faire, I would she were not so,
Her beautie is the cause of all my woe.
And who can euer so hard-hearted be
As hurt Virginia, if he doe her see?
How then can I her father doe the deed,
I cannot doo't, I cannot see her bleed:
Shee's all the children, all the ioy I haue:
Her health is mine, her life my life doth saue:
Where shall I haue more childrē when shee's gone?
Or if I could, like her, I can haue none.
Shee's the best daughter father euer had,
She is so pretty: O I shall be mad.
Appius and Claudius, out you stinking goates!
O that the people will not cut your throtes!
You shamelesse letchers, shall she sate your lust?
I'le kill her first; O doe not! but I must.
And with that word, he snatcheth from the stall,
The butchers knife, and stabs her therewithall:
Then turning to the iudgement seate he cries,
Thus, Appius! for thy sake Virginia dies:
Vpon thy head her blood I consecrate,
She shall not be a slaue thy lust to sate:
Before she should be prostitute to thee,
This haue I done, thus haue I set her free.
Vpon this fact a hideous cry arose,
Take him (saith Appius) ere he farther goes.
But now Virginius with his knife in hand,
So made his way, that none could him withstand,
Away he flies and gets without the gate,
And then to apprehend him t'was too late:
Indeed, the people for him made a lane,
They lou'd him so, they would not haue him ta'ne.
Meane while Icilius, sad Icilius,
And dead-Virginiaes vncle Numitorius,
Tooke vp the body of this murthered wight
And laid it out to all the peoples sight:
All pale and gastly now shee lookes alas,
Who erst so beautifull and louely was:
Sad was the spectacle, sad was the cry
Of all the people that were standing by:
Some do commend, some blame Virginius:
Some pity him, and some Icilius;
Of Appius and of Claudius all complaine,
Their rape and lust haue poore Uirginia slaine.
For whom the multitude so sore lament,
As if their teares and plaints would he're be spent:
Alas Virginia! hard was thy fate,
And thy admired face vnfortunate!
Had'st thou been foule, or not so passing faire,
We needed not with cries thus fill the aire:
Thy beauty t'was which did thee so commend,
And t'was thy beauty brought thee to thy end.
Beautie's a rose whose colours are most faire,
Whose precious odours doe perfume the aire:
Yet to it selfe is neither faire nor sweet,
But onely vnto those who smel't or see't.
Men for this cause plucke roses from the tree,
Because so sweet and beautifull they be:
While as the nettle and the dock doe stand,
And grow vntouch't by any enuious hand.
The proper man (they say) the worst luck hath,
Whereas deformitie is free from scath.
The faire fac'd boy doth make his mother glad,
But care and feare of him, still makes her sad.
It is a louely boy, now God him blesse:
Yet then she weepes vpon him nere'thelesse.
To catch this prettinesse such baits are laid,
As alwaies make the parents hearts afraid.
Beauty and chastity we hardly find
Together, or a faire face and faire mind.
Though parents bring their children vp at home
Vnder their eye, and neuer let them rome,
Where ill behauiour they might see or learne:
Though like the Sabines they be ne're so sterne.
Nay say that natures selfe with a free hand
Hath gi'n them wit enough to vnderstand
What's good, and hath dispos'd them vertuously,
Gi'n them a blushing cheeke, a modest eye;
When nature thus hath ble'st them with her store,
(What can a fathers care or loue doe more?)
Yet then their cocker'd chicke, their tidling sonne,
Before he be a man must be vndone.
Prodigious lust becomes a prodigall,
And for to get his purpose, spendeth all.
Nay such his confidence is in his coine,
That he the parents hearts hopes to purloine:
Hereby he hopes they will be both so awde,
That he will be the pandor, she the bawde.
Neuer was tyrant yet, that ere would geld,
That boy in whom he beauties want beheld.
Nero ne're lou'd that boy whose feet were club'd,
Whose panch was bost, whose scabby fists were scrubd,
Alas! faire boy! thou in thy beauties pride
Do'st little wot what dangers thee abide!
This youth becomes a knowne adulterer,
And all those threats and punishments doth feare
Which angry husbands full of iealousie
Inflict on those which doe them iniurie.
VViser then Mars this youth was neuer yet
That he should neuer fall into the net.
Wherefore then Mars he must not happier be,
And Mars was taken at his Venery;
And then this rage, this ielousie will haue
More right then law to wrong yet euer gaue:
It murthers somtimes, and doth somtimes teare
The flesh with whips and rowels without feare.
O but your feat Endymion ne're the lesse
Shall be a stallion to some matronesse,
And if Seruilia with crownes him wooe,
(Although he loue her not, he'le be hers too,
For which, foule she (rather then he shall lacke)
Will strip and fell her clothes from off her backe;
VVhat i'st which any woman can denie
To this faire Sir, to haue his company.
Oppia Catulla be it, true t'is still,
She is a woman and she'le haue her will:
The neediest woman here, and she that's worst,
VVill in this case be free, in bountie first.
But what? in beauty we no harme can finde,
If there be chastitie lodg'd in the minde.
T'is true; immodest beauty is a snare,
VVhere fond affections soone surprised are.
The fairest beauty void of chastity,
Is soone conuerted into brothelrie.
At first such beauties (hauing gotten fame)
Are spectacles of loue, at last of shame:
And modest beauties scant haue better ends,
VVer't not that chastity their fame defends.
But otherwise alas! their fortunes still
Vnhappie are, attended with some ill.

Faire was Hippolytus, and full of grace,
Courteous and temperate, and chast he was:
Thus did he liue, and thus he vow'd to die,
He would not lose his maiden chastity.
But did this profit him? did there hence grow
Ought that was good? no; but his ouerthrow.
Phædra his fathers wife, and his step-mother,
Did fall in loue with him aboue all other;
And woo'd him oft, and oft his patience tride,
He oft refus'd, and oft her sute denide.
VVhereat she blush't to see her selfe disdained,
But her affection cunningly she fained,
She now doth wish that she had neuer spoke,
Or that she could againe her words reuoke;
Her loue she now turnes into mortall hate,
And all her thoughts reuenge doe meditate.
Poyson she thinks on, or some murthering knife,
Can she not haue his loue, she'le haue his life?
Which to effect, her busie mind anon,
This subtill stratagem hath thought vpon;
She tels her husband how Hippolytus
His sonne, would haue abus'd her thus, and thus.
Theseus on this, could not himselfe containe,
Harmelesse Hippolytus must needs be slaine.
The father followes, and the sonne doth fly,
And yet Hippolytus scant knoweth why.
Yet on his horses runne, vntill at last
Vpon a rocke his Chariot wheeles they brast,
VVhereas himselfe was drag'd and torne asunder:
He was too faire, too chast; it was no wonder.
Bellerophon was likewise in this case,
For he was faire and had a louely face,
King Prætus wife, that Sthenobæa hight,
Growes fond, and in his beauty takes delight:
By circumstances she at first doth proue him,
At last she plainly saith that she doth loue him.
Bellerophon would faine himselfe excuse,
His friend King Prætus he may not abuse.
He modestly denies her foule request,
But she conceiues fell vengeance in her breast:
She tels her husband how Bellerophon
Would haue dishonour'd her; he thereupon
VVith letters sends Bellerophon away,
Letters which did Bellerophon betray.
Thus these; Both women, when they could not haue
VVhat they did loue, with hate began to raue.
A woman most of all is mercilesse,
VVhen to her hate shame addes maliciousnesse.
Silius is faire in Messalina'es eye,
So that She doates on Silius out of cry:
Now Messalina is Claud's Emperesse,
And will not this her loue her Silius blesse?
Speake thy opinion which would'st thou chuse,
Or take her loue, or else her loue refuse,
Silius is perelesse faire, most vertuous,
And well descended of a noble house:
Yet wretched he is ta'ne, and made to die,
In Messalina'es presence, in her eye,
VVhile she doth sit drest in her little taile,
And like a Virgin bride bids him all haile:
Her costly purple coloured marriage bed,
VVithin her Garden on the ground is spred,
In dowry as the ancient manner is,
There shall be gi'n a thousand festerties,
He which is marriage ioynes their wedded hands
Stands by: with those which seale & firme the bands.
VVhich thou didst secret think, knowne but to few
As if she were ashamed her selfe to shew:
No, she'ile not married be but lawfully,
And why then should it not be publikely?
Now tell me which thou likest? what wilt thou do?
If thou yeeld not, when thus she doth thee wooe,
Looke to thy selfe she by some wicked flight
VVill doe thee mischiefe sure ere it be night:
But if thou dost without delay the thing.
Knowne to the world, in Claudius eares will ring.
VVhen this disgraceth rough each mans mouth hath past,
Alas good man Claudius shall know it last.
Meane while, doe thou thy Messaline obey,
And sport and reuell with her night and day:
For 'tis all one, now thou hast done the wrong,
Claudius of force, must heare of it ere long,
And then, wer't thou farre fairer then thou art,
Of his displeasure thou must feele the smart.
Thy milke white necke must stoope vnto the block,
And yeeld it selfe vnto the fatall stroke.
Thus may we see, those things which mē think good
Are nothing so, if rightly vnderstood.
VVhat then? shall therefore men for nothing craue?
Soft! if thou seeke and wouldst my counsell haue;
Doe thus: seeke to those heauenly powers aboue,
Leaue all to them, for sure they doe vs loue,
Let God see first, what doth agree with vs,
VVhat shall be fit, and most commodious.
God doth not giue according to our wit
For pleasant things, he giues vs what most fit.
Deerer is man to him, then man can be
Vnto himselfe; yet blind and wretched we,
Carried away by force of our owne mind,
(Mighty is lust, sense brutish, reason blind),
A wooing do we goe, but in such sort,
As if we went vnto our brothel sport,
Red hot with lust, ranker then any Goat,
Or any ship that still in salt doth float.
VVith glaring eies we stare vpō our loues,
And looke them through and through while lust vs moues.
VVhy should we not? we hope it is no sinne
But loue; yea, yea, lets aske our hearts within:
At night our thought, our nose doth hunt by day,
VVe talke and talke, and yet we nothing say.
A mischiefe on this lust! but most of all
On lust, which honestie it selfe doth call.
This thought doth gull vs so, we thinke all's well,
Find fault who will, all's one, here will we dwell.
This vgly thought makes blushes impudent,
And honest houres in lustfulnesse be spent.
It makes ranke garlikes stinking hoarie head
Grow greene againe, and liue though almost dead.
O that I did that mould and garden keepe!
VVhere this foule garlike lusts to lodge and sleepe!
How would I teare it vp? How would I rend
It's blade, ere it my garden should offend.
It should not with his breath my nose disease,
It should not with its sight mine eies displease.
I should soone bring its sprouting blade full low,
And send it to some other place to grow:
Away ranke stinke, away! get thee to those
Like to thy selfe, but grow not neere the Rose!
A mischiefe On't! can any thinke it fit,
That Garlike in a Roses lap should sit?
Garlike must needes o'recome and kill the Rose,
Prickles cannot defend it from such foes.
If wedded true loue twixt these euer be,
Let sweete and sowre, old age and youth agree.
But all in vaine, this clouen Garlike head
Madded with lust, cannot be answered.
There let it grow then, if it needes must be,
Yet pretie Rose still shall I pity thee,
For thou must needes be quickly withered,
And woe is me! anon thou wilt be dead,
Then all too late thou wilt repent the houre,
Thou hadst not ioyn'd thee to some sweeter flower;
Then shalt thou see for all thy subtill wit,
That all that is desired is not fit.
VVomen doe husbands, men doe wiues desire,
And such and such they earnestly require,
And when they haue them, straight without delay,
For sonnes and daughters they begin to pray.
God onely knowes, meane time what ere we craue,
VVhat wife and children euery man shall haue,
VVedding and hanging go by destinie,
And what a man must haue, he cannot flie.
But that thou maist aske something, and obtaine it,
Vnto the Temple get thee, ne're refraine it,
Looke on the entrailes of some beast and vow,
And search the puddings of some slaughterd sow.
Pray that within thy body sound and whole,
There may be lodged a sound and wholsome soule;
Pray for a mind that's braue and valiant,
VVhom feare of death as yet could neuer daunt,
VVho mongst rich natures greatest benefits,
Accounts that time when life and world he quits:
Knowing that while he liues he still doth die,
But when he dies he liues immortally.
VVho in meane time, come whatsoeuer will,
Or toile or labour, he endures it still,
He knowes not how to chafe, he couets nought,
His mind to basenesse neuer can be brought.
The toiles and trauels of great Hercules,
He doth preferre before dull stupid ease,
Or wantonnes, or feasting, or discourse,
Sardanapalus is a beast and worse.
But let me shew what thou thy selfe maist giue,
One way there is no more, in peace to liue,
VVherein thou mai'st liue most contentedly,
And that is, if thou shalt liue vertuously:
Fortune auaunt, were men but onely wise,
Thou had'st not power on them to tyrannize,
And yet a Goddesse of thee we must make,
And giue thee leaue in heauen a place to take.
Thou art a Goddesse and in heauen we place thee:
But were men wise, they out of heauē would chace thee.

------ pictoribus atque poëtis
Quidlibet audendi 'semper fuit æqua potestas.
—Veniam petimúsque damúsque vicissim.