The Times' Whistle :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Times' Whistle

Or A Newe Daunce of Seuen Satires, and other Poems: Compiled by R. C., Gent. [i.e. Richard Corbett]. Now First Edited from Ms. Y. 8. 3. in the Library of Canterbury Cathedral: With introduction, notes, and glossary, By J. M. Cowper

Corbet, Richard (1582-1635)

Epigrammi Satiron.

Epigrammisatiron.

Ad Rithmum.

A Ioue principium Musæ.

Satira 1. [AGAINST THE ATHEISTS, SABBATH-BREAKERS, ETC.]

Satira 2. [AGAINST SHAMS.]

Sat[ira] 3. [AGAINST PRIDE, ETC.]

Sat[ira] 4. [AGAINST AVARICE, BRIBERY, APOSTASY.]

Sat[ira] 5. [AGAINST GLUTTONY, DRUNKENNESS, AND TOBACCO.]

Sat[ira] 6. [AGAINST LASCIVIOUSNESS.]

Sat[ira] 7. [AGAINST THE PASSIONS OF THE MIND.]

[Certaine Poems.]

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Epigrammi Satiron.
[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

Septem compacta cicutis Fistula.

Parturit, assiduo si non renovetur aratro,
Non nisi cum spinis, gramina mundus ager.

Epigrammisatiron.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

From the Rhamnusian goddesse am I sent,
On sinne t'inflict deservèd punnishment
All-seeing sunne, lend me thy searching eye,
That I may finde and scourge impietie,
And pull from vice, which hath beguilèd sence,
Disguisd' like vertue, brasse facd' impudence.
For now this age, this worse then iron age,
This sincke of synne, this map of hell, this stage
Of all vncleannesse, whose disease is ease,
Wallowing in worlds of pleasure, swallowing seas
Of sensuall delightes, is whollie growne
A huge impostume of corruption,
Whose swelling tumor (well I am assur'de)
Must needs be launcd', or ne'er will be recurde:
To the which act my genius prompteth me,
Though it passe Æsculapian surgerie.
Be stout my heart, my hand be firm and steady,
Strike, and strike home, the vaine worlds veine is ready;
Let vlcerd limbes and gowtie humours quake,
Whilst with my pen I doe incision make.

Ad Rithmum.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

March forth, and boldly march, my tel troth rimes,
Disclose the lewdnesse of these looser times;
Fear not the frowne of grim authority,
Or stab of truth-abhorring villanie;
Fear not the olde accustomèd reward,
A loathsome prison still for truth preparde;
Though many hundred (Argus hundred) eyes,
View, and review, each line, each word, as spies,

Your meaning to entrap by wrong construction,
Vndaunted speake the truth; let not detraction
Apall your courage; spite of iniuries,
Tell to the world her base enormities.

A Ioue principium Musæ.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

When first I did intend to write 'gainst sinne,
My Muse was in suspence how to beginne;
What crime to put i' th' forefront of my booke,
Not through defect (let me not be mistooke)
Of number, for the world abounds in vice,
But 'cause 'twas somewhat hard to breake the ice
To any; but at last methought 'twas fitt
First to inveigh 'gainst those that doe committ
The greatst offences; whom I tooke to be
Our Ath[e]ists, which striue to roote vp the tree
Of true religion: by these reasons movd:—
First, that this sinne might be from vs remov'd;
Without the which, it were in vaine to taxe
Other offences, of what note or sexe
Soever; next, because this kinde of men
Doth most dishoner God; and lastly, when
All that we are is his, from whom alone
We doe all good deriue, when every one
Moues by his power, lives by his permission,
And can doe nothing if the prohibition
Of the Almighty doe oppugne; it lies
Only in him to end each enterprise.
These things concurring, I my selfe did sitt
To vse the inchoation of my witte
First in his cause, by whose direction
I hope to bring the rest vnto perfection.

Satira 1. [AGAINST THE ATHEISTS, SABBATH-BREAKERS, ETC.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Regnat in humanis diuina potentia rebus,
Non ex naturæ vi generatur homo.
Quid deus, et cui fini animal ratione creatum
Est pietas, est in relligione scelus.

Atheos! forbear to speake such blasphemie!
“There is noe God,” O, damnd impiety!
Yes, wicked villaine, thou shalt one day finde,
With horror of a selfe-tormenting minde,
A God, though long it be ere he begin,
That can and will severely chastice sinne.
Thou execrable monster, hatchd in hell,
Brought by a crew of devills heer to dwell
A plague one earth, why hast thou thus bewitcht
With thy contagion mindes that are enricht
With gifts of nature aboue common ranke?
Who with the poyson that from thee they dranke
Envenom'd, wound themselues, and others harme
With strange opinions, which in heapes doe swarme
From their ill-iudging thoughts; for heresie,
Scisme, Puritanisme, Brownisme, pa[pi]strie,
And such like hydra-headed errors, all
Proceed from thee, thou art the principall;

Thou which wilt never graunt a Diety,
Vnlesse it be in poynt of pollicie,
Which by religion dost not set a strawe,
Devisde, thou thinkst, but to keep fooles in awe;
Which makest a moncking-stock of hell and devill,
Not in contempt of them, that they are evill,
But 'cause thou vainly dost thyselfe perswade,
Such toyes as these, such bugbears, were first made
On purpose to fright children. Instantlie
The soule thou thinkst doth with the bodie dye.
Nature cannot immortalize a man,
'Tis true indeed, but heavenly powers can.

“That ther are no such things” (saist thou) “this age,
This vicious age, confirmes; what need I wage
Other contentious arguments, when I
By this alone can proue noe Dietie?
Were there a God, sinne would not flourish thus,
Neither would vertue (as it is) by vs
Be trodden vnder foote. For ought I see
The lewdest persons thriue best, and are free
From punnishment for sinne; besides all this,
They that doe worship God doe often misse
The blessings of the world & suffer griefe;
Yet ther is none can giue to them relief.
They often fall in danger & mischance,
Yet never finde a full deliverance.
Were there a God, sure then he would defend
His children still, which wholly doe depend
Vppon his mercy, & vpon them spread
His blessings in abundance: on the head
Of the vngodly, there alon should fall
His curses, crosses, punnishments; but all
The righteous should escape.” Peace, impious elfe!
All thou hast saide is clean against thy selfe.
High Ioue permits the sunne to cast his beames,
And the moyst cloudes to dropdowne plenteous streames,

Alike vpon the just & reprobate,
Yet are not both subjected by one fate?
The sunnes kinde heat, heavens fruitfull distillation,
Shall be a cause of greater condemnation
To the vngodlie; but vnto the just,
(As gracious blessings which he doth entrust
Vnto his children) they well vsd' shall be
A cause of honour in eternity.
Well may the wicked flourish in this world,
But there will come a time they shall be hurld
From top of all their pleasures eminence,
And hell shalbe their place of residence.
Then shall the righteous shine like glorious starres
Within the sphear of heaven; oppressions, warres,
Afflictions, persecutions, iniuries,
Hatred, contempt, & all calamities
Shall be a crowne of honour to invest
Their then trivmphant browes; eternall rest,
Perpetuall joy, subject to no mischance,
Shalbe their portion & inheritance.

But against him that makes negation
Of principles in art, no disputation
Is to be held: deny God, & his Word
Can smale impression make; it is the sword
Of iustice which must bring thee to confesse
The powerfull Godhead; yet I'le somewhat presse
Thy irreligeous minde. Of thy creation
Take but a true consideration;
For 'tis not Nature, as thou dost surmise,
That begets man in soule & qualities.
For thou must know, two parts must first conjoyne
Before we can a perfect man define;
The soule, an essence intellectuall,
The body, a substance corporeall;
The first we immediatly receiue
From Iove; the other God to man doth leaue

(As a subordinat instrument)
To generat; 'tis onlie incident
To man, to cause the bodies procreation;
The soule's infusde by heavenly operation.
Looke on this with an intellectuall eye,
And it will teach thee ther 's a Diety.
View but the earth, which doth each year renew
Her drouping beauty, & clean change her hiew
Vpon the Springs approch; doth it not shew
A supream Power, that governs things belowe?
Looke on the heavens (which thou shalt ne're ascend,
Vnlesse it be with horrour to attend
Thie sentence of damnation;) looke, I say,
Doth not their goodly opifice display
A power 'bove Nature? Dull conceited foole,
Ne'er trainèd vp but in dame Natures schoole,
Looke in thy selfe, when thou commitst a sinne,
Doth not thy conscience prick thy soule within?
If that ther be no God, what dost thou fear?
Why doth remorse of conscience, or dispaire,
Afflict thee thus? This is enough to prove
(Were there no more) an Elohim, a Iove.
How canst thou then thus impiously deny
The sacred essence of the Diety?
Recant this errour, least, to all mens wonder,
Revengefull Iove doe strike thee dead with thunder.

Being once granted (this our true position)
Ther is a God; let 's now make inquisition
What this God is; which must be by relation
Vnto his workes, or else by meer negation
Of what he is not, we may make collection
Of what he is. It is the times infection
[To b]e to curious in the mistery
Of searching his essentialitie,
Which simplie, as too glorious for the eye

Of mortall vnderstanding to descrie,
We cannot comprehend; let 's therfore know him
In that sort onlie that the Scriptures shew him.
God is an Essence intellectuall,
A perfect Substance incorporeall;
A Spirit whose being ne're begining knew,
Omnipotent, omniscient, ever true;
Or rather, in the abstract:—Majestie,
Truth, mercy, wisdome, power, iustice, glorie;
Which out of nothing this great world did frame,
And into nothing will rechange the same;
Which made that glorious eye of heaven, the sunne
To rule the day, and for darke night the moone;
Which joynes in friendly league each element,
And keeps the sea within his continent;
Which of the dust mans body did create,
Into the which a soule he did translate,
Like his owne image pure; vntill mans fall,
Left to his owne free-will, polluted all
That goodly microcosme; for the which deed,
Had not the issue of the promisde seed,
The valiant Lion of stout Iudahs tribe,
The gentle Lambe vngentlie crucified,
Redeemd his life, borne his iniquity,
And conquerd Satan & his tyrannie,
He should haue been severely punnishèd
And everlastingly haue perishèd.
But now by him, all that make oblation
Of a true faith, assure their soules salvation;
What the first Adam did by sinne destroy,
The Second hath restorde with duble ioye.

But leaving this moste heavenly meditation,
Let 's shew for what effect was mans creation:
It was, it is, to serve this God alone,
With honour, loue, & true devotion.
The manner how were somewhat long to write,

The Scripture all his precepts doth recite.
Which, cause we cannot in all parts fulfill,
In liew of power he doth except our will.
But man, vngratefull man, this God withstandes,
And, like Briareus with his hundred handes,
Strives, as it were, to pull him from his throne
Which gave him being, & through whom alone
He his well-being has. O, impious deed,
Which to recount my very heart doth bleed!
That wee (like to those giants, which made warre
Against the heavens) with such presumption dare
Lift vp our selues against our Maker by
So many kinde of damnd impietie,
So many hellish sinnes, whose hideous cry
Percing the clowdes, mounting aboue the skie,
Affront Gods power, & doe deserve to finde
Another Deluge to destroy mankinde.
But God, this gracious God, with mercie strives
To bring vs to him & to saue our lives;
And therfore hath chalkd out a ready way,
(That we no more might goe so farre astray)
His Gospell; which path (if not trod amisse)
Will safelie bring vs to celestiall blisse.
This profferd grace some see not, some despise,
Although herein alone their safetie lies.

Omitting Iewish superstition
With soule-profaning Turkish Alcheron,
And Infidels, which noe religion vse,
Whose ignorance cannot their sinne excuse:
We that doe boast of Christianity,
And knowledge in Gods holie misterie,
With sects & scismes our religion
Have made a chaos of confusion.
Our Anabaptists I will set aside,
With Families of Love, whose aimes are wide

From the true faith. There is a trinall kinde
Of seeming good religion, yet I finde
But one to be embrac'd, which must be drawne
From Papist, Protestant, or Puritane.

And first to speake of that pure seeming sect,
Which now of late beginneth to infect
The body of our land:—This kinde of men
Is strangelie (for I know not how nor when)
Become so populous, that with the number,
But more with new devises, it doth cumber
Our Catholique Church, & sticks as a disease
Within her bowels; whilst it seems to please
With fainèd habite of true holinesse
Which is indeed the worst of wickednesse.
The thought of this hath set my Muse one fire,
And I must rage e're I can swage mine ire.
You hypocriticall precisians,
By vulgar phrase entitled Puritanes,
Which make of superficiall sanctitie
A cloke, to hide your inbred villanie;
You soules-seducers vnto worst of evils,
You seeming saints & yet incarnat devils,
How dare ye slander our religion,
And make a scoffe at our devotion?
How dare you with opprobrious wordes revile,
Or with vnhallowed actions thus defile
The sacred orders which our Church doth hold,
And sanctimonious customes, which of olde
Haue by grave counsels, to a godlie end,
Not superstition, as you doe pretend,
Been instituted? Cease your open wrongs!
Cannot our Bishops scape your slanderous tongues?
No: you maligne their great authoritie,
Because they doe search out your villanie.
You must haue private meetings! To what end?
In bellie-cheer and lust your time to spend.

O rare devotion & strange holinesse,
Which endes in soule polluting beastlinesse!
Well may you blinde the eyes of common sence,
And passe for men of zeale & confidence
'Mongst simple worldlings, which by outward shew
Doth iudge the inward man; but God doth know
All your intents, & with severity
Will castigate your damnd hypocrisie.
In the mean time may you be forcd to dwell
At Amsterdam, or else sent quicke to hell.

For now my Muse doth hear another motion;—
“Ignorance is the mother of devotion!”
Erroneous papist, hast soe litle grace?
Thou knowst 'tis false, then how, or with what face
Canst thou maintaine against thy conscience
So manyfest an errour without sence?
For how can he be good that knowes no cause
Whie he is good, but like a milhorse drawes,
Blindfolded, in a circle? Yet you teach
(For to the learnèd I addresse my speech)
Religion in an vnknowne tongue to those
Whom we call common people; I suppose,
Nay trulie may averre, you doe conceale
Your misteries, not daring them reveale,
Lest that the people, knowing them for lies,
Should contemne you & hate your heresies:
You that are worse then cannibals by oddes,
For they devoure but men, you eat the gods!
From whom doe you assume authoritie
To pardon capitall iniquity?
Why, not from God, the Pope 's sufficient
To pardon sinne & divert punnishment.
Who taught you soe, you wilfully blinde fooles?
Sure Satan read this lecture in his schooles.
Wher did you learne? (was't in the Devils booke?
For from Gods word I 'me sure you never tooke

Such damnable positions) that to murder
A prince, which doth not your religion furder,
Is a moste lawfull act, yea commendable,
For which you will at any time enable
That man with your best benediction,
And all his sinnes free absolution,
And warrantize him heaven & happie day:
(“A warrant seald with butter!” as we say).
All this, & more then this, you will performe,
Be 't to the meanest abject, basest worme,
That dares attempt soe horrible a deed.
And though his enterprise doe not succeed,
(As God forbid it should) but he doe die
For his lewd treason, he shall instantlie
Be canonizd a Saint. Ravilliacke
Doth neither Saints nor Martires title lacke.
But you had reason: his vnhappy hand
Destroyde a kinge, & almost brought a land
To vtter ruin; for being thus defilde
With her owne princes blood, a tender childe
Was to succeed, & we know Scriptures say,
“Woe to those landes whose scepters children sway.”
But Faux & his confederats are enrolde
For blessed Saints among you.—Who will holde
Your piety authenticall, which makes
Such hell-houndes Saints? What godly heart not quakes
To hear such mischiefe, to record such evill,
As they would haue committed? The grand Devill
Was their instructer sure, else could they not
Haue once devisde soe damnable a plott,
As by one blast our king to ruinat,
And our whole kingdome to depopulate,

And spoile of her best treasure. But high Iove,
Against whose power in vaine their forces strove,
Crost their designes, & with a mighty arme
Delivered vs from the pernicious harme
Of that moste eminent danger; to whose Name
All praise & all thanksgiving for the same
We doe ascribe; beseching him to blesse
Our realme from you & your accomplices.
But to proceed: no man may kill his prince
Although a tyrant; which I could evince
By arguments drawne from the word of God,
But I too long one this haue made abode.

Besides your errour I soe plaine repute,
As needs noe disputation to confute,
There are more errours of especiall note,
Which, if I list recite, I heer could cote;
But I doe leave them for the learned pen
Of great divines and more iudicious men.
Your holy water, purgatorie, bulles,
Wherwith you make the common people gulles,
Are grosse abuses of phantastique braines
Subtillie devisd'e only for private gaines,
Which you pull from the simple as you list,
Keeping them blinded in black errours mist;
And from the truth doe lead them clean astray,
Whilst of their substance you doe make your prey.
You false impostors of blinde ignorance,
Think you to 'scape eternall vengeance?
'Tis not your Popes fond dispensation,
Your workes of supererrogation,
Your idle crossings, or your wearing haire
Next to your skin, or all your whipping-cheer,
Your praiers & pilgrimage to Saints, your pixes,
Your holy reliques, beads, & crucifixes,
Your masses, Ave Maries, images,
Dirges, & such like idle fantasies

Of superstitiously polluted Rome,
Can saue your soules in that great day of doome.

Between these sects, as in a golden meane,
Stands the religion whervnto we leane;
Vndoubted truth it is that we doe holde,
Yet is our zeale so frozen & so colde,
So chockt with thornes of covetous desire,
So hoggishlie polluted with the mire
Of carnall lusts, that our best sanctity
Is but a kinde of bastard piety.
And yet the times as now did ne're afford
Such plenty of dispencers of Gods word;
For now the Gospell, like the midday sunne,
Displaies his beames over all Albion.
But we, as if by too much light strucke blinde,
Neglect this meanes of grace, which is assignd
For our soules health. Some out of pride contemne it,
Others, bent vnto greedy gaine, condemne it,
Because it speakes against the slavish vice
Of soule-bewitching, sordid avarice.
Others, that follow Epicureus fashion,
Cannot abide to hear of reformation,
And therfore hate the Gospell, which doth cry
Against their brutish sensuality.
Many there are which live like libertines,
And the holy C[h]urch & good devines
Doe hold ridiculous;—their homely homes
Will serve them well enough to pray, when 't comes
Into their fancies; they cannot abide
Vnto Church orders strictlie to be tide.
Others, forsooth, will haue a congregation,
But that must be after another fashion
Then our Church doth allow,—no church at all,—
For that they say is too papisticall;
Like their profession, they themselves will sever

From stone walles;—tut, their church shall last for ever;
Theire soules shalbe their tabernacles still,
That kinde of church doth only please their will.
Iove separat me from these Separists,
Which think they hold heavens kingdome in their fists,
And yet their life, if we into it prie,
Is full of sinne & damnd impiety.

Some, more for fear of the lawes punnishment
Then zeale vnto devotion, doe frequent
Gods holy temple, where they doe imploy
Themselves as ill as if they staide away;
On[e] part in sleeping, in discourse another;
A third doth seeme to marke, but doth discover
Slilie some object that withdrawes his eye
From what he should attend; the yoonger frie
Come only to be seen & see: of all
Which doe repaire to church, the fruit is smale
That is collected by them. I surmise
That wickednesse by this doth rather rise
To greater height, then anywise decaie;
For pride & lust it is the ready way
I'me sure. Of every new framd fashion,
This is the place to make moste ostentation,
To shew the bravery of our gay attire
Hether to come on purpose; our desire
Is to be seen of all, whilst we observe
The like in others. Though our soules doe sterve
For want of knowledge, we doe litle care;
From gazing vp and downe we cannot spare
A iot of time to hearken to Gods word,
When all's to litle that we doe afforde
To our owne fancies; thus the time we spend,
Which devine service soone brings to an end;
And then againe we homeward doe advaunce,
Fuller of pride, as full of ignorance.
Is there a wench whose beauty is of note?

Hether your gallants come, only to cote
Her rare perfections; yea, this sacred place
Serves them to make (they have soe litle grace)
Compacts for lust. Thus by these hellish evils
The howse of God is made a den of devils.

I speake not this to hinder the concourse
Of well affected mindes vnto that source,
That fountaine, blessed fountaine, which doth flow
With living waters, Gods word; no, my bow
Aimes at another marke; I onlie strive
To rectifie abuses which deprive
The Gospell of his propagation,
And plentifull encrease. Our nation
Rather needs spurres to quicken his slow pace
Vnto religion & the house of grace.
For some there are which gape soe after gaine,
That on the Lords day they will not refraine,
So 't to their benefit tend, to exercise
Themselves in some laborious enterprise.
In towne & cuntrie this vngodlie sinne
To grow vnto a custome doth beginne;
Your country swaines will moste familiarlie
Worke one this day & labour impiouslie.
But 'mongst our tradesmen specially, this vse,
Which I may iustlie call a damnd abuse,
Is most familiar. Six dayes in the weeke
Are not sufficient, but the seventh must reeke
With sweat of their vngodly labour, when
They should repaire to church with other men,
To give vnto the Lord, the only Giver
Of blessings, & the gracious Forgiver
Of hell deserving sinnes, all praiers & praise.
What though the word of God expresly sayes,
“This is the day which thou must dedicate
Vnto my service, this day at no rate
Shalt thou performe thy worke, least thou doe draw

My heavy wrath vpon thee?” Though the law
Of man forbid the same, and doe inflict
A punnishment on those it doth convict
Of this offence; yet fearlesse of all danger,
From the man borne i' th' land vnto the stranger,
If they can cast a mist before the eye
Of sinne-correcting, strict authority,
Moste of our tradesmen will enact this crime;
It stands not with their profit to loose time;
They'l take their best advantage while they may;
It is sufficient once a month to pray.
Vngracious villaines, how can you expect
A blessing to your labour, which neglect
The only meanes, Gods service, which alone
Can bring your workes vnto perfection?
The manna gathered in the wildernesse
By the Iewes vnbeelieving wickednesse
Vpon their Sabboth, by the Lord forbidden,
Both putrifide & stuncke. Nothing is hidden
Which shall not be reveald; though you may blinde
The eyes of man, there is a God will finde
And punnish this lewd sinne. I' th' meantime think
That all such labours in his nostrils stinke,
And therfore shall prove fruitlesse: men intend
But God it is that consummates the end.

I cannot 'scape the blest Communion,
Which doth with God effect our vnion,
It is soe much abusd by sinfull man,—
To passe the papist & the Lutheran,
Their trans & consubstantiation,
Of both these errors to make no relation,—
We that doe holde the verity indeed,
That this same bred, wheron our soules doe feed,
This wine we drink, is reall bred and wine,
Although the mistery be moste devine;
Even we, I say, though we doe represent

The true opinion of the Sacrament,
Yet in the vse doe erre, nay rather sinne,
Which applide rightly is the meanes to winne
Eternall life. Some men, which are vnable
To iudge the worth, come to this Holy Table
Only to please their sence; others there are
Which for so smale a pittaunce doe not care;—
“What is a bitte of bread, a sip of wine?”—
But that the law doth straightly them enioyne,
To be partakers of this holy meat
And sacred drink. By farre they'd rather eat
At their owne howses, wher their carnall sence
May be suffic'd; their soules intelligence
May sterve for want of this spirituall food,
And they regard it not. That's only good
In their grosse braines, whose visibility
And appetituall sensibility
Lies open to their sence. Others ther be,
Which doe indeed esteem more reverendlie
Of the Lords Supper; & because they knowe
The danger great, that to their soules may grow
By their vnworthy eating, quite refuse
To be partakers of it; still they vse
Some let or other to detaine them back;
Either they doe due preparation lacke,
Or else they are not in true charity
With other men. Ther must noe malice be
In a communicant: 'tis true.—What then?
Doe you surmise, O shallow-pated men,
That this excuse is all sufficient
To satisfie for such a foule intent?
No, simple worldlings; the king made his feast,
And you were bidden to it 'mongst the rest;
But 'cause you would not come, you shall not tast
His sacred supper, but you shalbe cast
Into that pitt, with the ungodlie rout,

Where the worme dies not, the fire ne're goes out.
And soe shall likewise he that boldlie came
Without his wedding roabe; I mean the same
Which comes vnto the Table of the Lord
As to some common, ordinarie bord,
And never seekes to make true preparation,
But even eats & drinkes his owne damnation.

It is a lamentable thing to see
The ignorance & strange stupidity
Of men now living in the clearest light
Of the resplendant Gospell, as if night
Of darkest errour still ecclips'd their eyes;
They are so rude in the true misteries
Of their salvation, scarce one man 'mong ten
Can giue a true account of 's faith; nor, when
He comes to due examination,
How he hath made his preparation
For the Lords Table, iustlie tell the number
Of Sacraments; this only thing doth cumber
The wits of many & confounds their sence,
As I haue seen by plaine experience.
How far then are they from the perfect knowing
Of their true vse! yet these men will be shewing
Themselues moste forward to receive; but what
They know not, nor they care not much for that;
But for the world, to purchase earthly gaine,
They follow that with dayly sweat and paine.

It is a custome, lewd enough I 'me sure,
(And I doe wonder that our lawes endure
Such profane vses) after the receate
Of that cœlestiall sacramentall meat,
For olde & young i' th' country frequently
Vpon that day to vse most luxurie.
Each on[e] must then vnto an alehouse run,
Drink drunk, act any sinne vnder the sunne.
Why? this same day's a day of iubile;

It hath been an accustomd liberty
To spend this day in mirth, and th[e]y will choose
Rather their soules then priviledges loose.
And soe (I fear) not few among them will;
For they, which on this day doe drink & swill
In such lewd fashion, may be likened well
To him that swept the howse wher he did dwell,
And made it clean, & garnisht it full faire;
After which act ther did to him repaire
Seven evill fiends worse then the former were;
More ougly sinnes did enter & dwell there,
And by his falling to more wicked sinning,
He made his end far worse then his begining.
So is 't with them that in this sort doe sinne,
Satan stands close ready to enter in,
Even as he did in Iudas, which had eat
Vnworthily the sacramentall meat.
And yet fond man regardeth not one whit,
Till he have made himselfe the devils bit,
Who at two bits, for so his name imports,
Devours both soule & body, mans two parts.

Thus is man blowne, by every puffe of vanity,
From the true scope of Christianity,
His soules salvation. Wretched, wicked man,
Returne, repent! Thy life is but a spanne,
A breath, a buble; think that thou must die
To live in joyes or endlesse miserie.
And if the comfort of celestiall blisse,
Whose joy beyond imagination is,
Haue not sufficient power to mollifie
Thy heart, heart hardned in iniquity,
Yet let the horrour of damnation,
Of whose strange paines no tongue can make relation,
Enforce repentance with a true contrition,
And that produce a forward disposition

To a new course of life; refuse not grace
While it is offered; while ther 's time & space
Dally not with repentance, least iust Iove
Convert to furie his contemnèd love;
And in that ire, iustly conceivèd ire,
Confine thy soule to hells tormenting fire.

Satira 2. [AGAINST SHAMS.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Fronti nulla fides, ludunt spectacula mentem;
Non facies verum symptoma cordis habet.
Decipimur specie recti, sub imagine veri
Falsa latent; virtus dissimulata placet.

The brave erect Mausolian monument,
That famous vrne, the worlds seventh wonderment,
Whose sumptuous cost & curious workemanship
Noe poet, though in Helicon he dip
His pen, by verse is able to dilate,
Being made for wonder, not to imitate;
For all his glorious outside, without staine,
Filth & corruption doth within containe.
The sunne, whose spacious orbe in magnitude
Doth far exceed the earth, seemes to the rude,
Ignorant of the astronomicke art,
Noe bigger then the wheel of Hobnols cart.
Counterfet gold, if we doe trust our eye,
Will passe for purest mettall currantlie.
The dredfull beast, yclepèd crocodile,
Whose dwelling is about Ægiptian Nile,
Before he doth devoure his wishèd prey,
Pitty in outward semblance doth display;

For brinish teares from his false eyes distill,
When he is ready to destroy & kill.
Full dear seafaring passengers abie
The Syrens sweet enchaunting melodie,
Which by their singing evermore presage
Death thretning danger by the furious rage
Of an ensuing storme. Of Circes cup
Who hath not heard, that who therof did sup
Was changd (strange metamorphosis in nature)
From humane forme into a brutish creature?
And yet the cup [w]as goodly to beholde,
Richly enchasde with pearle, composde of golde.

Glorious in view appeard Medusaes head,
Nathlesse it did strike the beholders dead.
Serpents & poysnous toads, as in their bowers,
Doe closely lurke vnder the sweetest flowers.
But sencelesse things & sensuall beastes alone
Mislead not mans to rash opinion;
Even rationall creatures doe our iudgements cheat,
Man is to man a subject of deceite;
And that olde saying is vntrue, “the face
Is index of the heart.” False looking glasse
To view the thoughts of man, when there doe raine
Stormes of displeasure in mans vexèd braine;
When mists of sorrow reasons eyes doe blinde,
When revenge thunders in his ragefull minde,
His face can carry sunneshine of delight,
Allthough his soule be blacke as ougly night.
You erre, fond physiognomers, that hold
The inward minde followes the outward molde.
Philosophers, your axiome is vnsure,
The soule is as the bodies temperature;
Complexion noe certaine ground doth shew
The disposition of a man to know;
Els why should Nisus, that same pretty youth,

Be of soe lewd behaviour? when, in truth,
His bodies crasis is angelicall,
And his soules actions diabolicall.
Things are not as they seeme; for were they soe,
Detraction would professe himselfe my foe,
Shewing his rancors hate before my face,
And not behinde my backe worke my disgrace,
When in my presence he doth seem to be
As Damon to his Pithias, friend to me.

Mechanico, reputed by moste men
An honest tradesman & grave citisen,
When thou dost come into his shop to buy,
Although it be the least commodity,
With kind salutes & good wordes will receave thee;
But trust him not, in 's deeds he will deceave thee.

Madam Fucata seemeth wondrous faire,
And yet her face is painted, & her haire,
That seemes soe goodly, a false periwig.
Thus all her beauty is not worth a fig,
That doth appeare so glorious to the eye,
And strikes my gallant in loves lethurgie,
That soe doth boast of famous ancestry
And from great Iove derives his pedigree,
And speakes indeed, like Iove himselfe, in thunder;
For othes, as if they would rend heaven in sunder,
Shot out in vollies, like artillerie,
Flie from his mouth, that piece of blasphemie.
Like some great horse he paceth vp and downe,
Gracing his lookes with a disdainefull frowne,
And takes vpon him in each company,
As if he held some petty monarchy.
If any man by chance discourse of warre,
He being present this discourse will marre
By intermixing his high martiall deeds,
Swearing his manhood all mens else exceeds;
Vowing that his Herculean arme hath slaine

More men then populous London doth containe,
Except the subvrbs. He hath made to flie
The potent Turke, & got the victory
By his owne valour. Charles the Fift of Spaine
Was nothing to him, nor great Tamburlaine;
Stout Scanderbeg a childe; he paralels
Strong sinnewed Sampson, or, indeed, excels.
What dares he not performe? Hee 'l vndertake
To make the Spanniards vtterly forsake
The Westerne Indies & their mines of gold,
With some few chosen men; nay hee 'l vpholde
His force sufficient to reconquer Fraunce,
And with that kingdome once againe enhaunce
The faire revennewes of the English crowne,
Or lay their citties levell with the ground.
Hee 'l chase the Turke out of Hungaria,
And force him leave his seat in Grecia;
Europe hee 'l free from his vexation,
And bring againe that scattered nation,
The Iewes, together to their Palestine,
Which he by force will conquer, & confine
To his obeisaunce. These he dares be bolde,
And more then these, even acts that would make colde
The heartes of men only to hear recounted,
His martiall force, which Mars his force surmounted,
Shall vndertake. Thou vainly bragging foole,
Ne're trainèd vp in brave Bellonaes schoole,
Doe not I know, for all thou lookest soe big,
Thou never yet durst see a sillie pig
Stucke to the heart? A frog would make thee run!
Thou kill a man? No, no! thy mothers sonne,
Her only sonne, was a true coward bred.
I 'le vndertake a sword shall strike thee dead,
And never touch thee! As for thy discent,

Though thou maist boast the place was firtill Kent
That gave thee birth, yet was thy syre a clowne,
And kept his wife in a course homespun gowne;
Who, scraping vp a litle wealth, began
To fashion thee an ill shapd gentleman.
And now, because thou hast, like Coriate,
Traveld a litle ground, & canst relate
How many baudy houses thou hast seen
In the French country; how the whores have been
Kinder there to thee then our English punckes;
How many nunnes thou hast heard sing, & monckes
Say mattens; thou thyselfe dost now repute
The wort[h]iest wort[h]y of the race of Brute;
The rarest linguist England doth afford,
The bravest soldier that e're wore a sworde.
Vain vpstart braggadochio! heartlesse cow!
Leave Mars his drumme, goe holde thy fathers plow!

Fine Mistris Simula, the Puritane,
Which as the plague shunnes all that are profane,
Ready to faint if she an oth but hear,
For all her outward holinesse doth blear
The worldes dimme eyes, plaies but the hypocrite,
Living in sinne & sensuall delight.
For, would you think it? she was tane in bed
With a young, tender, smoothfacd Ganimed,
Her husbands prentice. Out, lascivious whore!
Thy countries shame, thy husbands festered sore!
Are these the fruits thy frequentation
Of learned sermons yeilds? Is this the fashion
Of your pure seeming sect? Your meetings tend
Surely vnto some such like holy ende.
And yet the world, blinde world, thinkes you to be
Men of most zeale & best integrity.

Methinkes I see the rich chuffe, Sordido,

How basely in apparrell he doth goe;
Vpon his head a thrice turnd greasy felt,
His hose & dublet a tuffe ramskin pelt;
His stockings of the coursest woole yspunne,
Full of broad patches, with thicke hobnaild shoone;
His lockram bande sewde to his hempen shirt;
A lethern thong doth serve his wast to girt,
At which a pouch full 20 winters olde
Hangs for his codpiece to keep out the colde.
How hunger-starvd he lookes! With thin lank cheekes,
With beard vnkemd, with face fit soile for leekes,
I dare be sworne, who e'er should see the goat,
Would iudge him to be scarcely worth a groat.
And yet this boore, this miserable swine,
Hath landes & lordships, with good store of coine.
Slave to thy wealth, thus from thy selfe to rend
What thy next heir will soone as vainly spend!

Scotus, thou hast deceiud the world enough,
Which takes thee, clothd in thy embrodered stuffe,
To be some lord at least. Poore silly groome,
Which tother day wouldst faine have had the roome
Of some base trencher-scraper, so to put
Scraps twice runne over, in thy half starvd gutt.
And now, with often filling of the pot,
An office vnder my lords man hast got,
Being some bread-chipper or greasy cooke,
For much observance & respect dost looke.
Goe where thou wilt, thou gettest none of me.
I know too well thy genealogie.
Let ignorant asses bend their supple knees,
And cry, “God blesse your worship,” for some fees
Of thy cast office; I as much doe scorne,
As they desire the plenty of thy horne.
Proud meacocke, make the world no more believe

Gentility is pind vpon thy sleeve;
For if thou doe, with my satirick verse,
Thy parentage & manners I 'le reherse,
And make the world, for thy monstrous othes,
To laugh & hisse thee out of thy fine clothes.

He that sees Moros in his brave attire
Would deem him to be some discreet esquire,
He speakes soe seldome, soe demure doth looke.
But see how much a man may be mistooke;—
A verier foole dame Nature never bred,
That scarce knowes chalke from cheese, or blew from red;
Yet amongst many which haue purblinde eyes
This foolish sot hath been thought wondrous wise.
I know a fellow (I 'le conceale his name)
Hath purchasd, & yet doth possess, the fame
Of a rare scholler, that hath noe one part
Of learning, not the smallest dramme of art.
And will you know how he got his repute?
I 'le tell you, soe you 'l promise to be mute
And make no wordes on 't. 'Tis his asses guise,
As soone as he from 's morning bed doth rise,
After some turne or two in Paules, to drop
In the precinct of some knowne stationers shop,
And there, like a learnd Sir, with a grave voice
He doth demand to see some special choice
Of famous authors, whose true names by heart
The foole hath gotten, of what tongue or art
It skills not much; French, Latine, Hebrew, Greeke,
All 's one, he vnderstandeth all alike:
Montaignes Essaies in French, the history
Of Philip Comineus, poesie
Of Virgil, Horace, & such Latin writers,
St. Austine, Bernard, or some new enditers

Of commentaries theologicall;
And sometimes he 's for philosophicall,
And the best writers of astronomie,
With phisick, logicke, & geometrie.
Then Aristotle, Di[o]scorides,
Avicen, Galen, & Hypocrates;
The Hebrew Rabbins, Ptolomeus, Plato
(Although the foole did never learne his Cato),
Are in his mouth familiar. Some of these,
Which to demaund his fancy best doth please,
He for some hower or two will pore vpon,
Which time is worth your observation;
For sometime smiling with a simpring grace,
In turning over those same leaves apace,
To shew his skill i' th' tongues, hee 'l nod his head,
As if the place which he doth seeme to read
Mov'd him to laughter; then with thumb hee 'l cote,
As if that sentence were of speciall note,
And straight cry “pish!” as if he dislikd that
Which he as much knowes as his grandams cat.
Well, having (as he thinkes) sufficiently
Guld the opinion of the standers by
To his desire, the booke he downe doth lay,
Demaunds the price, dislikes it, goes his way.
Somtime perhaps, to blinde dull iudgements eye,
Some petty English pamphlet he will buie.
Thus hath this gull, among the common sort,
Which iudge by outward shewes, got the report
Of a great scholler, when, God knowes, the foole
Was never farther then the grammer schoole.

Thus mans opinion doth him oft deceave,
And of true iudgement doth his minde bereave.
Iudging by outward shewes we iudge amisse,
For vice in vertues habite clothed is.
Hypocrisie seemes holinesse in looke,
Fixing his eyes on heaven or in his booke.

O, 'tis a most dissembling, harmfull devill,
That's good in shew & yet in heart is evill.
Backbiting slander, deep dissimulation,
Are inside hate, yet outside salutation.
Vanting in wordes true valour oft doth seeme,
Yet by his actions we him coward deem;
Soothing vp ill, pernicious flattery,
In outward shew good counsel seemes to be.
Deformity, daubde with a face of paint,
With beauties title doth herselfe a[c]quaint;
Base avarice & sordid parsimony
Is thrift accounted, & good husbandry;
Excessive spending, sensuall prodigality,
Is thought all one with liberality;
Impudent boldnesse, rash temerity,
Is held for vertuous audacity;
Ignorance in his scarlet robe yclad,
Accounted learning, in respect is had,
When vertuous art, clothed in poor aray,
Is held in no repute, till time bewray
The seeming good that ignorance hath not,
And the not seeming good that art hath got.
Thus ther's no trust to be reposde in seeming,
Since virtue's knowne by act, not by esteeming.

Sat[ira] 3. [AGAINST PRIDE, ETC.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Dum tendit superos ambire superbia cœlos,
Decidit ad Stigium fulmine quassa lacum.
Æterno verum sic indignata perisse,
Cœcos mortales ad sua regna trahit.

After the fabricke of heaven, earth, & seas
Were gloriously composde, it then did please
High Iove (e're he began mans operation)
To give vnto the Angels their creation.
No earthy substance was in them at all,
Their formes were heavenly & spirituall.
Yet some of these, vpon the very day
They were by God created (if I say
Vntruth, I can alleadge mine author for it),
Swelling with pride (oh, I to write abhor it)
Because they were such glorious creatures, strove
To take possession of the throne of Iove.
But he, displeasde with such ambition,
Struck them with lightning downe to Acheron,
And them confined perpetually to dwell
In the darke horrour of infernall hell.
Thus were faire angels ougly devils made,
And one dayes sinne an everlasting trade.

After the fall of these was man compacted,
And from him sleeping woman was extracted
And made to be a kinde associat
Vnto him. Now the devill shewes his hate
And swelling envie 'gainst God in his creature
Formd to his image, man; to make defeature
Of his estate in blisse, he doth intend
And fittest opportunity attend.
To worke this feat proud Lucifer's enioynd,
And goe[s] about it swifter then the winde.
“Shall I,” quoth he, “fall from celestiall blisse
Into the horrour of hells blacke abysse,
And man escape? Shall I in torment live,
And man in pleasure? Shall I only grieve,
And man goe scotfree? No, 'twill ease my paine
If in my griefe I him copartner gaine;
And I will doe it: if my plots hit right,
I 'le bring his soule vnto perpetuall night.”
This saide, the serpents shape he takes & hies
Vnto the tree in midst of Paradise.
There findes the woman, after namèd Eve,
The weakest vessell, easiest to deceave;
Whose minde with hellish pride he straight inspirde
That she [the] trees forbidden fruit desirde;
The tree of which alone she might not eat,
The tree forbidden by the Lord for meat.
The tree of knowledge, knowledge of much evill,
She gathers straight, seducèd by the devill,
Which greedilie, without advice, she tasted,
And then to give her husband of it hasted.
Whom when she had allurde vnto her will,
And both had tasted, then they knew their ill;
But all too late (first Phrigians) they grew wise,

Being both thrust forth Edens Paradise;
Which happy place man ever had possessed,
If they had never in this sorte transgressed.
Vnhappy three, first causers of our evill,
Fond man, proude woman, & accursèd devill!
Since this hath pride increasd with Adams seed,
And Lucifer companions shall not need;
Man with soe many kindes of pride doth swell
As if he strove headlong to run to hell.

Some shew their pride in raysing stately bowers,
Which seem to threatne heaven like Babell towers;
Building so strong, erecting them so high,
As if they ment to live eternally,
In spite of Iove. Others bestow more cost
In houses built for pleasure, which they boast
Are but for shew, then would maintaine & cherish
Thousands of poore soules which are like to perish:
Confusion sure will light on their pretence
Which wast their treasure in soe vaine expence.
Others there be which, clad in gay attire,
In stately gate & loftie lookes, aspire
Above their ranke; holding inferiors base,
Scarsely permitting equalles come in place
Of fellowship, vnlesse their peacock sutes
Gaine them admittance in their proud reputes.
O, these are men of admiration,
Which follow each fantastique fashion,
To be observde with reverence & respect;
When, if we could the inward man detect,
God knowes that I am not deceavd a whit,
Their gay apparrell covers litle witt.

Most of our women are extreamly proud
Of their faire lookes, & therfore doe enshroud
Their beauties in a maske; with greater care
Their faces then their soules, to keepen faire.
Some of this kinde when beauty gins decay,

By art restore what nature takes away,
Painting their visage. Cursed Iesabell
That taught them this, will bring them all to hell.
This vice in woeman only doth not bide,
Men alsoe are infected with this pride.
Some curle their pates to make their lookes more fair,
Others delight to wear a locke of haire,
A lovelocke, which being of the longest size
Doth the lewd wearer quite effeminize.
Nay some with fucus will besmear their face,
It ads to their complexion better grace.
I knowe a snowt-faire, selfe-conceited asse,
Which is still prying in a looking glasse
To see his fooles face, washt with ly o 'th' chamber,
And set his beard, perfumde with greece of amber,
Or kembe his civet lockes, soe far in love
With his owne beauty, that I fear hee'l proove
Sicke with conceat; for the which maladie
I can prescribe no better remedy
Then wish the glasse, wherin he views his face,
A river, him to take Narcissus place,
So the next time he came on 's face to looke
He should be drenchèd in the liquid brooke.
But leaving him a courting in the glasse
His owne vaine shadowe, I this coxcome passe.
Others there be which, selfe-conceited wise,
Take a great pride in their owne vaine surmise,
That all men think them soe; these take delight
To hear themselves speak; if they can recite
A thing scarce worth the hearing, they will prate
Till they tire all men with their idle chatt.
Others, ambitious like fond Phaeton,
Aspire to guide the chariot of the sunne,
Aiming at honours far above their place,
Till by their pride they worke their owne disgrace.

Presumptuous pride in others doth remaine,
And these high Ioves almighty power disdaine,
And (like those giants) fight against the gods,
Till, Pharoah like, they scourgèd are with rods
Of dire affliction, & their hardned hearts
Vnto their guilty soule dispaire impartes.
But I too much insist in generall:—
Pride in particular must be dealt withall.
He that desires to breake a bunch of wandes,
Must not take all at once into his handes,
But singlie, one by one; and if he trie,
He may then break them with facility.
Reader, doe thou the application make,
For I to other matters me betake.

Proud Romish prelat, triple crownèd Pope,
Which vauntst of Peters heavenly keis, that ope
The dore that leads vnto celestiall blisse;
Which makst great princes stoope thy foote to kisse,
Emperours vpon thy stirrop to attend,
When as thou wilt thy stately horse ascend;
Damd Antichrist, proud Lucifers first sonne,
Ambitious beast, great whore of Babilon!
Thou false vsurper of Gods regal throne,
How darst assume his honour, which, alone
Monarch of heaven & earth, disdaine[s] to see
Corrivals in his sacred Emperie?
How darst thou take vpon thee such authority
Which doth belong to Gods high majesty,
To forgive sinnes, to award heaven & hell
At thine owne pleasure? Wher didst learne to swell
With such ambition? Thinkst thou Peeters chaire
Can sheild thee from Gods wrath? Can once impaire
And lessen thy deservèd punnishment?
Can free thee from eternall detriment?
Thinkst thou that he presumption can abide,
Which did not spare his angels for their pride?

No. Thou shalt finde that he will vengeance take,
Sending thee headlong to the Stygian lake.

Maddam Poppæa is soe stately growne
That she can neither sit nor walke alone;
Store of attendants still must wait vpon her,
And doe obsequious homage to her honour.
The ground she thinkes vnworthy is to bear
Her precious body; when she doth vprear
Her selfe vpon her feet, there must be spread
Rich clothes of Arras wher she goes to tread.
If she doe ride, the horse that must vpholde
So rare a burden must be shod with golde.
When she intends to wash her selfe she hath
Of goats pure milck a sweet preparèd bath.
Musick beyond the musick of the spheares
Must still attend vpon her itching eares.
Her food must be Ambrosian delicates,
Dissolvèd pearle her drink. Impartiall fates!
How can ye suffer this lascivious quean
Thus swell in pride, thus swim in pleasures streame,
And holde your thunder fast? Proud, stately dame,
Which more respectst thy body then thy fame,
Or thy soules health, know that all working Power
Which did confound (by wormes that did devour
His cursed body) Herods lofty pride,
Will, when thou thinkst thou art most diefied,
Sevearly punnish with confusion,
To thy soules horrour, this presumption.

Lucius spends his substance & his store,
To keep in gallant fashion his proud whore,
Yet al 's to litle to maintaine her pride;
She must be coatcht, forsooth, & bravely ride.
Lackies before her charriot must run,
And she in spangled gold, clothd like the sunne,
Dazels the eyes of men, or she complaines

He loves her not, & such a man maintaines
His love in better fashion! Then his land
Must flie, for soe his mistris doth command,
To bolster vp her pride. O foolish sot,
Thus to procure thy reputations blot,
Thy states vndooing, & thy soules perdition
For on[e] soe base & of soe vile condition!

Drusus, that fashion-imitating ape,
Delights to follow each fantastique shape;
Every new habit of hell-hac[t]hed sinne,
Though it vndooe him, hee'l be clothèd in;
And prodigally vpon every toy
Lash out his substance; 'tis his only ioy
To see himselfe not differing in a hair
From the true stamp of a brave Cavaleer.

Vain Epainnutus, selfe-admiring gull,
Doth speake orations, write whole volumes full
Of his owne praises. Silly, simple sotte,
Hast thou that auncient, true saide sawe forgot,
That “a mans praise in his owne mouth doth stinke”?
Or dost (foole if thou dost) absurdly think
This age such shallow pated men affords,
That will give credit to thy boasting wordes?
Because in gay apparell thou art drest
Some puppet-like thou dost advaunce thy crest,
And swell in big lookes like some turkie cocke,
Ready to burst with pride, & even to choake
With selfe-conceit of thy perfection,
Which is iust nowe, though the infection
Of thy high leveld thoughts lets thee not see
The ougly face of thy deformity.
Thou which thinkst Adon, that same lovely boy,
Dame Natures dareling, Cithereas joy,
A taunie Negro, or Barbarian Moore,
Comparèd to thy selfe, & dost adore
Even thine owne beauty like some demigod,

Which (for on purpose thou dost goe abroad
To shew thy selfe), thou vainely dost surmise
Doth even ravish the beholders eyes.
Noe wench that sees thee, but straight fals in love
With thy rare feature, & doth wish to prove
The tast of thy Ambrosian lip; one kisse
From thy mirre-breathing mouth were endless blisse;
But gavst thou other joyes (which in thee lies)
They would be thought 'bove ioyes of paradise.
Thou bladder full puft vp with vanity,
Whom with my pen I prick, that ther migh[t] flie
Out into open aire all windy pride,
All self-conceit; then being repurifide,
Before the purchase of all earthly pelfe
Learn Solons saying, “Mortall, know thy selfe.”

Neotimus, why art thou growne so proud,
Instead of Iuno to embrace a cloud
I' nothing worth? These honours heapd vpon thee
Are but as shadowes, & will soone flie from thee.
Ther is an everlasting dignity
Of greater worth and more insignity,
To be sought out, which thou shalt ne're attaine,
If pride in thy aspiring thoughts doe reigne.
Contemne not them because thy selfe art high,
Who, if the heavens had pleasd, might equally
Have rankd with thee, yet now are low in state;
All men are not predestind to on[e] fate.
Become more humble, & cast downe thy looke,
Least prides bait snare thee on the devils hooke,
And having caught thee, hale thee downe to hell,
With fiends in everlasting paines to dwell.
For why shouldst thou be proud 'cause thou art high
In titles of renownèd dignity?
Honour's a flower that will soon decay;
Honour's a vapour, quickly blowne away;
And 'tis a saying held for true of all,

“A sudden rising hath a sudden fall.”

Philarchus (which in his ambitious minde
Devoures whole kingdomes) doth smale comfort finde
In his olde vnckles new-framde married life,
But lesse in the male issue of his wife.
The bastard brat (for soe he calles his cozen)
Defrauds his expectation of a dozen
Of goodly lordships, which (his hopes were faire)
Should come to him, as the next lawfull heire.
But now this boy, which stands as a crosse-barre
Twixt him & home, doth all his fortunes marre.
But long he shall not soe, if figs of Spaine,
Or pils of Italy their force retaine;
If ther be meanes that his pretence will furder,
If ther be hands that dare enact a murder,
Hee'l send his soule (wher himselfe ne're shall come)
To Abrahams bosome (mans long lookd for home).
Nor shall his aged vnckle 'scape this net,
Least if he live he doe more sonnes beget;
Least he more issue by this marriage have,
He shalbe wedded shortly to his grave.
But then his vnckles wife surviues, purchance
Left quick with childe; & then he may goe dance
For a new living; no, he likes not that,
She shall be soone pact after too, that's flat;
Besides, her ioynture, in his heart engravde
With duble greatnesse, by her death is savde.
Ambitious slave! wilt make a crimsen flood
Of thy neare dearest kinsmens vitall blood,
To wash thy murdrous handes? Think not at all
Vpon a deed so much vnnaturall!
Shall hope of some vain titles move thy minde,
To doe an act perpetually combinde
With horrour of a guilty conscience

(A most deservèd & due recompence)
Wilt thou for purchase of a litle land,
With innocent blood distaine thy guilty hand?
Desist; for murder 's an iniquity
That for iust vengeance vnto heaven doth crie.
And darst thou then insist in thy invention?
Is there noe hope to alter thine intention?
No! Thou art flesht in sinne, & dost despise
My Christian counsell; Satan blinde[s] thine eyes.
Goe forward then in this lewd preparation,
But know thou headlong runst vnto damnation.

Thus Lucifer, which through ambition fell,
Strives dayly to bring company to hell
Of each degree & sex, from every nation.
Mortals, become more wise; make preparation
Of armes defensiue to resist this devill
Which would procure your everlasting evill.
But you, whose vnrelenting heartes persist
In fearfull pride, will then cry, “had I wist,”
Yet all too late, when each his sinne shall rue;
You having your iust meed, & hell his due.
Thoug[h] God awhile his punnishment delay,
A thing deferd 's not taken quite away.
But now enough of Luciferian pride,
Ther 's other vices in the world beside.

Sat[ira] 4. [AGAINST AVARICE, BRIBERY, APOSTASY.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Effodiuntur opes ex imo viscere terræ,
Quæ fiunt miseri causa, cibusque mali.
Omnia sunt auro nostræ vænalia Romæ,
Ius, pudor, & probitas, favor & ipse deus.

Insatiate Avarice then first began
To raigne in the depravèd minde of man
After his fall; & then his mother Earth,
That gave first being to his bodies birth,
Vngracious childe, he did begin to wound,
And rend the bowels of the harmelesse ground;
For precious metals & rare minerals ies
Her veines, her sinnewes, & her arteries.
Among these, Golde, Dame Tellus glittering sunne,
Was with his sister Sylver, earth[s] bright moone,
Digd from the center of rich Aurimont,
Sol & his sister Phebe to confront.
But for that silver golde in price doth follow,
Because from him, as Cynthia from Apollo,
She takes her light, & other mettals all
Are but his vassaile starres; they well may fall

Vnder his title, therfore I 'le expresse
Others in him, the great includes the lesse.
He that first searched the teeming earth for golde,
Now as a demigod perhaps enrolde
In Fames eternal booke, was the chief cause
Of wronging right & abrogating lawes.
For since these mines bewi[t]chd the mindes of men,
What mischiefs haue ensude my worthlesse pen
Cannot delineat, but we all can tell
The number infinitly doth excell;
Omitting former ages & strange climes,
The vices of our nation in these times,
So far excede in quality & number,
That to recite them would whole volumes cumber.

Iustice, opprest by golden bribery,
Hath left the earth-stage of mortality
And fled to heaven for succour & defence,
Wher she doth keep eternall residence;
And now our lawes for Mammons cursed golde
Like as at open mart are bought & solde.
Our lawyers, like Demosthenes, are mute,
And will not speak, though in a rightfull sute,
Vnlesse a golden kei vnlocke their tongue;
Then how thei 'l sweat, be it for right or wrong,
And get their cause too, or it shall goe hard,
When the poore client, of his right debard,
Cursing the law, first for mans good ordainde,
Grieves at his losse, which ne're can be regainde.
Let some damnd villaine of all grace bereft
Commit a murder, sacriledge, or theft,
And if he can procure but store of pence
Our iustice then will with the law dispence,
And grant the hell-hound life, when, for lesse cause,
Poore men abide the rigor of the lawes.
Let lustfull Iove, that virgins would defloure,
In Danaes lap rain but a golden shower,

Her chastety will soone be washt away,
And she be ready for his amarous play.
Let some rich cuffe, Thersites-like in shape,
Of far worse qualeties then an olde ape,
Which hath nought in him that may speake him man,
But a good purse; although he scarcely can
Speake without slavering, goe without a crutch,
Be rivall to a man that is not such
In wealth, though far above him in desertes,
As good discent, rare features, vertuous partes;
Yet for all this, I ten to one will lay,
The richer man carries the wench away.

Honours & offices, which in times of olde
Were given for deserts, are bought for golde.
Sir Iohn Lacklattin, one that ne're did passe
In any place, but for an ignorant asse,
If he can grease his patron in the fist,
Shall for his gold be richly beneficde;
When he that better doth deserve the place,
If poore, shall be repulsèd with disgrace.
Lode but a silly asse with store of golde
And he will enter in the strongest holde.
Let a foole passe by in a golden coate,
He shalbe reckond for a man of note
By those that know him not, when on[e] that's wise,
Poore in arraie, seemes abiect in their eyes.

Tradesmen make no account for golden gaine
To sell their soules vnto eternall paine;
Daily each one, in vttering of his wares,
Cosens his chapmen & himselfe forsweares.
The vserer hords golde vp in his chest,
Making an idole of it. To be blest
Is to get store of golde, the wre[t]ch doth thinke;
When the fruition scarcely lets him winke,
For sleep he cannot, till i' th' end his pelfe
Shipwracks his soule vpon hels rocky shelfe.

Many for golde have turnd (like Iulian)
Apostates to true religion,
And have, with wicked Iudas, Iesus solde
For the vaine purchase of a litle golde.

Thus doth the devill, full of slie deceits,
Fish for the soules of men with golden baites;
And to increase his kingdome, doth assay
By this temptation to pervert our way.
Well did the Lacedæmons banish golde
Out of their common wealth; well did they holde
Community of all things necessary;
For by this meanes they were not accessary
Vnto the many kindes of wickednes,
Which the vnsatiable greedinesse
Of golde in this our iron age begets;
Which to entrap, so many kinde of nets,
So many damnèd plots are dayly laide;
He that gets moste thinks himselfe best apaide,
And well he may, for in a golden string
A man may lead the world to any thing.
What in these days may not a man command,
That seekes to purchase with a golden hand?

Fortunate Fatuo was late dubd a knight,
Not for his wit, or for his martiall fight;
For wit ne're blest him, valour never knewe him;
What may the cause be then that only drew him
To this preferment? Faith, his store of wealth,
For honours now ar[e] purchasèd by stealth
Of vndermining bribes. Canst thou disburse
Good store of coine from a well lined purse?
Thou shalt not want authority to grace thee,
And in an office of repute to place thee,
Be thy life ne're so vilde. O evill times,
And ill conditioned men, that act such crimes,
Which great meanes then good meaning better deeme,
And more of goods then goodnesse doe esteeme!

But bootelesse I exclaime on this same age,
This vnrelenting age, whose furious rage
Will not be mollified as it hath been,
But is now hardned in vngodly sinne.
Yet, though the world nothing the better grow,
I 'le rip vp all the villanies I know.

Flavia, because her meanes are somewhat scant,
Doth sell her body to relieve her want,
Yet scornes to be reputed as a quean,
Though with moste nations she have been vnclean.
English, Scots, Dutch, French, Spannish, yea, black Moor[es],
If they bring store of gold, her open dores
Conveigh to private lust; bee 't day or night,
Golde vshers them to sensuall delight.
Thus often fighting vnder Cupids banner
Perhaps she's sometimes taken in the manner,
And being brought before authority,
Which should correct her hell-bread villany,
If golde speake for her in the present tense,
The officer deputed for th' offence
Will winck at smale faultes & remit correction.
This foolish, knavish pittie's an infection
Spread through our land, & hurtes our common wealth—
Iustice restore her to her former health!
For true 's the saying (magistrates, beware!)
“He harmes the good that doth the evill spare.”

Midas is patron to a goodly living,
And Stolido, that dunce, hath now been driving
A price for it. What, benefices solde?
This was not wont to be in times of olde,
But Simonie is now soe common growne,
That 'tis account noe sinne, if kept vnknowne.
Or otherwise, lawes danger to prevent,
The patron with the parson will indent

That he shall have the living in this wise,
Suffering him yearly to reserve his tithes;
When the whole parish knowes the better part
Of all the living, those his tithes imparte.
Thou wicked imp, thus to abuse the C[h]urch,
And with such sacrilegious handes to lurch
Gods sacred duties, which he doth afford
To the dispensers of his holy word!
How dar'st thou with all-seeing Iove dissemble?
Me thinkes thou shouldst with great amazment tremble
At that most fearfull yet just punnishment
Powrd downe one Ananias, whose intent,
Like thine, was in most damnd hypocrisie
To mocke God with a shew of charity.
But for this sinne he & his cursèd wife
Suddenly fell downe dead & lost his life.
Take heed the like plague fall not on thy head,
If thou persist, high Iove can strike thee dead;
Though he awhile forbear to shew his ire,
His mercy keeps back what thy sinnes require.

Signior Necessity, that hath no law,
Scarce ever read his Litleton, a daw
To a solliciter, is now become
Iustice of peace & coram; takes his roome
'Mongst grave & learned Iudges; is still cald
Right worshipfull, his wit & pate both bald.
And yet the foole expects th' ensuing year
To be elect high sherif of all the sheire.
I, & he hath great hopes, for the whole tribe
Of voices that elect the sherif hee 'l bribe;
And after that he hopes to get consent
By this meanes to be knight o' th' parliament.
Base minded peasants, which for some few pence
Give to [a] foole such place of eminence!
Ignoble Crassus did in litle time

Vnto the top of honours mountaine clime;
If you aske how he rose, let this suffice,
His wealth was great, & therfore needs must rise.

Ruffino, that same roring boy of fame,
By braules & wenches is diseasde & lame;
Yet hath some store of crownes left in his purse,
Which he with all his heart would fain disburse,
And those that healpt him benefactours call,
To get a place in the new hospitall.
Fear not Ruffino, for it is decreed
Those that have meanes to give shall only speed.

Loth am I to rip vp my nurces shame,
Or to accuse for this those schooles of fame,
The Academies: yet for reformation
Of this abuse, I must reprove the fashion
Of divers seniors, which for private gaine
Permit some ignorant asse, some dunce, attaine
A schollers or a fellowes place among 'em.
Some think perhaps of malice I doe wrong 'em,
But the poore students know it to be true,
Which wanting meanes, as often want their due.
Art was not thus rejected heertofore,
But plenty now hath made a scholler poore.
Learning was wont to be the highest staire,
Vpon whose top was fixd preferments chaire;
In which the best deserver was instald,
The worthiest man to highest honour cald.
But now the world's altred, changèd is the molde,
And learnings step is turnd to massie golde.
To get preferment who doth now intend,
He by a golden ladder must ascend.
Thus cursed golde doth bear soe great a sway
That nurseries of learning doe decay;
For not the meanes of taking our degrees
Are quite exempt from bribes; for duble fees
A dunce may turne a Doctour, & in state

Walke in his scarlet! O, vnhappy fate!
When paltry pelfe doth worthlesse ignorance
Vnto the top of learnings mount advaunce.

Cocus, that faine would thrive, hath a[n] intent,
To curry favour, to dresse meat in Lent—
How is 't to be obtainde? hast store of golde?
And canst thou spare a litle? then be bolde,
Persue thy project, & I 'le vndertake
The overseers will a licence make,
By which is granted leav to dresse for th' sicke,—
Vnder the colour of which pretty tricke
Thou mayst make sale of it to whom thou list.
Sayth master mony-taker, greasd i' th' fist,
“And if tho[u] comst in danger, for a noble
I 'le stand thy friend, & healp thee out of trouble.”
But these are petty crimes which now I cote,
This vicious age acts sinnes of greater note,
And them by greater persons, in which sence
Th' offenders greatnesse aggravates th' offence.

Taurus, that ruffen, in his drunken fit
An execrable murder did committe,
For the which fact he straight was apprehended,
And should, had right tooke place, have been condemnèd.
But marke th' event; his mony stood his friend,
And sav'd the caitife from a shamefull end.
For having the chief iudge sollicited
With bribes, from iustice him he quite misled;
Who when he should pronounce his condemnation,
Instead therof gave him his approbation,
Vowing there was good reason him to clear,
'Cause 40 angels did to him appear,
Which spake him guiltlesse. O, rare vision,
And admirable golden apparition,

That had the power to make good such evill,
And turne a demigod into a devill!

Turnus his enemy would faine supplant,
Yet how to doe it iustly, cause doth want.
His Machiavillian pate doth then devise
To overthrow him by meer forgeries;
Then saith he is a traiter to his prince,
And that he can of treason him convince.
Divers seditious wordes are then invented,
For which he is before the iudge convented;
But there wants witnesse to confirme this lie,—
Tut, they are easily found; his neighbours by
Are knights o' th' post, and for a litle coine
Will swear what ever he doth them enjo[i]ne.
Thus armde, he brings to passe his damnèd will,
And like a villian guiltlesse blood doth spill.
But he & 's knights o' th' post will post to hell,
That thus their soules vnto damnation sell.

Codrus to his poore cottage had some land,
With which, & with the labour of his hand,
Six litle children & his sickly wife
He did maintaine in such estate of life
As his best meanes could yeild, sufficient
Because they therwithall did live content.
But now Antilegon, his neighbour by,
Because the ground did lye commodiously
For his owne vse to make a garden plot,
Hath encroacht all & sure possession got,
Which he maintaines by force. Poor Codrus is
Constraind to sue sub formâ pauperis,
(As wanting friends & mony) to regaine
What is his owne. T' other doth entertaine
The best of counsell, & his golde 'gainst lawes
O're throwes the poor man in his rightfull cause;

Who with his family are quite vndone,
Through this vnjust & damnd oppression.

Thus Iustice eyes closde vp in golden sleep,
The ravenous woolfe eats vp the harmlesse sheep.
Thou wicked Ahab, which hast got possession
By such iniurious transgression,
Think that if God inflict damnation
On them that doe not take compassion
Of their poore bretheren, & their wants relieve,
What will he doe to thee, which seekst to grieve
With an oppressours hand the innocent!
Being not only not to give content,
But even to take away by cursed wrong
All that in right doth to the poore belong?
Vnlesse thou doe due restitution make,
And to a better life thy selfe betake;
Vnlesse repentance purchase grace from Iove
And his iust iudgements from thee quite remooue,
Surely the Lord (which doth such sinne detest)
With horrid tormentes will thy soule invest.
And you, which should true equity dispense,
Yet bear a gold-corrupted conscience,
Looke for some plague vpon your heades to light,
That suffer rich wrong to oppresse poore right.
All lawyers I cannot heerof accuse,
For some there are that doe a conscience vse
In their profession. This our land containes
Some in whose heart devine Astræa raignes.
To these, whose vertue keeps our land in peace,
I wish all good, all happiness encrease.
Go forward then, and with impartiall handes
Hold Iustice ballance in faire Albians landes.

Olde greedy minded Pandarus hath a paire
Of daughters whom the world reputeth faire,
And faire indeed they are to outward eyes,
Which not discerne inward deformities;

These, for the purchase of a litle golde,
By the olde miser vnto lust are solde.
This slave will even vsher his disgrace,
Bringing his daughters vnto any place
Which is appointed to commerce with sinne,
And himselfe keep the dore, whilst that within
The shamlesse strumpetes are with lust defilde,
Having the gallants of their golde beguilde.
Impious villaine! to defame the fruit
Of thine owne loynes, & basely prostitute
Thy childrens body to such luxurie,
Whom with paternall care & industrie
Thou shouldst traine vp in vertuous education,
For want whereof theire horrid imprecation
Will light vpon thy soule, &, which is worse,
Gods fearfull plaugues second thy childrens curse.

Me thinkes the hellish & mad lunacy
Of them that doe commit apostacie
For gold, might well a Christian heart affright
Only to hear another but recite
So damnd a sinne; yet every day their fall
In these relapses diabolicall
Many, too many,—Christians shall I name them?
Ah, noe! their actions otherwise defame them.
Some have tur[n]d Turkes for gaine, yet live despisde
After they once have been but circumcisde.
Base slaves, which Dagon 'bove the Arcke doe set,
And for true Christ adore false Mahomet.
But Mahomet, as Dagon did, shall fall,
And all those wicked priests that worship Baal.
Others, that would to high preferment come,
Leave vs, & flie vnto the Sea of Rome.
But how dost prosper with them being there?

Contemptibly they live, & full of feare.
Is ther some damned enterprise in hand,
To murder princes, ruinate a land?
These be the men that must be actours in it,
Who ever were the author to beginne it.
If they refuse, 'tis death; if they proceed
Death & damnation waites vpon their deed.
Thus chaind in wre[t]ched servitude, doth live
A runagate, & English fugitive;
And yet like fooles, they doe submit their necke
Vnto the slavish yoke & proudest checke
Of Romes insulting tyrant, vpon hope
That their demerits will win larger scope;
Many which theither dayly flocke apace
To worke their owne confusion & disgrace
Witnesse their fearfull endes & wre[t]ched lives:
“But goe they must because the devill drives.”

Carrier of late would have made his career
(Thinking perhaps to be esteemèd dear
Of th' antichristian prelate) to the citty
Of seven hilld Rome, “O, &,” say some, “'twas pitty
That his (how e're they grant it lewd) intent
Met not a look't for prosperous event.
For he, because his learning was not small,
Might in short time have been a Cardinall.”
What the successe had prov'd I dare not say,
For he was cut of from his wishèd prey;
High Iove incensd that thus he should backslide
Stroke him, & in a neighbour land he died.
Some think he was not Apostolicall,
But alwaies in his heart papisticall;
Certaine it is, how e're they can excuse him,
The devill in this act did but abuse him.
And were he not apostate in his flight,
In his stay heer he was an hypocrite.

Pistor was falln into great poverty,
How come he to grow rich thus sodenly?
For he of late hath matchd his daughter well
Vnto a gentleman, as I hear tell,
Of faire demeanes, & great extent of ground,
And made her portion worth five thousand pound.
Why, once within these five year (as was thought)
Ten poundes would all the wealth he had have bought,
And now he 's in his thousandes! This quick change,
This sodaine metamorphosis is strange.
Belike he hath found out some mine of golde,
Or else the Fairies bring him heapes vntolde
Because he sweeps his house cleane, sets a light,
Faire water in a basen, every night,
And other pretty toyes, to doe them pleasure;
Or else some spirit shewes him hidden treasure.
O now you hitt it, 'twas indeed a spirit,
To whom, for certaine tearme of yeares t' inherit
His ease and pleasure with aboundant wealth,
He hath made sale of his soules dearest health.
And in a deed engrost, signd with his blood,
Sould soule & body with all hope of good
In heavenly ioyes to come, vnto the devill.
O horrid act! O execrable evill!
Another Faustus, haplesse, hopelesse man,
What wilt thou doe, when as that litle sand
Of thy soone emptied houreglasse, is spent?
When horrour of thy conscience keeps repent
From thy black spotted soule? O (but in vaine)
Thou wilt then wish (& think it ease, not paine)
“That I had that estate of grace I solde
[For the] fruition of a litle golde.
Thoug[h] I liv'de ne're soe miserablie poore,
And like an abject begd at every doore
Millions of yeares, I could be well content

To 'scape the everlasting punnishment
Of hells infernall lake, & purchase heaven,
Of which for ever I am now bereaven.”
Then wilt thou curse thy selfe, thy wretched fate,
The wombe that bare thee, him that thee begat;
Wish thou hadst been a beast, a sencelesse stone,
To 'scape that horrour of confusion.
But wishes, vowes, & horrid execration
Cannot preserve thee from damnation.

Thus each thing of esteem is bought and solde
For mindes-corrupting, soules-confounding golde.
Sellers take heed, & byers have a care,
This is no common ordinary ware!
Looke to 't betimes, lest you to late repent
The poore mans curse, earths plague, hells punnishment!

Sat[ira] 5. [AGAINST GLUTTONY, DRUNKENNESS, AND TOBACCO.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Nobiscum in terris Epicuri vivitur instar
Delitijs: ventri mille placere modi.
Turpior ebrietas animam cum corpore fœdat,
Et demum ad Stygias ducit vtrumque domos.

From thirst of wealth & golden villany
I now am come to brutish gluttonie,
Of which my Muse doth almost loath to treat,
It is soe base a crime, yet growne soe great
In customary action, that 'tis deemd
If sinne, a smale one, not to be esteemd.
This vice doth not alone it selfe extend
T' excesse in meat, but eke doth comprehend
That base vnmanly sinne of drunkennesse,
Whose worse then worst of brutish beastlinesse
Defiles both soule & body, & doth bring
Both of them to eternall ruining.
This age of men to that excesse is growne
That was I think in Sodome never knowne,
Although it were that capitall offence,
Which iustly did all-seeing Iove incense
Them & their citty vtterly to quell
With fire which from heavens architecture fell.

How can we wretches in this sinfull time
Expect lesse vengeance for as damnd a crime?
For to speake first of our excesse in meat,
Though man should eat to live, not live to eate,
Many there are which only vse their care
In dainty banquetes and delitious fare.

What beast doth breed in our Britannicke soile
That doth delight the tast, but we doe toile
To take & kill? What bird doth cut the aire
With her swift wing, but that we doe repaire
Therwith our tables? We doe fish all seas
To catch the rarest dish, therby to please
Our dainty palates: & yet fish, bests, birdes,
Which in aboundance this our land affordes,
Are not sufficient; we must have more cates
From other nations at excessive rates
To furnish out our table, which (like swine
That eat the fruit, but ne're cast vp their eyen
To the faire tree) we dayly doe devour
Without thankesgiving to that heavenly power,
Whose gracious goodnesse doth such blessinges give,
And suffers vs so peaceably to live
In such a land of plenty that doth flow
With milck & hony, which we doe bestow
To pamper our selves & please our sence
Like Epicures; as if alone from thence
We had our being, & vnto that end,
The cause of our creation, did intend.
Thus are the guiftes, wherwith God man doth blesse,
Abusd'e by vaine & riotus excesse.
Like the rich gluttons in the Gospell are
The feastes we make, from which we doe debarre
The poorer sort of men. Well may they lie
Before our dores, & crave our charity;
But with poore Lazarus they shall obtaine

Cold comfort, & small reliefe to sustaine
Their hunger-starvèd bodies, while within
The richer sort doe stand vp to the chin
In delicates, & euen with excesse,
Are like to surfet; while the wantonnesse
Of their insatiat appetite, that feeds
On such plurality of viands, breeds
Offensive humors. This I thinke the cause
Which our rich men to such diseases drawes,
Wherwith we dayly see they are tormented,
When if with moderate fare they were contented
They might both keep their bodies in good health,
And save the residue of all their wealth
To feed the hungry soule, the naked cherrish,
Which wanting succour still one heaps doe perish.

But now let me discourse of drunkennes,
Which is a part of gluttony, whose excesse
Is likewise of the belly, & is made
Even a common ordinary trade.
We count the nation of the German Dutch
The greatest drunkard, but our land as much,
Or rather more, is with this vice infected,
Which doth deserue sharply to be corrected,
And yet 'tis slackly punnishd; but 'twere good
That Dracoes [laws] for ours in vertue stood.
This vice, I say, with vs as frequent is
As with the Dutchmen, who, if I not misse
Mine aime, were the first founders of this sinne
Within our country; but we now beginne
T' appropriate to our selves their noted vice,
So apt we are to follow each devise
That tendes to wickednesse & villany;
After forbidden things we swiftly flie,
When after that from which much good may growe,
Although by force compeld, we slowly goe.
But man must follow the times fashion,

And shew himselfe an ape in imitation
Of every new found & hell-hatched sinne
Or else he is not counted worth a pinne.
He that cannot sit quaffing all the day,
Carousing healths till wit & wealth decay;
Which will not vpon every lewd request
Drink drunk in kindenesse, why, he 's made a jest
To those companions, whose licentious veine
And drunken humours still doe entertaine
The basest speeches, & in their mad fit
Doe speake at randome without fear or wit.
How far vnlike Lacedemonians,
Though they were hethen & we Christians,
Are men in this our age? To them this crime
Soe loathsome was, that they would finde a time
To make the Helottes drunk, which wer their slaves,
A sort of loutish, abject-minded knaves;
And being in the basest sort disguisde,
Shew them their children, mock them as despisde
And debaush creatures, by their beastlynesse,
To teach their young to loath all drunkennesse.
But if others will not doe it for vs
Will even fox ourselves till all abhorre vs.

Well may it fit this our vntemperate age,
To shew a drunkard in his equipage.
I 'le passe Apitius, which spent all the year,
In brave carrousing, & fine belly-cheer;
He that to please his sence had at one feast
His thousand severall dishes at the least,
Although he had noe other company
But his sole single selfe to satisfie;
For all the flesh that Noahs Arke contained,
The whole seas fish, if he had entertained
His friends, could not sufficient store afforde,
To furnish out th' insatiate gluttons borde.

Thus he run one, till on[e] yeares gluttony
Brought him from millions vnto poverty:
I will omit the brave Ægiptian Dame,
Which by her death hath got eternall fame,
Proud Cleopatra, Anthonies loose minion,
Who, to obtaine her lovers good opinion,
Did in a cup of wine, drunk to his health,
Carouse dissolvèd pearles of infinite wealth;
Her great excesse & sensuall gluttony
Procurde her owne & his sad tragedie.
I 'le leave th' Assirian Sardanapalus,
With that lewd Roman, Heliogabolus;
Only their riot was the fatall knife
That cut them of from empire & from life.
Examples from soe farre I need not fetch,
We have more moderne ones within our reach;
In this our native Isle, each day, each hower
Millions of such like subiects doe ever shower
Before our eyes, which live in vaine excesse
Of soule-polluting, beastly drunkennesse.
On[e] pot companion & his fashion
I will describe, & make relation
Of what my selfe have seene, that they that hear it
May hate the like, & hating may forbear it.

Cervisius is a most accomplisht man,
Whether he deale at halfe pot or whole can,
No flincher, but as true a drunkard bred
As ever lifted cup vnto his head.
A right good fellow, a true ioviall boy,
And on[e] that of his purse is nothing coy;
Hee 'l spend his dozen of beer with any friend,
And fox him if he can, before hee 'l end;
I, or hee 'l fox himselfe, but that 's no wonder
The fox & he are seldome time a sunder.
But if the man, to sobernesse inclinde,
Refuse to follow his inordinate minde,

Because his nature cannot brooke to doe it,
His stab is ready to compell him to it.
This alehouse-haunter thinkes himselfe a safe
If he with his companions, George & Rafe,
Doe meet together to drink vpsefreese
Till they have made themselves as wise as geese.
O ther this man (like lord within a hutch)
Will pay for all & ne're his mony grutch;
Th[e]y must not part till they have drunk a barrell,
Or straight this royster will begin to quarrell.
Wher e're they meet, to th' alehouse they must goe,
He sweares they shall, & they must not say noe.
As soone as e're the alehouse them receives,
The tapster, duble diligent, straight leaves
His other guestes, in course to take his cup,
And make the full messe of these drunkards vp;
He knowes what best belongs vnto his gaine,
These are the men he seekes to entertaine.
Then straight into the seller hee 'l them bring,—
'Tis sweetest drinking at the verry spring,—
Wher as a barrell, for the nonce set out,
Must straight be pearc'd, then each must haue his bout
And drink vp all; to leave a litle snuffe
Is petty treason; & such pretious stuffe
Must not be throwne away. Thus they drink round,
Vntill their adle heads doe make the ground
Seeme blew vnto them; till their hands doe shake,
Their tongues speak duble, & their braines do ake.
But they proceed till one drop[s] downe dead drunke,
Wher he doth lie long time, a sencelesse trunk;
And all the rest in a sweet pickle brought
(Such operation hath the barrell wrought),
Lie downe beside him. One straight falles a sleep
Ready to drowne himselfe, in that doth keep
The broken beer from spoiling; then another
Falles into spuing, & is like to smother

Himselfe in his owne vomit. He that least
Seemes to be drunk, yet shewes himselfe a beast,
And that 's the tapster, which hath got a tricke,
Because he would prevent his being sick,
To force himselfe to cast, then on the barrell
To take a nap. Thus ends this drinking quarrell.
After some 3 howers sleepes strong operation
Hath brought their braines into a better fashion,
They gin to wake, & finding themselves ill
Of their late surfet, which hath force to kill
The strongest body, to 't afresh they goe,
To drink away their paine; such heartsick woe
By an immoderate drunkennesse procurde,
Must by “a haire of the same dog” be curde.
Then once againe the pot must keep his round,
Vntill the barrell, with his hollow sound,
Fortell his emptinesse. Trivmphantly
They doe then eccho forth this victory,
As 'twere a conquest, that deserv'd with golde
In Fames eternall booke to be enrolde.
But still Cervicius paies for all, his purse
Defraies all recknings; there must none disburse
A penny but himselfe. “Tut, I have landes
Which now of late are come into my handes,
And whilst they last, I will not want good drink,
Nor boon companions. Wherfore was my chinck
Made but to spend? And can 't be better spent
Then 'mongst good laddes in ioviall meriment?
Faith, no. Flie, brasse! More precious I do holde
Maltes pure quintessence then king Harries golde.
Good liquor breeds good blood, good blood best health,
And that 's a iewell to be prisde 'bove wealth.
Drink round, sweet George, to me, my turne is next,
And I'le charge honest Rafe; let 's ply our text
Without digression. Tapster, take your bout,
Leave not a drop, you'r best, but drink all out.

Why soe, brave boyes, this gear doth cotten well,
I think we foure might win the silver bell
Of any 4 in Europe, for our drink.
Let 's make a challenge, Rafe; I doe not think
But we shall put downe all that dare contest
With vs in this, if we but doe our best.
And yet ther were 4 roring boyes, they say,
That drunk a hogshead dry in one poor day.
Tapster, some beer; the conceit makes me dry!
Heer honest rogue, night partes good cumpany;
But my good lades, let 's meet againe to morrow,
And at this fountaine we will drinke downe sorrowe.”

Thus he runs on his course, til 's drunken vaine
Ruines his substance, makes him entertaine
For his companion penurious want.—
All other friends doe then wax wondrous scant;
But this alone, when men fall in decay,
Will never leave them till their dying day.
His substance poore, his soule more poore in grace,
Getes him contempt on earth, in hell a place
Of everlasting paine, vnlesse the smart
Of misery reforme his wicked heart.
For sometimes want & hard calamity
Even Athiestes turnes to Christianity.

But Bacchanall is of a higher straine,
He scornes soe base a thought to entertaine,
As to drink drunk with beer or botle-ale;
Noe, he contemnes the vse, that fashion 's stale.
Marry, your true elixar, all rare wine,
That doth enspire, & make the thoughtes divine!
Whie, he esteemes the nectar of the goddes,
Homers Nepenthe, to come short by oddes
Of [this] delicious iuice. Rich Malago,
Canarie, Sherry, with brave Charnico;
Phalerno, with your richest Orleance wine,
Pure Rhenish, Hippocras, white Muskadine,

With the true bloud of Bacchus, Allegant,
That addes new vigour which the backe doth want
Are precious wines. Marrie, your white or Charret
Is but so so; he cares not greatly for it;
But for the rest, whose vertuous operation
Doth cheer the heart opprest with passion,
Doth rapsodize the soules intelligence
Above the levell of inferiour sence,
Why, had he to his wish the cranes long necke
To tast with more delight, he would not wrecke
Of all celestiall ioyes; this were a treasure
To be preferd above that heavenly pleasure.
From thine owne mouth, thou beastly Epicure,
Dost thou condemne thy selfe, thou shalt be sure
Never indeed to tast celestiall bliss!
But know withall (though thou those joyes doe misse)
That thou (when as thy soule will be agast)
Shalt of the cup of Godes iust vengeance tast!

Fower kindes of drunkardes this our age hath quoted,
Which, since by observation I have noted,
It shall not be amisse heer to insert,
That we may know how much each doth pervert
The soule of man. The first is merry drunk,
And this, although his braines be somewhat shrunk
I' th' wetting, hath, they say, but litle hart
In his demeanour; to make harmles sport
Is all his practise. In what fashion?
Is baudie talke, & damnèd prophanation
Of Godes most holy name, a harmlesse thing?
Are apish tricks & toies, which vse to bring
Men in dirision, sportes to breed delight?
Is that which makes the soule as black as night,
Which takes away the perfect vse of sence,
Which is the high way to incontinence,
A thing of nothing? Whie, if this be soe,
I graunt you then a drunken sot may goe

For one that is innocuous; otherwise
He is a beast & worse, let that suffice.
And if this be the hurtlesse sport you meant,
Iove keepe me from such harmlesse merriment.

The second kinde we maudline drunkardes call.
I thinke the humid stuffe they drink doth fall
Out of their eyes againe, for they distill
Teares in great plenty. Woemen when they will
Can weep, we say, but these doe never cry
Except they first be drunk; but then they dry
The fountaine of their teares quite vp before
They cease from weeping, or doe once give o're
Their dolefull lamentation. I suppose
The name of “Maudline drunk” from hence arose.
This kinde of drunkard is the kindest creature
That ever did converse with mortall nature;
When he is in his fit, you may commaund
All that he has, his purse, his heart, his hand,
To do you service; why hee 'l ever kill
Your heart with kindenesse, soe you'l sit & swill
In his loathd presence; keep him company
And he is pleasde, ther 's his felicity.

And now I call to minde an accident
That did befall to one of his lewd bent,
One of these maudline drunkards (I will passe
Over it briefly). In this sort it was:
A certain wealthy-left young gentleman,
One that had more skill how to quaffe a can
Then manage his revenewes, for his ease
Put out the best part of his land to lease,
And had to tennant an olde crafty fox,
Who, though his landlord made him a right oxe,
Knewe for all that on which side of his bread
The sweetnesse of the butter was yspread;
Knew how to turn all to his best of gaine,
And therfore did with patience entertaine

His supposde wrong. What cannot thirst of golde
Performe when men to wickednesse are solde?
This old sinckanter, when he came to pay
His landlordes rent at the appointed day,
Was for the most part sure to finde him fast
Within a taverne; whilst his coine did last
Ther was his randevous. The mony tolde,
Which was as welcome vnto him as golde,
They needs must drink together ere they part.
Then is wine cal'd for, & quart after quart
Comes marching in, till my young gallant fals
Into his maudline fit, & then he calles
Afresh for wine, & with right weeping eyes
Hugging his tennant, “You are welcome!” cryes,
“In faith you are, be God you are! Beleeve it,
What is it thou willt have & I will give it.
Sha 't have a new lease for a hundred yeares,
Of all the land thou holdst!—I speake in teares
Of my affection,—& shalt yearly pay
A peppercorne, a nutt, a bunch of may,
Or some such trifle. Tut, man! I desire
To have thee thrive,—I only doe aspire
To purchase credit; thou the gaine shalt reap;—
Hang him that will not let his landes good cheap!”

Well, for this time they part. Next quarter comes,
And after that a third; he payes the summes,
And findes his landlord in this humour still.
Then doth the crafty fox begin to fill
His braines with cunning; if his plotes doe hit
To his desire, his landlordes want of wit
Shall make him rich for ever. Vpon this
He makes a feast to which he doth not misse
To invite his landlord; but before, compacted
With an atturney by whose healp directed,
A paire of large indentures, fairely drawne,
Are formally composde. These as a pawne

Of his deer hopes he keeps, & when the fit
Hath quite deprivde my gallant of his wit,
Hee 'l make his landlord set both hand & seale
To this new lease. Men of experience deale
To their best proffit; & it were as good
That he should be a gainer as the brood
Of cut-throat vintners. Well, to make short worke,
My gentleman, his braines as light as corke
With brave carrousing, fals to his odd vaine
Of weeping kindenesse; nay, seemes to complaine
That his kinde offer findes noe acceptation!
Olde Gray-beard knowes his cue, & by gradation
Still drawes him one, till the kinde foole protestes
Were the indentures drawne, so firme he restes
In his opinion, ther should be a match,
And his hand soone should all the rest despatch.
Straight vpon this are the indentures brought;
Witnesse there needs not, for the house is fraught
With store [of] guestes; then the kinde harted gull
Seales and subscribes to all: his wits are dull
And senceless of this wrong. Thus is he shorne
Of eight score poundes a year for one poore corne
Of pepper, & the lease, that hath noe flawe,
For a whole hundred yeares is good in lawe.

But now to passe this & to make reporte
Of lyon-drunkardes, which is the third sorte.
Your lyon-drunkard is a kinde of man
That in his fitt will rage, sweare, curse, & banne,
Break glasses, & throw pottes against the wall,
Quarrell with any man, & fight with all
That yield not to his rage. Mad Hercules,
In the extreamest rage of his disease,
Clad in the shirt which Deianira sent,
Dipt in the blood of Nessus, to prevent

His love to Iöle, when the poyson boylde
In every veine, & with the torment spoilde
And quite bereaft him of true reasons vse,
Making him teare vp trees, & break all truce
With man & beast, was not yet halfe soe madde
As this outragious drunkard, nor soe bad
T' encounter with; for this man is indeed
Worse then a mad man. Let that man take heed
Which comes within his reach; vnlesse he have
More lives then one, this wretch will dig his grave.
These are the men that make soe many fraies,
That stab & kill soe many now adayes,
On whom just vengeance oftentimes attendes,
Bringing their lives vnto most shamefull endes.

The fowerth & last kinde of this drunken crewe
Is beastly drunk, & these men vse to spue,
Lying in gutters, & in filthy mire,
More like to swine then men. Promethean fire
Is quite extinct in them; yea, vse of sence
Hath within them noe place of residence.
Some of this kinde, as if a deadly potion
Had wrought th' effect, doe seeme to have no motion
Of vitall faculties; a man would deeme
That they were dead indeed, for soe they seeme,
When only superfluity of drink
Deceives the eye, & makes the heart misthink.
On[e] of these men (I am about to tell
Noe fable, reader, therfore marke it well)
Vpon mine owne moste true intelligence,
Being dead drunk i' th' time of pestilence,
Was thought t' have dide o' th' plague, & seeming dead,
Was amongst others alive burièd.
But being by some of his companions mist,
And diligent enquirie made, they wist
At length what was become of him, & went
Vnto his place of buriall, with intent

If it were possible to save his life.
The grave digd vp, they saw with how great strife
The drunken man, to wonted sence restorde,
Had vsde himselfe, being all with blood begorde
With violence to help himselfe was wrought,
But all in vaine; for not the aide they brought,
Which came too late, nor his owne power, could shend
This wretched man from a moste fearfull end.

Surely this iust example doth expresse,
How much God hates this beastly wickednesse.
Yet sinfull man, whose very heart should bleed
With recordation of soe straunge a deed,
Is not reformd a iot from this lewd sinne,
But every day more deeply plungèd in.
Nay, drunkennesse hath got an arch-defender,
Yea, more then that, a principall commander,
A great phisitian, which prescribes some dayes
Wherin 'tis necessary, as he saies,
To drink drunk for the bodies better health,
And being done in private & by stealth,
It is a thing of nothing! What phisitian,
Whose vertuous minde, religious condition,
Speak him a Christian, would once entertaine
Soe vilde a thought, or such a lye maintaine?
It is some at[h]eist sure, vpon my life,
Some Epicure, for 'mongst such men ar[e] rife
These damnd opinions; on[e] that knowes noe God,
Was neuer scourgèd with afflictions rod,
And therfore luld a sleep in pleasures lap,
Securely sinnes, & feares no after-clap.
This man, which only setteth vp his rest
In that which man communicates with beast,
The soule of sence, denies th' eternity
Of th' intellectual part, & doth apply
All his endevours to delight the sence;
Noe marle though he with drunkennesse dispence,

Which, though it may the bodies health secure,
The soules continuall death it doth procure.

Old Monsier Gray-beard with your poynts vntrust,
Dublet vnbuttond, ready for your lust;
You, which the chamber wher you lay your head
With baudie pictures round about doe spread;
Which make your maide daunce naked to your eyes,
Only to see her veines & arteries;
Which hast given out this foolish prophesie,
That, vnlesse throngd to death, thou ne're shalt die;
And therfore neither vnto church nor faire,
Nor any publicke meeting darst repaire,
But idlie livest at home in ease, secure,
A very atheist, & meer Epicure,
This is your axiome, “drunkennesse is good
To clear the stomach, & to purge the blood.”
Well maist thou be a good phisitian
But I am certaine a bad Christian.
After the killing of some hundred men,
And yet I scarcely recken one for ten,
To trie the working of thy minerals,
Thy hearbes, thy drugges & such materials,
Perhaps some litle knowledge thou hast gaind
To ease the head or stomach, being painde;
To help an ague-shaken bodie, cure
A fever, dropsie, gout, or cicature;
All this, & more then this, as farre as nature
Permites thy skill to healp a mortall creature,
Suppose thou canst performe; graunt thou couldst give
To a dead body force againe to live,
As poetes faine that Æsculapious
Did to vnjustly slaine Hypolitus;
Yet all thy skill wherof thou makst thy vaunt
Is nothing worth, because thou standst in want
Of the true knowledge of thy soules salvation,

The sweetnesse of whose only contemplation,
The vertue of thy art doe passe, as farre
As bright Apollo doth the meanest starre.
Which if thou knewst, it would thee quickly teach
Another lesson, far above thy reach
Of principles in phisick:—that noe evill
(Which had it's first begin[in]g from the devill)
Though good ensue therby, must be committed,
Yea though the ill with more good be requitted.
How much more then soe horrible a crime
As drunkennesse, whose putrefactious slime
Darkens the splendour of our common wealth,
Must not be acted to secure the health
Of the base body (I doe call it base
In reference to the soule), so to deface
The purer part of man; yea, by such action,
The loathsomnesse of whose infection
Makes man, indued with reason, worse then beast;
Both soule & body doe become vnblest,
Vnsanctifièd members, & vnlesse
Godes grace in time this wickednesse represse,
Th' all both together perish, & remaine
In hels eternally tormenting paine.

Besides ale, beer, & sundry sortes of wine
From forren nationes, whose more fruitfull vine
Yeilds plenty of god Bacchus, we have got
Another kinde of drinke, which well I wot
Is of smale goodnesse, though our vaine delight
Follow it with excessive appetite;
And that 's Tobacco, a rare Indian weed,
Which, because far fetcht only, doth exceed
In vertue all our native hearbes,—for what?
For many pretious vses, vertues that

May be applide to phisicke? Graunt it soe,
Although I see great reason to say noe;
How can that iustifie our common taking
In such excesse, our even for that forsaking
All other nutrime[n]tes? Doe we applie
Phisick in this sorte? If I should say I,
I should belie my knowledge; phisicks vse
Serv's only to reforme the knowne abuse
Of the distempered body, & must be
But seldome, & with mediocrity,
Applide on speciall causes when they fall;
To take Tobacco thus were phisicall,
And might perphaps doe good; but this excesse
And ordinarie practise, questionlesse,
Annoyes th' internall partes & makes them foule,
But I am sure commaculates the soule.
Yet in these dayes hee 's deemd a very gull
That cannot take Tobacco; every skull
And skip-iacke now will have his pipe of smoke,
And whiff it bravely till hee 's like to choke.
You shall have a poore snake, whose best of meanes
Is but to live on that he dayly gleanes
By drudgery from others, which will spend
His pot of nappy ale vpon his friend,
And his Tobacco with as ioviall grace,
As if he were a lord of some faire place
And great revenewes! “Tut, why should he not?
I hope a man may spend what he hath got,
Without offence to any. What he spendes
Is his owne monie, & among his friendes
He will bestowe it.” I, & doe soe still,
Follow the swinge of thy vngoverned will,
See what 'twill bring thee too; for I fore see
Thy end wilbe both shame & beggerie.

Whom have we yonder with a pipe at 's head?
He lookes as if he were true Indian bred.

O, 'tis Fumoso with the tallow face,
He that of late hath got a speciall grace,
And that 's to be the best Tobacconist
That ever held a pipe within his fist.
It cost him dear enough; for the fame goes
H'as smokd out all his living at his nose
To purchase this rare skill. But hee 'l repaire
This losse with greater wealth vnto a haire,—
He has the rediest meanes this gap to stop.
“What's that?” Why he intends to keep a shop
For smoke & botle-ale, which soone will drawe
Good store of gallantes (even as iet doth strawe)
Vnto his custome, &, for greater gaine,
A bonny lasse or two hee 'l entertaine.
As take me e're a shop subvrbian
That selles such ware, without a curtezane,
And we will have the deed cronologizde,
Nay it may well be now immortalizde.
Doth a tobacco pipe hang before the dore,
'Tis a sure signe within ther is a whore.
“A whore,” sayes he; “O, fie! you speake to broad;
A punck, or else one of the dealing trade;
And such a one I mean to keep, & she
Will help, I hope, to keep & maintaine me.
O, 'tis the only thriving meanes of all
To rayse mans fortunes vp by womans fall.”
An excellent project, follow thy designe,
And thou shalt purchase a rich golden mine,
And hell with all to boote;—soe thou hast golde
It makes noe matter. But perhaps being olde,
One foote already within Charons bote,
Thou thinkst it time enough to change thy cote
To a more Christian habit, if th' intend,
How vile so e're thy life have been, thine end
Shalbe repentant, though thou doe deferre
To the last minute, yet thou darst aver

'Twill be sufficient. From the theefe o' th' crosse
Thou dost example take; God seekes the losse
Of no mans soule; his Sonne he therfore gave
The soules of sinners, soe we are all, to save.

Thou silly sott, how well thou canst invent
Against thy selfe to make an argument!
Foole, Foole! Not every dying man shall enter,
That saith “Lord, Lord,” into the heavenly center
Of everlasting blisse; true faith must be
The only meanes to this eternity.
And how doth that but by good workes appear,
Good woorkes are true faiths handmaides, & are dear
In the Almighties eyes, though (I confesse)
Not of sufficient power to release
The soule from everlasting punnishment
(As papistes doe persuade by argument)
And purchase heaven. Godes mercy, not deserte
Of mortall man, can heavenly ioyes impart.

But to returne to thee which thinkst to die
In the true faith, yet livst in villanie;
That makst account to purchase heavenly grace
At thy last hower, yet dayly sinst apace;
Presumpteous slave, thy error doth deceive thee,
And of those heavenly ioes will quite bereave thee!
For if the truth thou doe exactly scanne,
As is the life, so is the end of man.
Wheras the theefs example thou dost bring,
Who being ready, his last requiem sing
Vpon the crosse, was in that instant hower
From shamefull death to the celestiall bower
Of Paradise transported; learne to know
That this example was indeed to shew
Gods mercy infinite, his power to save,
Though man belike to drop into his grave.
The vse of this we rightly may applie
To comfort them whose huge iniquity

Their conscience doth oppresse, & make them faint,
Lest black dispaire their guilty soules attaint.
But as this one, so but this only one,
To keep man from such damnd presumption
As thou dost fall into, Godes word containes,
How darst thou then presume? Wher are thy braines?
How is thy iudgement from truth alienated?
How is thy soule, which should be consecrated
Vnto Godes service, dedicat to sinne,
To such presumpteous sinne? If thou shouldst winne
All thy lives precious time to clear this blot,
To purge thy conscience of soe foule a spot,
To wash thy sinne in true repentant teares,
Yet all thy sorrowes, all thy Christian cares
Are not sufficient to appease Godes wrath.
Vnlesse his mercy helpe to expiate
The foulnesse of thie crime; without his grace,
Hell shalbe thy perpetuall dwelling place.

And you rich gluttons, drunkardes, Epicures,
Whom carnall sence & appetite immures
From God & goodnesse, think not (though you live
Like beastes) that you noe strict account shall give
How you have spent your time, consumd'e your treasure,
Livd' brutishlie in ease, delight, & pleasure.
Yes, for each act, for every word & thought,
Before Godes high tribunal being brought,
You must all answeare, yet you wilbe mute,
For your owne conscience will your cause confute.
Then to your terrour shall that sentence be,
“Depart ye cursed to helles miserie!”
But I too long vpon this vice have staide,
Ther 's something else of others to be saide.

Sat[ira] 6. [AGAINST LASCIVIOUSNESS.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Vndique squalenti scelerata libidine terra
Affluit, & templis spargitur vsque Venus;
Luxurians ætas læna, meretrice, cinædo
Polluitur, mœhos angulus omnis alit.

Having discoursd of sensuall gluttonie,
It followes now I speake of venerie;
For these companions as inseperable
Are linckt together with sinnes ougly cable;
The heart of lust 's excesse in delicates,
And in this vice the soule precipitates.
Lot was first drunk, & in this drunken fit
He that incestuous sinne did straight committ.
But I leave recordes of antiquity
And take me to this times iniquity.
Lust, as a poyson that infects the blood,
Boyles in the veines of man; the raging floud
Of Neptunes kingdome, when th' impetuous might
Of the fierce windes doth make it seem to fight
With monstrous billowes 'gainst the loftie cloud,
Is calmer then the sea of lust, though loud
Vnto the eare of sence, & is more safe;
For this can only drowne the worser hafe

Of man, the bodie; but lustes ocean
O'rewhelms both soule & body; yet fond man
Runnes in this gulfe of sinne without all stay,
And wilfully doth cast himselfe away.

If ever age or nation with this crime
Were beastiallie defilde, now is the time,
And ours that nation, whose libidinous heat,
Whose fire of brutish lust, is growne soe great
That it doth threaten with proud Phaeton
To give the world a new combustion.
Both sexes, each degree, both young & olde,
Themselves vnto this filthy sinne have solde;
Yea, even the tribe of Levie (which should be
The mirrours of vnspotted chastety)
Are slaves to lust! I speake not this alone
Of Popish priestes, which make profession
Of an immaculate virginity,
Yet live in whoredome & adultery;
But alsoe to our clergie, which to blame,
Preach continence, but follow not the same.
And their example 's able to seduce
Well given mindes vnto this knowne abuse;
For euery man doth vse in imitation
To follow his instructours fashion.
The country parson may, as in a string,
Lead the whole parish vnto any thing.

Eulalius hath had good education,
Pens sermons well, hath good pronuntiation,
Stiflie inveighs 'gainst sinne, as gluttonie,
Pride, envie, wrath, sloth, brutish lecherie,
Covetousnes, & such like, no man more,—
Yet every man can tell he keeps a whore.
Philogonous doth love his lust as well,
But he would clear from all suspition dwell;
'Tis safest gutting at a loafe begunne,
And therfore he his neighbour[s] wife hath wonne

To be his paramour; they may suspect,
But hee 's soe wary, no man can detect
His close encounters. O, but heers the spite,
On[e] wench cannot suffice his appetite!
His first must then be baude vnto another,
She to a third, the daughter to the mother,
Til like the parish bull he serves them still,
And dabbes their husbandes clean against their will.
But he that knew him not, & heard him preach,
Would think it were impossible to teach
Vertue with such a fervent seeming zeale,
And yet thus looslie in his actions deale.
You lustfull swine! that know the will of God,
Yet follow your owne waies, think that his rod
(For soe he saith himselfe) shall scourge your sinne
With many stripes;—with you he will beginne.
The greater man, the higher is the evill
He doth committ, & he the viler devill.
Turne convertites, & make true recantation,
And leave at last to act your owne damnation,
Lest your reward be Godes just vengeance,
And hell your portion & inheritance.

Sempronia 's married to a gentleman
That in the joyes of Venus litle can;
'Tis very likely, & you may believe her,
And you, her honest neighbours, should relieve her.
Saith lustfull Spurio, “Would she me accept,
I'de pawne my head to please her e're I slept,
And save the paines of suing a divorce.”
Yet Messalina doth, without remorse
Of conscience for the act, take to her bed
A second husband ere the first be dead,
With whom she lives but an adulteresse
In brutish sinne & sensuall beastlinesse.
Pray Iove he please her well, or, though 't be strange,
This second for a third I fear shee 'l change.

Borgia 's in quiet, & is let alone,
Although his sister & his whore be one;
The father likewise doth (a hellish fact!)
With his owne daughter cursed incest act.
Who dares to let him? Hee 's a great commander,
Romes triple crownèd Pope, Sixt Alexander!
Incestuous slaves! think you to scape the rod
Of the Almighty sinne-revenging God?
No, though the world doe wink at your offence
God never will with wickednesse dispence.

Sulpitia, leave at last to wrong thy spouse,
Lest thou the furious sleeping lion rouse;
Desist to act thy aged husbandes scorne,
He hath olde plenty, give him not the horne,
And I 'le not tell the world thy hatefull sinne,
How full of luxury thy life hath been,
How many severall lovers thou hast had,
How often thou hast faind to see thy dad,
That by such meanes thou mightst have free accesse
To meet thy paramour. Nor will I presse
Thy conscience with recitall of that ill
When thou, thy letchers purse with golde to fill,
Emtiedst thy husbandes bagges; the diamond ringes,
The sutes of sattin, & such pretty thinges,
Which thou, as pledges of thy lewd desire,
Gavst to thy sweetheart for his lustfull hire,
I 'le not once name; no, I will hold my peace,
Soe thou wilt from thy filthy lust surcease.

Drugo, although thou lately didst escape
The daunger of the lawe, which for a rape
Awardeth death, be wise & sinne noe more,
Least that thou run soe much vpon the score
Of wickednesse, that thou canst never pay it;
And soe for want of meanes how to defraie it,
By death arrested, in helles prison cast,
Thou pine in torment which shall ever last.

Sodomeo scorneth women; all his joy
Is in a rarely featurde lively boy,
With whom (I shame to speake it) in his bed
He plaies like Iove with Phrigian Ganimede.
Monster of men, worse then the sensuall beast!
Which by instinct doth follow the behest
Of nature in his kinde, but thou dost fall
Into a sinne that 's moste vnnaturall.
Degenerate bastard! by some devill got,
For man could never, sure, beget a spot
Of such vncleannesse; how dost dare enact
Soe damnd a crime, soe lewde a loathsome fact?
Dost thou not fear that iust Iove, in his ire,
Will raine downe brimstone & consuming fire;
As in his wrath, though many ages since,
He did one Sodome, whose concupiscence,
Like thine, deservde black helles damnation?
Or that some fearfull invndation
In his swift streame, should hurry thee to hell,
With damnèd fiendes & torturde ghoastes to dwell?
Methinks such thoughts as these should purge thy soule,
And keep thy bodie from an act so foule.

But 'tis noe marvell though thou be not free
From the contagion of this villanie,
When the whole land 's thus plagued with this sore,
Whose beastlinesse then now was never more:
In Academie, country, citty, Courte,
Infinite are defiled with this spurt.
O, grant, my dearest nourse, from whose full brest
I have suckt all (if ought I have) that 's best,
Suffer me to condole the misery
Which thou gronst vnder by this villanie!

How many towardly young gentlemen
(Instead of ink, with teares I fill my pen
To write it) sent vnto thee by theyr friendes
For art & education, the true endes
Their parentes aime at, are with this infection
Poysned by them whose best protection
Should keep them from all sinne! Alacke the while!
Each pedant Tutour should his pupill spoile.
O, how I grieve at this vnhappy fate,
Because this vice is soe inveterate,
Growne to so strong a custome that (I fear)
The world shall end ere they this sinne forbear!
But I leave thee with my best exoration
For thy moste speedy & true reformation.

Nothus which came into the world by chaunce
At a bye window, hath been late in France,
Yet never crost the seas, it cannot bee;
'Tis newes that passes our capacity!
'Tis soe, & by th' event I wilbe tride,
For I am sure hee 's hugely Frenchifide,
Gallicus morbus is his owne, I swear,
He has it paide him home vnto a haire.
Pitty him they that list, soe will not I,
Hee 's iustly plagud for his damnd luxurie,
He might have keapt his whore-house-haunting feet
Out of Picthatch, the Spitle, Turnboll street;
He might, forewarnd, have left his pockie drabbes,
They must have veriuice that will squeese such crabbes.
But he had cause to love a puncke the more,
Because his mother was an arrant whore.

I cannot chuse but grieve at the mishap
Of Cloudia, which of late hath caught a clap.
Alack, poore wench! the trust of promisde marriage

Hath loded thee with an vnvsuall carriadge.
Take comfort lasse, & I a time will spie
To shew thy lover his discourtesie,
And though he have thee in this sort beguilde,
He shall give somewhat to bring vp the childe;
A litle mony from the law will quite thee,
Fee but the Sumner, & he shall not cite thee;
Or if he doe, only for fashion sake,
The lawe of thee shall no advantage take.
And though due pennance thou deservst to doe
For tredding thus awry thy slippery shoe,
Be not dismaide at all; if thou dost flow
In thy frank guiftes, & thy golde freely stow,
The principall will make thy pennance ebbe.
The Comissaries court 's a spiders webbe,
That doth entangle all the lesser flies,
But the great ones break through; it never ties
Them in his circling net. Wher golde makes way
Ther is no interruption, noe delay
Can hinder his proceeding; therfore, wench,
Thou maist with a bolde face confront the bench.
If thy forerunners bribes have made thy peace,
Thy shame shall vanish, but thy sinne encrease,
And when thou once hast scapèd this annoy,
Goe to it roundly for another boy;
Lose not an inch of pleasure, though thou gaine,
For momentarie ioyes, eternall paine.
But yet be sure, if thou still goe about
To play the drab, my pen shall paint thee out,
And thy lewde actes vpon thy forehead score,
That all the world may note thee for a whore.

O Linceus, that I had thy searching eye!
Then would I in each secret corner prie,
To finde the hidden knaveries of this age,

And lay them open to this paper stage.
Then Glabria should not, with her wanton eye,
Allure faire Quintus to her villanie,
But I would straight detect her for the crime,
And hinder their appoynted meeting time.
Then Lusco, 'cause his wife 's in years decaide,
Should not entise to ill her waiting maide,
But I would spie them out, & note them downe,
To her discredit & his smale renowne.
Then Scilla, 'cause she might without suspect
Play the lewd harlot, & none might detect
Her lustfull conversation, should not hide
Her loosnesse in a masculine outside,
But with my pen I soone would her vncase,
And lay her open to noe mean disgrace.
Then Galla, that insatiate citty dame,
(Which loves a player, 'cause he hath the fame
Of a rare Actour, & doth in his part
Conquer huge giantes, & captive the hart
Of amarous ladies) should not him intice,
Prone (as all players are) vnto this vice,
With goodlie presentes. I their match would lett,
Or catch them sleeping in a Vulcanes nett,
And having caught them to the world display
How lusty Mars with lustfull Venus lay.
Then lustfull Iove, what shape soe e're he tooke
Should not deceive mine eye, nor scape my booke.
Thy lust Pasiphae I 'de sett to th' full,
Whose bestiall appetite desirde a bull.
Mirrha, thou shouldst not scape, that didst desire,
To make thy father to thy childe a sire.

But since I cannot, as I would, be fitted,
Let me detect what I have knowne committed.
It was my fortune, with some others moe,
On[e] summers day a progresse for to goe

Into the countrie, as the time of year
Required, to make merrie with good cheer.
Imagine Islington to be the place,
The jorney to eat cream. Vnder the face
Of these lewd meetings, on set purpose fitted,
Much villanie is howerly committed.
But to proceed; some thought there would not be
Good mirth without faire wenches companie,
And therfore had provided, a forehand,
Of wiues & maides a iust proportiond band
In number to the men of vs; each on[e]
Might have his wench vnto himselfe alone.
I that, till afterwardes, not comprehended
Whereto this meeting chieflie was intended,
But thought indeed the only true intent
To spend the time in honest merriment,—
Went 'mongst the thickest, & had intercourse
In many a mad & sensuall discourse.

Among the women kinde a wife ther was,
Her name I could not learne, I therfore passe
It over; but a fainèd one to frame,
Call her Veneria, that 's the fittest name.
This wife, which with the maides did holde her walke,
I chanc'd to overhear in her lewde talke,
How she did them by argumentes perswade
To vse the pleasure of the common trade,
I will repeat, that you may iudge with me,
Women moste prone to filthy luxurie.
“My friendes,” quoth she, “first, all of you must knowe,
Good things more common doe the better grow;
For 'tis an axiome in morality,
Which you must all believe for verity.
If, then, community doe goodnesse adde
To actions that are good, who 'd be so mad
To lose the vertue of this common good
When 't may be purchasde without losse of blood?

For that 'tis good, I think you'l not deny,
Or if you doe, then thus I doe replie:—
To doe our friend a pleasur 's a good deed,
If it be done for love, & not for meed;
To doe an act that addes to our delight
Is it not good? what foole will once deny't?
Besides, the name importes it to be good,
For we a good turne call it. With my blood,
If all this be to weake, I will maintaine
Ther's none of all our sexe that would refraine
To vse the pleasure of this knowne delight,
If fear did not restraine their appetite.
And this I holde, that secret letcherie
Is a lesse sinne then close hypocrisie.
A preacher tolde me that the action wrought
(Because more seldome then the wandring thought)
Is not soe great a fault, soe we chuse time
And place convenient to conceile our crime;
And that we will not want, nor lusty boyes
Able to give a wench her fill of ioyes.
Then to it, lasses, when you have desire,
'Tis dangerous to suppresse a flaming fire!”
To hear this lewdnesse both mine eares did glow,
But I bit in my tongue, lest there should grow
Some discontentment 'mongst them by my speach,
Which happily might have procur'de a breach
Among vs; & indeed soe much the rather,
Because by circumstances I did gather
Wherfore this meeting was, & did intend
to observe all vnto the very end.

By this time we th' appointed place attainde,
Where straight with welcomes we were entertaind.
Musicke was sent for, & good chear preparde,
With which more like to Epicures we farde
Then Christianes; plenty of wine & creame
Did even vpon our table seeme to streame,

With other dainties. Not a fidlers boy
But with the relicks of our feast did cloy
His hungry stomach. After this repast
(Which feast with many a baudy song was gracd)
Some fell to dauncing (& dauncing is a cause
That many vnto fornication drawes),
In which lascivious kinde of merriment,
Till the darke evening did approch, we spent
The lightsome day. But now the time drew nigh
That was comprisd'e to act their villany;
And therfore after candles were brought in
(For then the night grew on) we did beginne
The fidlers to discharge, who being gone,
There straight was held a consultation,
In which, when each man had his wench assignde,
The filthinesse of this lewde act to blinde
With darkenesse, all the candles were put out,
Which favouring my intent, I left the rout,
And closely stole away, having defraide
A great part of the reckning; which I paide
Whilst they were all full busie in the darke,
Because they should not think I came to sharke
Only for vittailes. How the rest agreed,
Iudge you which doe this true narration read.
But leaving this mad crew, I have to say
Somewhat of bawdes, cheife actours in this play.

Gabrina, in her youth a pretty ducke,
Hath been, they say, as good as ever strucke.
It was her fortune (long she could not tarry
'Cause she was faire) with a rich foole to marrie.
I call him foole, because he let her have
Her minde soe much, that he became her slave
To his vndooing. She must keep her coach,
Consort with ladies; each new set abroach
Fantastique fashion which she did affect,
His gold must flie for; yet she did respect

Others above him, vpon whom she spent
His wealth; her lust his care could not prevent.
Thus soone her pride & sensuality
Brought him vnto disgrace & beggery,
Till griefe for her lewd life, his ruind state
Broke his weak heart, & made him yeild to fate.
Then was she glad her whores flag to advaunce,
And get her living by a Scottish daunce.
Thus with her sister, such another piece,
Many a gallant of his golde they fleece.
Now ceazd with age, & both of them turnd bawdes,
Olde hackny women, they hire out their jades,
A crew of whores far worse then crocodiles,
Killing with fainèd teares & forgèd smiles.
Confusion with their fortunes ever dwell,
That keep the dores that ope to sinne & hell!

These bawdes which doe inhabite Troynovant,
And iet it vp & downe i' th' streetes, aflaunt
In the best fashion, thus vpholde their state,
As I haue heard a friend of mine relate,
Who once in privat manner with another
Went purposly their fashions to discover.
They doe retaine besides these common queanes,
Even mens wives which are of greatest meanes,
That yearly pay them tribute for their lust,
Vpon whose secrecie they doe entrust
Their blotted reputation, for which pleasure
They lewdly doe consume their husbandes treasure.
The custome of these bawdes is thus: if any
Repaire vnto them (as God knowes too many
Run to this sinck of sinne), at the first view
To shew their cheapest ware; if they will glue
Their slimy bodies to those common whores,
The bawdes proceed no farther, keep the dores,
The price paide, which repentaunce findes to dear,

And the act done, doe straight the men cashier.
But if some gallant, whose out side doth holde
Great expectation that good store of golde
Will from his bounty shower into their lappes,
Come to demaund (for soe it often happes)
To see their choysest beauties, him they bring
(After request [not] to say any thing)
Into a privat roome, which round about
Is hung with pictures; all which goodly rout
Is fram'de of Venus fashion, femals all,
Whom if I name whores, I noe whit miscall,
For soe they are, whom these doe represent.
All citty dames, which vsually frequent
This cursed place, who, though they goe full brave,
Are in their lust insatiat as the grave.
That picture which doth best affect the eye
Of this luxurious gallant, instantly
Is by some traine brought thether in true shape
Of lively substance. Then good Bacchus grape
Flowes in abundance; Ceres must be by,
For without them ther is noe venerie.
Provocatives to stir vp appetite
To brutish lust & sensuall delight,
Must not be wanting; lobsters buttered thighs,
Hartichoke, marrowbone, potato pies,
Anchoves, lambes artificiallie drest stones,
Fine gellies of decocted sparrowes bones.
Or if these faile, th' apothecaries trade
Must furnish them with rarest marmalade,
Candid eringoes, & rich marchpaine stuffe;
Vpon which cates ther is consumde enough
To give sufficient to a hundred men,
Spent but on ordinarie fare. But then
These dainties must be washd downe well with wine,

With sacke & sugar, egges & muskadine,
With Allegant, the blood of Venerie,
That strengthens much the backes infirmity.
Abundance of these dainties they 'l not lacke,
Although it make my gallantes purstrings cracke.
And yet sometimes these cittie dames will spend
As if their husbandes wealth could ne're have end.
Then after this libidinous collation
They doe proceed to act their owne damnation.

Thus is the worthiest citty of our land
Made a base brothel-house, by a lewde band
Of shamelesse strumpets, whose vncurbèd swing
Many poore soules vnto confusion bring.
You magistrates, which holde Astræas sword,
For countries cause joyne all with one accord
To clear the citty of this cursed crew,
Least the whole land the noysomenesse doe rewe
Of their contagion. For the better health
Of the whole body of the commonwealth,
Cut of these rotten members, & beginne
First at the head of this notorious sinne.
For this is written one the Lidian stone,
“The effect doth perish when the cause is gone.”

These bawdes & panders which doe give receat
(Being indeed the meanes wherby they eat)
To whores & ruffians, whose damnd villanie
Doth purchase gold & sell iniquity;
Were they expeld the cittie, ther would grow
More continence, for them these heades doe flow;
The springs of lust, these fountaines, being drawne dry
The lesser streames would stint immediatly.
Lop of these vlcerd members of our land,
These putrifièd members; with the hand
Of iustice chase hence this vngodly rout,—
Subtract the fewell & the fire goes out,—

And let our land this damnèd devillish crew,
As excrementes, out of her bosome spewe;
And then you manifestly shall perceave
The greater part their brutish lust will leave.
For every man this olde saide saw beleeves,
“Were no receivers there would be no theeves.”

Thus City scapes not, nor the Court is free
From obsceane actes of hatefull luxurie.
Those men or women that doe make resorte,
In hope of gaine or honour, to the Court,
Doe live soe idely, & in such excesse,
That it must needs produce this wickednesse.

Vitellius hath gotten a good place,
And might live well i' th' Court, had he the grace
To keep it to good endes, & vse it soe,
“But lightly come,” we say, “doth lightly goe.”
It cost him nothing but a supple knee,
And oyly mouth & much observancie,
But he doth vpon worse then nothing spend it,
Yet 'tis well spent, he saies, & hee 'l defend it.
He keeps a whore i' th' city, what needs that?
Ther 's whores enough i' th' Court, which (as a cat
Waites to supprise a mouse) watch to espie
Whom they can draw vnto their villanie,
Some for meer lust, others for greedinesse
Of gaine; as, 'mongst all your court landresses
If but one honest woman can be found,
I 'le give her leave to give me twenty pound.
But these are stale; Vitellius must have one
That 's a rare piece of the best fashion,
Although she make these three thinges fare the worse,
His soule, his body, & his strouting purse.
His purse, her gay apparel & fine fare
Have made allready very thin & bare;

His bodie, her vnwholsome luxurie
Hath brought to the disease of venery;
And I much fear this their lewde fashion
Will bring his soule vnto damnation.

Silvius doth shew the citty dames brave sights,
And they for that doe pleasure him a nightes.
Citty & country are beholding to him,
And glad with purse & body both to woe him.
But what talke I of these, when brighter starres
Darken their splendant beauty with the scarres
Of this insatiate sinne? If honour fall
Gentry must needes submit himselfe a thrall.
But whether climst thou, my aspiring Muse?
It wilbe thought presumption & abuse
To taxe nobility! Forbear, forbear!
Thou art an orbe above thy native spheare,
Something thou canst not in oblivion drowne;—
Why come one then, & briefly set it downe.

I heard Brusano by his honour sweare
He on[e] & fifty cuckoldes made last yeare.
Pitty it was he did noe farther goe,
Each weeke would have done well to struck a doe,
And given the keeper his due fee to seeke
When as he came to th' two & fiftith weeke.
Whom shall we finde to make vp the iust number?
To bring 't about it my conceit doth cumber.
Why, what a foole am I to seek thus farre!
You did soe many cuckoldes make or marre?
Well then, i' faith you may, for all your pelfe,
Make vp the two & fiftieth your selfe!

Madame Emilia hath a proper squire
To vsher her vnto the filthy mire
Of soule-polluting lust, who knowes his cues
Wher he must leave her, where attendance vse;
And can while 's lady actes the horrid crime,
With picking rushes trifle out the time;

And for a need, when she wantes fresh supplie,
Her sensuall desires satisfie.
Base slave! which standest centinell to lust,
Suffering thy soule, polluted with the rust
Of canckered sinne, by thy neglect to perish,
Which above all thinges thou shouldst love & cherish!
Thou instrument of sinne & Sathans rage!
Incarnate devill! pandarizing page!
Be sure (vnlesse repentance pardon gaine)
There doth a place in hell for thee remaine.

And for those lechers which will never linne
(Accounting lust but as a veniall sinne)
To committ incest, whoredome, sodomie,
Defile the land with damnd adulterie,
Which strive not to suppresse their lewde desires,
But fewell ad to their lust-burning fires,
By seeking wicked opportunities
To act their damnable iniquities,
Till they have ruind all their hope of blisse,
Devilles will hale them to helles darke abisse.

Sat[ira] 7. [AGAINST THE PASSIONS OF THE MIND.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Reginam mentis rationem, serva rebellis
Passio devincit, calce tyranna premit,
Dum gerit immodicos (victa ratione) trivmphos,
Incautos homines, ad mala damna rapit.

God gave to man a reasonable soule,
That he might govern vnder his controle
All other creatures in the world beside,
Yet man wantes reason how himselfe to guide.
Reason, the soules queen, whose imperious sway
Should rule the microcosme of man, & stay
By her wise governing authority
Each insolent affections tyranny,
Is through much, too much, sufferaunce become
Slave to her subiect, who vsurps her roome.
Ambitiously aspiring passion,
Ever delighting in rebellion,
Collects her forces, meets her prince i' th' field,
Subdues her power in conflict, make[s] her yeild.
And now the tyrannesse beares all the stroke,
Clogging her suffering neck with servile yoke,
And proud insulting in her victorie,
Trivmphs o're mans base imbecillity.

Thus his owne servant, every base affection,
Keeps him in slavish t[h]raldome & subjection.
By love or hatred, by ioy, griefe, or feare,
Desire, boldenesse, anger, hope, dispaire,
Man is enthrald, & doth submitt his will
Their tyrannies & pleasures to fulfill.

The Amoretto, pearc'd with Cupides stroke,
Must straight submitt his neck vnto the yoke
Of peevish love. Either his mistrisse haire,
Or else her forehead is beyond compare;
Her eyes are starres, & her cheekes roses be,
Her lips pure rubies, her teeth ivorie,
Her breath perfume, her voice sweet harmonie
Passing Threician Orpheus melody;
The path between her brestes a whiter way
Then that celestiall via lactea;
Her veines pure azure, or what colour 's best,
Her skin sleek sattin or the cygnettes brest;
A Venus in whom all good partes doe hitt,
More then a second Pallas in her witt;
In stately pace and dazeling maiestie,
Another Iuno; in pure chastety
Spotlesse Diana. Thus is all her feature
Beyond the fashion of a humane creature.
Then what “ay mees!” what crossing of his armes,
What sighs, what teares, what love-compelling charmes
He vseth, would enforce a sicke man smile!
Yet all the paines he takes is to beguile
His sillie soule; for having once enioyed
The thing, for which he erst was soe anoyde,
The tide is turnd, the saint doth seem a devill,
And he repentes that soule-bewitching evill
Which once his fancy as a good adorde;—
His mistresse love, I mean, is now abhorde.

Anothers minde by hate distempered is,

Malicing whom in shew he seemes to kisse.
This base affection causeth dismall strife,
Despoileth honour, & destroyeth life.
Yet in these dayes 'tis counted pollicie
To vse dissimulation; villanie
Masqu'd vnder friendships title (worst of hate)
Makes a man liue secure & fortunate.
These Machiavillians are the men alone
That thrive i' th' world, & gett promotion.
Athenian Timon, in his hatefull moode,
Was ne're soe bad as some of this damnde broode,
This brood of Caines, these dissembling knaves,
These mankinde-haters, bloody minded slaves,
Which all the world with horrid murders fill,
Laughing one those whom they intend to kill.

A third ther is, which gaining some vaine toy,
Is overwhelmèd through excessive ioy.
The husbandman, if that his crops proove well,
Hath his heart fild with joy 'cause his barnes swell;
The marchant, if his gaines doe safe come in,
Is with ioy ready to leape out on 's skinne;
The vehemency of this passion 's such,
Many have died by joying overmuch.
Another, shuning comfort & reliefe,
Suffers himselfe to be subchargde with griefe,
And soe this passion doth his reason blinde
That it begettes a frenzie in his minde.
Another, if that fear doe him assaile,
Doth suffer that affection to prevaile,
And doth bring him [in]to such franticke fittes,
As you would judge him to be out on 's wittes.
Each bush doth fright him, & each flying bird,
Yea his owne shadowe maketh him afeard.

Desire in others sheweth forth his mighte,
Making them follow brutish appetite.
Desire of honour fires th' ambitious minde;
Desire of wealth the covetous doth blinde;
The lecher cannot lustfull thoughtes withstand:
Reason 's controlde by passions that commaund.
Another, rash & indiscreetly bolde,
Hazardes himselfe in dangers manifolde,
Yet thinks himselfe (mislead by his temerity)
To vse true valour & dexterity;
When folly his companion is assignde,
For “who soe bolde as bayard that is blynde?
With rashnesse is conioynèd impudence,
With which my Muse in noe case can dispence.
His talke is bawdry, he doth rather choose
His soule then a prophane conceite to loose.

Mischiefe-procurer anger rules another,
That knowes not friend from foe; stranger or brother,
All 's one to him; for in his bedlem fitt,
Which quite deprives him of his litle witt,
He cares not whom he strikes, or what vile wordes
That cutt like razors, or sharp edgèd swordes,
Flie from his hasty tongue. This passion swaies
And rules over too many now adayes,
For each vaine toy stirreth vp man to furie,
When he in patience greatest wrongs should burie.

Hope & affection is that doth least harme
Vnto the soule of man; for it doth arme
With constancy in trouble to endure
The worst of evill that sad fates procure.
It makes the prisoner, bound in gives of steele,
In expectation of release, to feele
Noe torment in his bondage; cures the sicke
Of his diseases; makes the halfe dead quicke.
Yet is this good conioynèd with some evill;
To hope on God is good, but from the devill

To expect healp, as they doe which attend
With expectation of a happy end
To some ill act, is diabolicall,
And not by Christians to be vsde at all.

But when I come to think vpon dispaire
(Which to withstand the rediest meanes is praier)
I muse to think it should soe much bewitch
The minde of man, making the soule (like pitch)
Commit such deeds of darkenesse, such damnd ill,
As with our owne handes our owne lives to spill.

Farre be it from me all passion to exclude
Out of mans soule, my meaning 's not so rude;
For 'tis an axiome not to be withstood,
“He that is void of passion 's voide of good.”
Love of that love deserving Diety,
Which doth produce effectes of charity,
And kindles in mans heart devotion,
Once to extenuate were a sinfull motion
Of a pestiferous braine; noe, I desire
To ad more fewell to that holy fire.
Nor can I but commend of godlie hate,
Detesting sinne, that doth commaculate
The soule of man; this passion 's worth commending,
That hates the offence, yet loves the man offending.
Neither will I restraine the heart from joy
Soe that with moderation we imploy
This passion to good vses; hartes rejoyce,
But let the cause be singuler & choice.
Grief likewise must abounde in every man
That will indeed be a true Christian,
Sorrow the badge of true repentance weares,
Sinne must be purgde by a whole flood of teares.
To filial feare I likewise doe assent,

That 's awd from sinne by love, not punishment.
Salvations hope, celestiall ioyes desire,
Vertuous boldenesse, with religious ire,
Are heavenly passions not to be denide,
But as occasion serves, to be applide
To their true endes. Affectiones of such kinde
Mie Muse disclaimes not; but all such as blinde
The eyes of reason, & doe quite pervert
The soule, mans better intellectuall part,
That keep him from the path of his salvation,
And lead the way which brings vnto damnation,
These, these they be, on which I doe engage
My vexèd Muse to wreck her spleenfull rage.

Philautus with his very soule doth love
A wench as faire as Venus milck white dove;
He loves his hunting-horse, his hauke, his hound,
His meat & drink, his morning sleeps profound;
He loves to follow each new-fangled fashion,
He loves to hear men speake his commendation,
He loves his landes, that bring him store of pelfe,
But above all thinges he doth love himselfe.
In all this love noe love of God I finde,
Noe love of goodnesse, but a love confinde
To sensuall delights, to sinne & ease,
A love to others soe himselfe to please.
Thou impious worldling, leave this vaine affection,
Which only on thy selfe hath a reflection;
This sinne relinquish, lest incensèd Iove
Doe iustly plague thy misapplyèd love.

I saw (a sight that made me much affraide)
Amorphus kisse his mothers kitchin-maide.
Me thought as both their heades together came,
I saw the devill kissing of his dam:
And yet this foole 's in love with her 'bove measure,
Calls her the mistresse of his ioy & pleasure;

Sweares that faire roses grow vpon her cheekes,
When I'le be sworne 'tis fitter place for leekes;
Saies her sweet breath his amarous fires increase,
When she smelles filthy strong of durt & grease.
“But like to like, the collier & the devill,”
He & his wench; she stammers, he doth drivell;
He squints, & she doth gogle wondrous faire;
His botle-nose is red, soe is her haire;
She hath a crooked backe, he a polte foote;
His face is blacke, & hers begrimd'e with soote;
A loving lovely couple most divine,
Pitty it were that they should not combine.

Pamphila is in love with every man
That comes within her sight, & if she can
Will prostitute her body to his will,
And never leave till she her lust fullfill.

Stepmother Phœdra woos her husbandes sonne,
Hypolitus, but he with care doth shunne
Her odious lust, loathing a sinne soe vile
As his sires bed with incest to defile;
But still she sues, & still he doth denie,
Till vrgde to farre, he doth her presence flie.
Lust thus by verteous chastetie withstood
Is turnd to hate, & hate thirsts after blood;
And his hartes blood it is this thirst must ease;
Only his death can her fell hate appease.

True Machiavillian Cæcilius
With hate doth prosecute Honorius,
Because his vertues did deserve more love,
And he i' th' Court respected was above
His high aspiring selfe. Yet till the end
In outward shew he seemd to be his friend.
But when that Fortune had once turnd her wheele
He was the first that did his furie feele;
For then his rage burst forth, & it is thought
This one mans hate his sad destruction wrought.

Misotochus (which his hand will sooner lend
To bring his neighbour to vntimely end
Then save his life) hath horded vp his corne,
Ready to burst his garners with the horne
Of his aboundance, & doth hope his seed
Kept from the market will a famine breed;
And therfore will not sell a graine this year,
Nor to sustaine his householde thresh an eare;
But lives one rootes like a Diogenes,
With poor thin drink, & course bread mad[e] of pease.
What though the poore doe want, begge, starve, & dye,
They get from him noe healp in miserie.
Their hunger feeds him fat, he ioyes to see
Their death-procuring sad calamity.
Thou hateful cynick-dog, belov'd of none,
Because none loving, not thy selfe alone!
Inhuman devill! think some fatall hower
Will bring huge troupes of vermine, to devoure
Thy graine & thee; or that from heaven will fall
Consuming fyer & destroy it all.
Looke for some fearfull vengeance to be sent,
Some plague vnheard of, some straunge punnishment;
For such damnd hatred, iust revenging God
Will scourge thy sinne with some vnusuall rodde.

Nænius hath with much officious labour
Recoverèd his mistrisses lost favour,
For the which act the foole 's soe overioyde
That through excesse therof he is annoide.
When she vouchsafte that he might kiss her hand,
The asse had much adoe on 's feet to stand,
He was soe inly ravisht with delight
Of that rare pleasure: such another fight
Twixt reason & his passion would have sent
A foolish soule to Plutoes regiment.
When Carthaginian Hanniball, that stout
And politicke captaine, which soe often fought

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With Roman Consuls in their native soile,
And their best forces many times did foile,
It is recorded by cronologers
And excellent histriographers,
In that vnluckie Cannas overthrowe,
When few or none escapte deaths fatall blowe,
A certaine woman dwelling then at Rome
Heard her two sonnes had their eternall doome;
For which (as nature would) she did lament,
Her eyes (bare witnesse) all with teares besprent.
But the young men scaping by flight their foe
Recover Rome & to their mother goe;
She hearing both alive returnèd were
And bid her former sorrow to forbeare,
Will not beleeve reporte, but trust her eyes,
When sodainly opprest with ioy she dies.

Mopsa, they say, o'recome with joy lies dead,
But how? i' th' act of her lost mayden head!
A fearfull end, to die in act of sinne,
And in this death a second death beginne,
A dayly living death, yet dying paine
Which shall in perpetuity remaine.

Luctantia, cease thy lamentation!
Thou mone'st thy puppies death with greater passion
Then the offences that thou dost committe
'Gainst thy Creatour; which iust ne're a whit
Grieve thy seard conscience; noe remorse for sinne
On[e] tear enforceth, but for every pinne,
For every trifle else, that doth distast
Thy foolish liking, thou dost even wast
Thy selfe in sorrow. Wash thy blubbered eyes,
And cry no more for shame! If thou be wise
See that hence forth thou keep thy fludgates dry,
And weep for nothing but iniquity.

Mutius, why art thou thus opprest with griefe?
Take comfort man, & thou shalt finde reliefe;

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Be not dejected, bear a constant minde:
What though the tempest of an [a]dverse winde
Hath blowne thy fortunes downe, ruind thy state?
Wilt thou for this accuse the god of fate,
And yeild to sorrow? Doe not soe; beware,
'Twas mercy in him then thy life to spare.
When he destroide thy goods, had 't been his pleasure
He might have ruinde thee & them together.
But now thy substaunce & thy wealth is lost,
Thou art vndone, & all thy hopes are crost;
Ther is noe meanes to rise: who once doth fall
Is still kept downe, & cannot climbe at all.
Fear not, Antæus more couragious grew,
And by his fall did still his strength renew.
Be thou like him; may be this misery
Was pre-ordainde for thy felicity.
Grieve not at all, ther 's blessing still in store,
And he that tooke thy goodes can give thee more.

Ther 's three ill feares (to one good filiall)
A worldly, servile, & a naturall:
A wordly feare is when some worldly gaine
Makes vs doe evill, or from good abstaine;
When for our proffit, pleasure, & our ease,
We doe not good, but men fear to displease.
There is a worldly fear, a fear to lacke
Things necessary for the maw or backe,
Which hath in nature greater confidence,
Then in Gods all-foreseeing providence.
Naturall fear is a distraction
Of mind & senses, by th' iniection
Of some moste eminent danger; & this passion
Is great where faith doth want his operation.
A servile fear 's a fear of punnishment
Vnto the reprobate coincident,
Whom oftentimes vnto good actes doth drawe,
Not fear of God, but fear of humane lawe.

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Letia doth fear to play the whore with any,
And yet she loves the sport as well as many
That act the sinne; what hinders her intent?
O she's afraide of shame & punnishment.
Irus is poore, yet feares to play the theefe,
And yet his fingers itch to get reliefe,
“But the burnt childe (we say) doth dread the fire;”—
Hee 's burnt i' th' hand, the next is halters hire.
Romanus keeps his monthly residence
At church, although against his conscience;
He would refraine (because he doth abhor it)
But that he feares to be presented for it.
Bellina, tost in a tempestuous sea,
Fears drowning much, & fear doth make her pray.
And yet her prayers, which doe seeme profounde,
Are but lip-labour & a hollow sound;
For set a shore, vnlesse apparent evill
Affright her much, she fears nor God nor devill.
Phorbus, what makes thee looke soe like a ghoast?
Thy face is pale, thy sences are quite lost,
Thy haire vpon thy head doth stand vpright
As if thou hadst been haunted with a spright.
Why soe thou hast, thou thinkst; what, hast thou soe?
How scapdst thou from him? would he let thee goe?
Sure 'twas a very honest devill, friend,
Wer he hobgoblin, fairie, elve, or fiend.
Thou fearfull idiot! looke, it was a catt,
That frights thee thus, I sawe her wher she satt;
But thou with conscience guilty of much evill
Dost deeme the cat to be a very devill.
Caligula, creepst vnderneath thy bed?
That 's a poore shelter to defend thy head
'Gainst Ioves feard thunderbolte; huge Atlas hill
Cannot preserve thee, when he meanes to kill.

Votarius wisheth for a great estate,

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And saith the poore should then participate
Of all his blessings; yet doth nothing give
Although he be exceeding well to live,
And might healp others, till his substaunce grew;
But the olde proverbe is exceeding true,
“That these great wishers, & these common woulders,
Are never (for the moste part) good householders.”

Timophila her part of heaven would sell
To be a ladie, she so much doth swell
With this ambitious longing, to be cald
Madam at every word; to be enstalde
In such a chaire of state, were heaven it selfe.
Ambitious woman, high aspiring elfe!
All thy desires are wicked, thou vnblest,
Vnlesse Godes Spirit, working in thy brest,
Change thy desire from vaine & earthly toies
To covet truely after heavenly ioyes.

Chremes is troubled with the greedy minde
Of golde-desiring Midas; he doth finde
Noe comfort but in gaping after gaine.
Would to his wish awarded were the paine
That Midas felt; who, thirsting after golde,
Wishd that what e're he touchd might change the mould
Into that purer mettall. Phœbus graunt
Comfirmd the misers wish, but soone did daunt
The wretches minde; for all the foode he tooke
To comfort nature, cleane his forme forsooke
And turnd to golde. The asse had surely starvde
Had not Apolloes power his life preservde
By taking of his wish. May the intent
Of Chremes meet with the like punnishment;
Or, since that Midas greedy minde he beares,
May he with Midas wear the asses eares.

Dame Polupragma, gossip Title-tatle,
Suffers her tongue, let loose at randome, pratle

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Of all occurrentes; comes to publike feastes
Without invitement, 'mongst the worthiest guestes
Takes vp her roome at table, where, more bolde
Then truely welcome, she discourse will holde
Of state affaires, talke of divinity
As moves the hearers to deride her folly,
But grieves me to the heart, that thinges soe holy,
Things which in greatest estimation stand,
Should by her foolish lips be soe prophande.
But Betterice let me thee this lesson teach,
To leave those thinges that are above thy reach.

Temerus, which i' th' warre had borne a launce,
Vpon some great exploite would needes advaunce
His high attempting minde, & doe some act,
To make the world applaud his worthy fact.
Then (ne're regarding what might him befall)
He takes in hand to kill the generall
Of the foes armie; but his vaine intent
Met with as ill successe; care did prevent
His desperate boldenesse, ere he could come nigh
His wishèd end; for, taken for a spie,
And brought to th' racke, torture did him compell
The truth of his straunge stratagem to tell;
For which the wretch in horrid torment lies,
Being iustly plagu'de for his rash enterprise.

Anaidus, art soe clean devoide of grace?
Hast thou soe impudent a brasen face,
Not only to act sinne with greedinesse,
But to make boast of thy damnde wickednesse?
Was 't not enough with wordes to have beguild
Thy mothers maide & gotten her with childe,
But that thou must most shamefully beginne
To make a iest of this thy hellish sinne
'Mongst thy companions? Thou perhaps dost think,
Because thy law-perverting cursèd chink
Hath freed thee from the standing in a sheet

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(A punnishment for thy offence moste meet)
That there remaines noe more? Yes, ymp of hell,
There is a Iudge which in the heavens doth dwell,
An vncorrupted Iudge, that will award
Damnation for thy sinne, vnlesse regard
Of that vnhappy state wherin thou art,
Softning (I fear) thy vnrelenting heart,
Shew thee thy soules deformity, & in
Repentaunce fountaine make thee purge thy sinne.

Looke vpon Adrus in his furious ire!
He seemes to burne like some red cole of fire;
How his eyes flame! how his limbs shake with rage!
How his voice thunders, as he ment to wage
Warre against heaven! Surely the cause is great
That makes him in this sort himselfe forget;
It cannot but be matter of much consequence,
That moves the man to this impatience?
Faith no, you are deceivde; the cause was smale,
A better man then he would put vp all,
Were the disgrace more hainous, which is none
But that his cholericke humour makes it one.
This asse (which for the wagging of a straw
His dagger vpon any man will drawe)
Walking i' th' street, was iustled from the wall
Downe almost to the channell; this is all
That puttes him in this fume! Would you surmise,
A man that hath the vse of reasons eyes
To guide himselfe, should for a cause soe light,
Soe smale a matter, be in such a plight?
Ready to frett himselfe to death, to sweare,
To curse, & banne, as if [he] meant to teare
The earth in sunder, only for this end,
Because he knowes not vpon whom to bend
The furie of his rage! Thou irefull foole!
Vse henceforth to frequent the learned schoole
Of sacred vertue, which will thee inspire

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With patience to moderat thine ire.

Good Mistriss Orgia, holde your hasty handes!
Because your maides have not pind in your bandes
According to your minde, must the stick flie
About their shoulders straight? Should they replie
In your owne language to you, you were servde
According as your rage had well deservde.
But this is nothing with this furious dame,
Ther 's other matters that deserve more blame.
She will not stick to breake her husbandes head,
Revile him to his face & wish him dead
In most reproachfull manner; he, good man,
Dares not replie a worde, but gettes him gone
Till her fit 's past, & doth with patience
Endure his wives outragious insolence.
Thou furious vixen, learne to rule thy passion,
And vse thy husband in a better fashion,
Or I will have thy name to be enrolde
For a moste shamelesse & notorious scolde!

Manlius hath a very mean estate,
Yet lives in longing hope of better fate;
He hath an vnkle above measure rich,
And cares not much if he lay dead i' th' ditch;
Hopes he cannot last long because hee 's olde;
And then he hopes to seaze vpon his golde.
Foole, how dost know that thou shalt him outlive?
'Twere better for thee, did he something give
Now while thy wanttes desire reliefe; “one thrush
I' th' hand is worth more then are two i' th' bush;”
And “he that hopes to put one dead mens shoos,
It often comes to passe he barefoote goes.”

Elpinas, which with seas doth traffique holde,
Hath made a ship out for West Indian golde,
And all his hopes doe in this venture lie:

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Should she miscarry sure the man would die;
But hope, which holds him like a violent fever,
Flatters him still he shalbe made for ever
At her returne; & since she first began
To cut the billowes of the ocean
With her swift keel, his minde, more swift then she,
Followes her in the voyage, & doth see
With eyes of selfe-delighting fantasie
(Which sometime wrap him in an extasie)
Her prosperous traffique. If the day be faire
He hopes that homeward she doth then repaire;
If stormes obscure the brightnesse of the skie,
He hopes she doth in safest harbour lie.
The time which slowlie seemes to passe away
Vnto his longing hopes, he day by day
Telles o're in minutes; not a puffe of winde
Blowes, but that straight his advantageous minde
Carries it to his ship. Sometime his thought
Runnes on the gold wherwith his ship is fraught,
Imagining in his still working braine,
How to imploy it to his best of gaine.
Thou greedy minded slave! whose hopes are fixd
Only on wealth, with pleasure inte[r]mixt,
And ne're hop'st after heaven, how canst thou thinke
But that iust Iove should in the ocean sinke
All thy fond hopes, & drive thee to dispaire,
Which ne're implorst his ayde by hearty praier?
Returne at last, and fix thy hopes one him,
Whose only power can make thee sink or swimme.

Alston, whose life hath been accounted evill,
And therfore cal'de by many the blew devill,
S[t]ruck with remorse of his ill gotten pelfe,
Would in dispaire have made away himselfe,
One while by drowning, when that would not be,
He drew his knife to worke his tragedie,
Intending with that fatall instrument

108

To cut his owne throte. Fearfull punnishment
Of a dispairing minde! O, who can tell
The pangs that in a guilty conscience dwell?
Had not the gracious mercy of the Lord
Restraind him from a sinne soe much abhord,
With his owne handes he would have stopt his breath
And with his bodie sent his soule to death.
Thrice happie mortall, which this grace didst finde,
Soe that henceforth thou bear a better minde,
And let thy actions to his glorie tende
That savde thy life from such a fearfull end.
Returne thankesgiving, & desire in praier
His grace to sheild thee from forlorne dispaire.

Latro did act a damnèd villanie,
Adding blacke murder to his robbery,
Yet 'cause 'twas closely done he might conceale it,
For, save himselfe, none living could reveale it.
But see the iust revenge for this offence;—
After the deed, his guilty conscience
Torturing his soule, enforc'd him still to think
The act disclosde, & he in dangers brinke.
He thought the birds still in their language said it;
He thought the whistling of the winde bewraide it;
He cald to minde that murder was forbidden,
And though a while, it could not long be hidden.
Destract in minde, & fearfull in his place,
Having noe power to call to God for grace,
The devill doth suborne him to dispaire,
Tells him 'tis pitty he should breath this aire
Which hath been such a villaine; thrusts him on
To worke his owne death & confusion.
He, though he had the murderous hand to spill
Anothers blood, himselfe yet durst not kill,
And was afraide of others. What e're stirres
He iudgeth to be men & officers
Come to attache him, & his sight vnstable

109

Takes every bush to be a constable.
Thus plagud & torturde with dispaire & feare,
Out must the fact, he can noe more forbeare;
For which according to the course of lawe
Deaths heavy sentence one him he doth drawe;
And being brought vnto the place of death,
There in dispaire yeildes vp his latest breath.

Thus each affection like a tyrant raignes
Over mans soule, which letteth loose the reines
Vnto selfe will, in which soe slavish state,
Mans sence captivd'e, his reason subiugate,
Makes the soule clogd, a massie lump of sinne,
Which following his creation should have been
Like his Creator pure;—soules were made free,
Not to be held in base captivitie
By every passion, but with reasons bitte
To checke affections from all things vnfitt.
He therfore that intends to live vpright
Let him in time curbe hedstrong appetite.

[END OF THE SATIRES.]

University of Virginia Library

Epigrammi Satiron.[_] Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

Epigrammisatiron.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Ad Rithmum.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A Ioue principium Musæ.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Satira 1. [AGAINST THE ATHEISTS, SABBATH-BREAKERS, ETC.][_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Satira 2. [AGAINST SHAMS.][_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Sat[ira] 3. [AGAINST PRIDE, ETC.][_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Sat[ira] 4. [AGAINST AVARICE, BRIBERY, APOSTASY.][_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Sat[ira] 5. [AGAINST GLUTTONY, DRUNKENNESS, AND TOBACCO.][_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Sat[ira] 6. [AGAINST LASCIVIOUSNESS.][_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Sat[ira] 7. [AGAINST THE PASSIONS OF THE MIND.][_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Argumentum.

Epigrammi Satiron.
[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

Epigrammisatiron.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Ad Rithmum.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A Ioue principium Musæ.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Satira 1. [AGAINST THE ATHEISTS, SABBATH-BREAKERS, ETC.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Satira 2. [AGAINST SHAMS.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Sat[ira] 3. [AGAINST PRIDE, ETC.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Sat[ira] 4. [AGAINST AVARICE, BRIBERY, APOSTASY.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Sat[ira] 5. [AGAINST GLUTTONY, DRUNKENNESS, AND TOBACCO.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Sat[ira] 6. [AGAINST LASCIVIOUSNESS.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Sat[ira] 7. [AGAINST THE PASSIONS OF THE MIND.]
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.