University of Virginia Library

The Authors charge to his Satyres.

VIRGIDEMIARVM

LIB. 4.

SAT. 1. Che baiar Vuol, bai.

Who dares vpbraid these open rimes of mine,
With blindfold Aquines, or darke Venusine?
Or rough-hew'ne Teretisius writ in th' antique vain
Like an old Satyre, and new Flaccian?
Which who reads thrise, & rubs his rugged brow,
And deepe indenteth euery doubtfull row,
Scoring the margent with his blazing stars
And hundreth crooked interlinears,
(Like to a merchants debt-role new defac't
When some crack'd Manour crost his book at last)
Should all in rage the Curse-beat Page out-riue,
And in ech dust-heape bury mee aliue
Stamping like Bucephall whose slackned raynes,
And bloody fet-lockes fry with seuen mens braines;
More cruell then the crauon Satyres Ghost,
That bound dead-bones vnto a burning post,
Or some more strait-lac'd Iuror of the rest,
Impannel'd of an Holy Fax inquest;
Yet well bethought stoops downe, and reads anew,
The best lies low, and loaths the shallow view,
Quoth old Eudemon, when his gout-swolne fist
Gropes for his double Ducates in his chist:
Then buckle close his carelesse lyds once more,
To pose the poore-blind snake of Epidaure.
That Lyncius may be match't with Gaulards sight,
That sees not Paris for the houses height;
Or wille Cyppus, that can winke and short
Whiles his wife callyes on Mæcenas snort;
Yet when hee hath my crabbed Pamphlet red:
As oftentimes as PHILIP hath beene dead,
Bids all the Furies haunt ech peeuish line
That thus haue rackt their friendly readers eyne;
Worse then the Logogryphes of later times,
Or Hundreth Riddles shak't to sleeue-lesse rimes;
Should I endure these curses and dispight
While no mans eare should glow at what I write?
Labeo is whip't, and laughs mee in the face
Why? for I smite and hide the galled-place.
Gird but the Cynicks Helmet on his head,
Cares hee for Talus, or his flayle of lead?
Long as the craftie Cuttle lieth sure
In the blacke Cloud of his thicke vomiture;
Who list complaine of wronged faith or fame
When hee may shift it to anothers name?
Caluus can scratch his elbow, and can smile,
That thrift-lesse Pontice bites his lip the while
Yet I intended in that selfe deuise,
To checke the churle for his knowne couetise.
Ech points his straight fore-finger to his friend,
Like the blind Diall on the Belfrey end,
Who turns it homeward to say, this is I,
As bolder Socrates in the Comedie?
But single out, and say once plat and plaine
That coy Matrona is a Curtizan,
Or thou false Crispus chokd'st thy welthy guest
Whiles hee lay snoring at his midnight rest,
And in thy dung-cart did'st the carkasse shrine
And deepe intombe it in Port-esquiline;
Proud Trebius liu's for all his princely gate
Or third-hand suits, and scrapings of the plate,
Titius knew not where to shroud his head
Vntill hee did a dying widow wed;
Whiles shee lay doting on her deathes bed
And now hath purchas'd lands with one nights paine,
And on the morrow woes and weds againe.
Now see I fire-flakes sparkle from his eies
Like to a Comets tayle in th' angrie skies,
His pouting cheeks puff vp aboue his brow
Like a swolne Toad touch't with the Spiders blow;
His mouth shrinks sideward like a scornfull Playse
To take his tired Eares ingratefull place:
His Eares hang lauing like a new-lug'd swine
To take some counsell of his grieued eyne,
Now laugh I loud, and breake my splene to see
This pleasing pastime of my poesie,
Much better then a Paris-Garden Beare
Or prating puppet on a Theatere.
Or Mimoes whistling to his tabouret
Selling a laughter for a cold meales meat;
Go to then ye my sacred Semones;
And please mee more, the more ye doe displease;
Care we for all those bugs of ydle feare?
For Tigels grinning on the Theater,
Or scar-babe threatnings of the rascal crue,
Or wind-spent verdicts of ech Ale-knights view,
What euer brest doth freeze for such false dread;
Be shrew his base white liuer for his meede;
Fond were that pittie, and that feare were sin,
To spare wast leaues that so deserued bin:
Those tooth-lesse Toyes that dropt out by mis-hap,
Bee but as lightning to a thunder-clap:
Shall then that foule infamous Cyneds hide
Laugh at the purple wales of others side?
Not, if hee were as neere; as by report,
The stewes had wont be to the Tenis-court.
Hee that while thousands enuy at his bed,
Neighs after Bridals, and fresh-mayden head;
While slauish Iuno dares not looke awry
To frowne at such imperious riualrie,
Not tho shee sees her wedding Iewels drest
To make new Bracelets for a strumpets wrest,
Or like some strange disguised Messaline.
Hires a nights lodging of his concubine;
Whether his twilight-Torch of loue doe call
To reuels of vncleanly Musicall,
Or midnight playes, or Tauerns of new wine,
Hy ye white Aprons, to your Land-Lords signe;
When all saue tooth-lesse age or infancie,
Are summon'd to the Court of Venerie.
Who list excuse? when chaster dames can hyre,
Some snout-fayre stripling to their Apple-squire:
Whom [illeg.]aked vp like to some stallion-steed
They keepe with Egs and Oysters for the breed;
O Lucine! barren Caia hath an heire
After her husband's dozen yeares despayre.
And now the bribed Mid-wife sweares apace.
The bastard babe doth beare his fathers face;
But hath not Lelia past her virgine yeares?
For modest shame (God wot) or penall feares.
He tels a Merchant tidings of a prise.
That tells Cynedo of such nouelties;
Worth litle lesse then landing of a whale,
Or Gades spoyles, or a churls funerall:
Go bid the banes, and poynt the bridall-day,
His broking Baud hath got a noble prey,
A vacant tenement, an honest dowre
Can fit his pander for her paramoure,
That hee, base wretch, may clog his wit-oldhead
And giue him hansell of his Hymen-bed:
Ho! all ye Females that would liue vnshent
Fly from the reach of Cyneds regiment;
If Trent be drawn to dregs, and Low refuse,
Hence ye hot lechour, to the steaming stewes.
Tyber the famous sinke of Christendome
Turn thou to Thames, & Thames rūn towards Rome,
What euer damned streame but thine were meete
To quench his lusting liuers boyling heat.
Thy double draught may quench his dog-daies rage
With some stale Bacchis, or obsequious page,
When writhen Lena makes her sale-set showes:
Of wooden Venus with fayre limned browes,
Or like him more some vayled Matrones face,
Or trayned prentise trading in the place:
The close adulteresse, where her name is red
Coms crauling from her husbands luke warme bed,
Her carrion skin be daub'd with odors sweet,
Groping the postern with her bared feet.
Now play the Satyre who so list for mee,
Valentine selfe, or some as chast as hee;
In vaine shee wisheth long Alchmænas night
Cursing the hasty dawning of the light,
And with her cruell Ladie-starre vprose
Shee seekes her third roust on her silent toes.
Besmeared all with loathsome smoke of lust
Like Acherons steemes, or smoldring sulphur dust,
Yet all day sits shee simpring in her mew
Like some chast dame, or shrined saynct in shew,
Whiles hee lies wallowing with a westy hed
And palish carkasse, on his Brothel-bed,
Till his salt bowels boyle with poysonous fire.
Right Hercules with his second Deianire:
O Eseulape! how rife is Phisicke made
When ech Brasse-basen can professe the trade
Of ridding pocky wretches from their paine,
And doe the beastly cure for ten-grotes gaine?
All these & more, deserue some blood-drawne lines,
But my sixe Cords beene of too loose a twine,
Stay till my beard shal sweepe mine aged brest,
Then shall I seeme an awfull Satyrist;
While now my rimes rellish of the Ferule still,
Some nose-wise Pedant saith; whose deep seen skill
Hath three times construed eyther Flaccus ore
And thrise rehears'd them in his Triuiall floare,
So let them taxe mee for my hote-bloodes rage,
Rather then say I doted in my age.

SAT. 2. Arcades ambo.

Old driueling Lolio drudges all he can,
To make his oldest sonne a Gentleman;
Who can despayre that sees another thriue,
By lone of twelue-pence to an Oyster-wiue?
when a craz'd scaffold, and a rotten stage,
Was all rich Næuius his heritage.
Nought spendeth he for feare, nor spares for cost,
And all he spendes and spaires beside is lost;
Himselfe goes patch'd like some bare Cottyer,
Least he might ought the future stocke appeyre.
Let giddy Cosmius change his choyce aray,
Like as the Turke his Tents thrise in a day.
And all the sun and ayre his sutes vntold
From spightfull mothes, and frets, and hoary mold,
Bearing his paune-layd lands vpon his backe
As snayles their shels, or pedlers doe their packe:
Who cannot shine in tissues and pure gold,
That hath his lands and patrimonie sold?
Lolioes side-cote is rough Pampilian
Guilded with drops that downe the bosome ran,
White Carsy hose, patched on eyther knee,
The very Embleme of good husbandrie.
And a knit night-cap made of coursest twine,
With two long labels button'd to his chin;
So rides he mounted on the market-day
Vpon a straw-stu'ft pannell, all the way;
With a Maund charg'd with houshold merchandise
With egs, or white-meat, from both Dayries:
And with that byes he rost for sunday-noone,
Proud how he made that weeks prouision;
Else is he stall-fed on the workey-day
With browne-bread crusts softened in sodden whay,
Or water-grewell, or those paups of meale
That Maro makes his Simule, and Cybeale.
Or once a weeke perhaps for nouelty,
Ree'zd Bacon soords shall feast his family;
And weens this more then one egge cle'ft in twaine
To feast some patrone and his chappelaine:
Or more then is some hungry gallants dole
That in a dearth runs sneaking to an hole;
And leaues his man and dog to keepe his hall
Least the wild roome should run forth of the wall;
Good man! him list not spend his idle meales
In quinsing Plouers, or in winning Quailes;
Nor toot in Cheap-side baskets earne and late
To set the first tooth in some nouell-cate
Let sweeet-mouth'd Mercia, bid what crowns she please
For halfe-red Cherries, or greene garden-pease,
Or the first Artichoks of all the yeare,
To make so lauish cost for little cheare:
When Eolio feasteth in his reueling fit
Some starued Pullen scoures the rusted spitt.
For else how should his sonne maintained bee,
At Ins of Court or of the Chancery:
There to learne law, and courtly carriage,
To make amendes for his meane parentage,
Where he vnknowne and ruffling as he can,
Goes currant ech-where for a Gentleman.
While yet he roosteth at some vncouth signe,
Nor neuer red his Tenures second line,
What brokers lousy wardrop cannot reach,
With tissued panes to prancke ech peasants breech?
Couldst thou but give the wall, the cap, the knee,
To proud Sartorio that goes stradling by,
Wer't not the needle pricked on his sleeue
Doth by good hap the secret watch-word giue?
But hear'st thou Lolioes sonne, gin not thy gate,
Vntill the euening Oule or bloody-Batt.
Neuer vntill the lamps of of Paules beene light,
And niggard lanternes shade the Moon-shine night;
Then when the guiltie bankrupt in bold dread,
From his close Cabin thrusts his shrinking head,
That hath bene long in shady shelter pent
Imprisoned for feare of prisonment.
May be some russet-cote Parochian
Shall call thee cosen, friend or countryman,
And for thy hoped fist crossing the street,
Shall in thy fathers name his God-son greete,
Could neuer man worke the a worser shame
Then once to minge thy fathers odious name,
Whose mention were alike to thee as leeue
As a Catch-pols fist vnto a Bankrupts sleeue;
Or an, Hos ego, from old Petrarchs spright
Vnto a Plagiarie sonnet-wright.
There soone as he can kisse his hand in gree,
And with good grace bow it below the knee,
Or make a Spanish face with fauning cheere,
With th' Iland-Conge like a Caualier;
And shake his head, and cringe his necke and side,
Home hyes he in his fathers Farme to bide,
The Tenants wonder at their Land-Lords Sonne,
And blesse them at so sudden comming on.
More then who vies his pence to viewe some trick,
Of strange Moroccoes dumbe Arithmetike,
Or the young Elephant, or two-tayl'd steere,
Or the rigd' Camell, or the Fidling Frere.
Nay then his Hodge shall leaue the plough & waine,
And buy a booke, and to Schole againe,
Why mought not he aswell as others done:
Rise from his Festue to his Littleton.
Fooles, they may feede with words & liue by ayre,
That climbe to honor by the Pulpits stayre.
Sit seuen yeares pining in an Anchores cheyre,
To win some patched shreds of Minixere,
And seuen more plod at a Patrons tayle,
To get a gelded Chappels cheaper sayle.
Olde Lolin sees and laugheth in his sleeue,
At the great hope they and his state do giue,
But that which glads and makes him proud'st of all,
Is when the brabling Neighbours on him call,
For counsell in some crabbed case of lawe,
Or some Indentments, or some bond to draw:
His Neighbours goose hath grazed on his Lea,
What action mought be entred in the plea,
So new falne lands haue made him in request,
That now he lookes as lofty as the best.
And well done Lolio, like a thrifty syre,
T'were pitty but thy sonne should proue a squire.
How I fore-see in many ages past.
When Lolioes caytiue name is quite defa'st,
Thine heyre, thine heyres heyre, & his heire againe
From out the loynes of carefull Lolian,
Shall climbe vp to the Chancell pewes on hie,
And rule and raigne in their rich Tenancie;
When perch't aloft to perfect their estate
They racke their rents vnto a treble rate;
And hedge in all the neighbour commonlands,
And clogge their slauish tenant with commaunds
Whiles they, poore soules, with feeling sighs cōplain
And wish old Lolio were aliue againe;
And praise his gentle soule and wish it weell
And of his friendly facts fall often tell.
His father dead, tush, no it was not hee,
He finds records of his great pedigree,
And tels how first his famous Ancestor
Did come in long since with the conquerour,
Nor hath some bribed Herald first assign'd
His quartered Armes and crest of gentle kinde,
The scottish Barnacle (if I might choose)
That of a worme doth wax a winged goose;
Nathelesse some hungry squire for hope of good
Matches the churles Sonne into gentle blood,
Whose sonne more iustly of his gentry boasts
Then who were borne at two pide-painted posts;
And had some traunting Merchant to his syre
That traufiqu'ed both by water and by fyre.
O times! since euer Rome did Kings create,
Brasse Gentlemen, and Cæsar Laureates,

SAT. 3. Fuinius Troës. VEL Vix ea nostra.

VVhat boots it Pontice, tho thou could'st discourse
Of a long golden line of Ancestors?
Or shew their painted faces gaylie drest,
From euer since before the last conquest;
Or tedious Bedroles of descended blood,
From Father Iaphet since Deucalions flood,
Or call some old Church-windowes to record,
The age of thy fayre Arms,
Or find some figures halfe Obliterate:
In rain-beat Marble neare to the Church-gate,
Vpon a Crosse-leg'd Toombe: what boots it thee
To shew the rusted Buckle that did tie,
The Garter of thy greatest Grand-sires knee.
What to reserue their reliques many yeares.
Their siluer-spurs, or spils of broken speares;
Or cite olde Oclands verse, how they did weild,
The wars in Turwin, or in Turney field;
And if thou canst in picking strawes engage
In one halfe day thy fathers hesitate,
Or hide what euer treasures he thee got,
In some deepe Cock-pit; or in desperate Lot
Vpon a sixe-square peece of Iuorie,
Throw both thy selfe, and thy Posteritie?
Or if (O shame) in hired Harlots bed
Thy wealthy heyre-dome thou haue buried,
Then Pontice little boots thee to discourse,
Of a long golden line of Ancestors:
Ventrous Fortunio his farme hath sold,
And gads to Guiane land to fish for gold,
Meeting perhaps, if Orenoque denye,
Some stragling pinnace of Polonian Rie.
Then comes home floting with a silken sayle,
That Sauerne shaketh with his Canon-peale;
Wyser Raymundus in his closet pent,
Laughs at such daunger and aduenturement;
When halfe his lands are spent in golden smoke,
And nowe his second hopefull glasse is broke.
But yet if haply his third fornace hold,
Deuoteth all his pots and pans to gold;
So spend thou Pontice, if thou canst not spare,
Like some stout sea-man or Philosopher;
And were thy fathers gentle? that's their praise,
No thanke to thee by whome their name decays;
By vertue got they it, and valourous deed,
Do thou so Pontice, and be honoured:
But els looke howe their vertue was their owne,
Not capable of propagation,
Right so their titles beene, nor can be thine,
Whose ill deserts might blancke their golden line.
Tell me, thou gentle Troian; dost thou prise
Thy brute beasts worth by their dams qualities;
Say'st thou this Colt shall prooue a swift-pac'd steed,
Only because a Iennet did him breed?
Or say'st thou this same Horsse shall win the prize,
Because his dame was swiftest Trurchefice,
Or Runceuall his Syre; himselfe a Gallaway?
Whiles like a tireling Iade he lags half-waye;
Or whiles thou seest some of thy Stallion-race,
Their eyes boar'd out, masking the Millers-maze,
Like to a Scythian slaue sworne to the payle;
Or dragging froathy barrels at his tayle?
Albee wise Nature in her prouidence,
Wont in the want of reason and of sence,
Traduce the natiue vertue with the kinde,
Making all brute and senselesse things inclin'd,
Vnto their cause, or place where they were sowne;
That one is like to all, and all like one;
Was neuer Foxe but wily cubs begets,
The Beare his feirce-nesse to his brood besets;
Nor feareful Hare fals out of Lyons seede,
Nor Eagle wont the tender Doue to breede;
Creet euer wont the Cypresse sad to beare,
Acheron banks the palish Popelare;
The Palme doth rifely rise in Iury field,
And Alpheus waters nought but Oliues wild.
Æsopus breeds big-Bul-Rushes alone,
Meander heath; Peaches by Nilus growne;
An English Wolfe, an Irish Toad to see,
Were as a chast-man nurs'd in Italie.
And now when Nature giues another guide,
To humane-kind that in his bosome bides:
Aboue instinct his reason and discourse,
His beeing better, is his life the worse?
Ah me! how seldome see we sonns succeed,
Their Fathers praise in prowesse, and great deed;
Yet, certes if the Syre be ill inclin'd
His faults befall his sonns by course of kinde;
Scaurus was couetous; his sonne not so,
But not his pared nayle will hee forgoe:
Florian the syre did women loue a life,
And so his sonne doth too; all, but his wife:
Brag of thy Fathers faults, they are thine owne;
Brag of his Lands, if those bee not forgone:
Brag of thine owne good deeds, for they are thine,
More then his life, or lands, or golden line.

SAT. 4. Plus beau que fort.

Can I not touch some vpstart carpet-sheild
Of Lolio's sonne, that neuer saw the field,
Or taxe wild Pontice for his Luxuries,
But straight they tell mee of Tiresias eyes,
Or lucklesse Collingborns feeding of the crowes,
Or hundreth Scalps which Thames still vnderflowes?
But straight Sigalion nods and knits his browes,
And winkes and wastes his warning hand for feare,
And lisps some silent letters in my eare?
Haue I not vow'd for shunning such debate
(Pardon ye Satyres) to degenerate?
And wading low in this plebeian lake
That no salt waue shall froath vpon my backe,
Let Labeo, or who else list for mee,
Go loose his eares and fall to Alchymie.
Onely, let Gallio giue me leaue a while
To schoole him once, or ere I change my style.
O lawlesse paunch the cause of much despight.
Through raunging of a currish appetite,
When splenish morsels cram the gaping Maw,
Withouten diets care, or trencher-law,
Tho neuer haue I Salerne rimes profest
To be some Ladies trencher criticke guest;
Whiles each bitt cooleth for the Oracle
Whose sentence charms it with a ryming spell;
Touch not this Coler, that Melancholy
This bit were dry and hote, that cold and dry;
Yet can I set my Gallios dieting,
A pestle of a Larke, or Plouers wing,
And warne him not to cast his wanton eyne
On grosser Bacon, or salt Haberdine,
Or dried Fliches of some smoked Beeue,
Hang'd on a writhen with, since Martins eue,
Or burnt Larkes heeles, or Rashers raw and grene,
Or Melancholike liuer of an Hen,
Which stout Vorauo brag's to make his feast,
And claps his hand on his braue Ostrige-brest;
Then fals to praise the hardy Ianizar,
That sucks his horse side thirsting in the warre:
Lastly to seale vp all that he hath spoke,
Quaffes a whole Tunnell of Tobacco smoke:
If Martius in boystrous Buffes be drest,
Branded with Iron-plates vpon the brest,
And pointed on the shoulders, for the nonce,
As new-come from the Belgian garrisons;
What shall thou need to enuie ought as that,
When as thou smellest like a Ciuet-Cat;
When as thine oyled lookes smooth platted fall,
Shining like varnisht pictures on a wall.
When a plum'd Fanne may shade thy chalked face,
And lawny strips thy naked bosome grace:
If brabling Make-fray at ech Fayre and Sise,
Picks quarrels for to show his valiantise,
Straight pressed for an hungry Swizzers pay,
To thrust his fist to each part of the fray,
And piping hote puffes toward the pointed plaine,
With a broad Scot, or proking spit of Spayne,
Or hoyseth sayle vp to a forraine shore,
That he may liue a lawlesse Conquerer.
If some such desperate Hackster shall deuise
To rouze thine Hares-hart from her cowardise,
As idle children striuing to excell,
In blowing bubles from an emptie shell;
Oh Hercules how like to proue a man
That all so rath thy warlike life began;
Thy mother could thee for thy cradle set
Her husbands rusty iron corselet;
Whose iargling sound might rocke her babe to rest;
That neuer playn'd of his vneasie nest
There did he dreame of drery wars at hand,
And woke, and fought, and won, ere he could stand;
But who hath seene the Lambs of Tarentine,
May gesse what Gallio his manners beene;
All soft as is the falling thistle-downe,
Soft as the fumy ball, or Morrians crowne;
Now Gallio, gines thy youthly heate to raigne
In euery vigorous limme, and swelling vaine,
Time bids thee raise thine hed strong thoughts on by
To valour and aduenterous chiualrie;
Paune thou no gloue for challenge of the deed,
Nor make thy Quintaine others armed head
T'enrich the waiting Herald with thy shame
And make thy losse, the scornfull scaffolds game.
Wars; God forfend; nay God defend from warre,
Soone are Sonns spent, that not soone reared are:
Gallio may pull mee Roses ere they fall,
Or in his Net entrap the Tennis-ball:
Or tend his Spar-hauke mantling in her mew,
Or yelping Begles busy heeles persue,
Or watch a sinking corke vpon the shore.
Or halter Finches through a priuy doore,
Or list he spend the time in sportfull game,
In daily courting of his louely dame,
Hang'e on her lips, melt in her wanton eye,
Dance in her hand, ioy in her iollity,
Here's little perill, and much lesser paine,
So timely Hymen doe the rest restraine:
Hy wanton Gallio and wed betime,
Why should'st thou leese the pelasures of thy prime?
Seest thou the Rose-leaues fall vngathered?
Then hy thee wanton Gallio to wed:
Let Ring and Ferule meet vpon thine hand,
And Lucines girdle with her swathing-bands,
Hy thee and giue the world yet one dwarfe more:
Such as it got when thou thy selfe wast bore:
Looke not for warning of thy bloomed chin,
Can neuer happines to soone begin;
Virginius vow'd to keepe his Mayden-head;
And eats chast Lettuce, and drinkes Poppy-seed,
And smels on Camphyre fasting: and that done
Long hath he liu'd, chast as a vayled Nunne.
Free as the new-absolued Damosell,
That Frere Cornelius shriued in his Cell,
Till now he waxt a toothlesse Bacheler
He thaw's like Chaucers frosty Ianiuere;
And sets a Months minde vpon smyling May,
And dyes his beard that did his age bewray;
Byting on Annis-seede, and Rose-marine,
Which might the Fume of his rot lungs refine,
Now he in Charons barge a Bride doth seeke,
The maydens mocke, and call him withered Leeke,
That with a greene tayle hath an hoary head,
And now he would, and now he cannot wed.

SAT. 5. Slupet Albius ære.

Would now that Matho were the Satyrist,
That some fat bribe might greaze him in the fist,
For which he neede not braule at any barre,
Nor kisse the booke to be a periurer;
Who else would scorne his silence to haue solde,
And haue his tongue tyed with stringes of gold?
Curius is dead, and burled long since,
And all that loued golden Abstinence:
Might he not well repine at his olde fee,
Would he but spare to speake of vsurie?
Hirelings enow beside, can be so base,
Tho we should scorne ech bribing varlets brasse;
Yet he and I could shun ech iealous head,
Sticking our thumbs close to our girdle-stead,
Tho were they manicled behinde our backe,
Anothers fist can serue our fees to take:
Yet pursy Euclio chearly smiling prayd,
That my sharpe words might curtal their side trade;
For thousands beene in euery gouernall,
That liue by losse, and rise by others fall,
What euer sickly sheepe so secret dies,
But some foule Rauen hath bespoke his eyes?
What else makes N. when his lands are spent,
Go shaking like a threedbare malecontent.
Whose band-lesse Bonnet vailes his ore-grown chin,
And sullen rags bewray his Morphew'd skin;
So ships he to the woluish westerne ile,
Among the sauage Kernes in sad exile;
Or in the Turkish wars at Cæsars paye
To rub his life out till the latest day;
Another shifting Gallant to forecast,
To gull his Hostesse for a months repast;
With some gal'd Trunk ballae'd with straw & stone
Left for the paune of his prouision;
Had F. shop lyen fallow but from hence,
His doores close seal'd as in some pestilence,
Whiles his light heeles theis fearfull flight can take,
To get some badg-lesse Blew vpon his backe?
Tocullio was a welthy vsurer,
Such store of Incomes had he euery yeare,
By Bushels was he wont to meete his coyne;
As did the olde wife of Trimalcion;
Could he doe more that finds an idle roome,
For many hundreth thousands on a Toombe?
Or who reares vp foure free-schooles in his age,
Of his olde pillage, and damn'd surplusage?
Yet now he swore by that sweet Crosse he kist,
(That siluer crosse, where he had sacrific'd
His coueting soule, by his desires owne doome,
Dayly to dye the Diuels Martyrdome)
His Angels were all flowne vp to their sky,
And had forsooke his naked Tresurie,
Farewell Astræa and her weights of gold,
Vntill his lingring Calends once be told;
Nought left behind but waxe & parchment scroells
Like Lucians dreame that siluer turn'd to coles:
Shouldst thou him credit, that nould credit thee,
Yes and mayst sweare he swore the verity;
The ding-thrift heyre, his shift-got summe mispent,
Comes drouping like a pennylesse penitent,
And beats his faint fist on Tocullios doore,
It lost the last and now must call for more,
Now hath the Spider caught a wandring Flye,
And drags her captiue at her cruell thigh:
Soone is his errand red in his pale face,
Which beares dumbe Characters of euery case,
So Syneds dusky cheeke and fiery eye,
And hayre-les brow, tels where he last did lye,
So Matho doth bewray his guilty thought;
Whiles his pale face doth say, his cause is nought.
Seest thou the wary Angler trayle along,
His feeble line, soone as some Pike too strong
Hath swallowed the bayte that scornes the shore,
Yet now neare hand cannot resist no more:
So lyeth he aloofe in smooth pretence,
To hide his rough intended violence;
As he that vnder name of Christmas cheere;
Can starue his Tennants all th' ensuing yeare,
Paper and waxe (God wot) a weake repay,
For such deepe debts, and downstakt sūums as they;
Write, seale, deliuer, take, go, spend and speede,
And yet full hardly could his present need.
Part with such summe; For but as yester-late
Did Furnus offer pen-worths at easy rate,
For small disbursment; He the bankes hath broke,
And needs more now some further playne ore looke;
Yet ere he goe fayne would he be releast:
Hy you ye Rauens, hy you to the feast;
Prouided that thy lands are left entyre,
To be redeem'd or ere thy day expyre;
Then shalt thou teare those idle paper-bonds,
That thus had fettered thy pauned lands.
Ah foole! For sooner shall thou sell the rest,
Then stake ought for thy former Intrest;
When it shall grinde thy grating gall for shame,
To see the lands that beare thy Grandsires name,
Become a dunghill peasants sommer-hall,
Or lonely Hermits cage in hospitall;
A pining Gourmand, an imperious slaue,
An hors-leech, barren womb, and gaping graue,
A legall theefe, a bloud-lesse murtherer;
A feind incarnate, a false Vsurer.
Albee such mayne extort scorns to be pent,
In the clay walles of thatched Tenement,
For certes no man of a low degree,
May bid two guestes; or Gout, or Vsurie:
Vnlesse some base hedge-creeping Collybist,
Scatters his refuse scraps on whom he list,
For Easter-gloues, or for a Shroftide Hen,
Which bought to giue, he takes to sell agen:
I doe nor meane some gloking Merchants feate,
That laugheth at the cozened worlds deceipt,
When as an hundred stocks ly in his fist,
He leakes and sinkes, and breaketh when he list;
But, Nummius eas'd the needy Gallants care,
With a base bargaine of his blowen ware,
Of fusted hoppes now lost for lacke of sayle,
Or mo'ld browne-paper that could nought auaile:
Or what he cannot vtter otherwise,
May pleasure Fridoline for treble price.
Whiles his false broker lyeth in the winde,
And for a present Chapman is assign'd,
The cut-throte wretch for their compacted gaine,
Buyes all for but one quarter of the mayne;
Whiles if he chance to break his deare-bought day,
And for fait for default of due repay.
His late intangled lands: Then Fridoline,
Buy thee a wallet, and go beg or pyne.
If Mammon selfe should euer liue with men,
Mammon himselfe shalbe a Citizen.

SAT. 6. Quid placet ergo?

I wote not how the world's degenerate,
That men or know, or like not their estate:
Out from the Gades vp to the Easterne Morne,
Not one but holds his natiue state forlorne.
When comely striplings wish it weare their chance,
For Cænis distaffe to exchange their Lance;
And weare curl'd Periwigs, and chalke their face,
And still are poring on their pocket-glasse.
Tyr'd with pin'd Ruffes, and Fans, and partlet-strips
And Buskes, and Verdingales about their hips;
And tread on corked stilts a prisoners pace,
And make their Napkin for their spitting-place,
And gripe their wast within a narrow span,
Fond Cænis that would'st wish to be a man;
Whose mannish Hus-wiues like their refuse state,
And make a drudge of their vxorious mate,
Who like a Cot-queene freezeth at the rocke,
Whiles his breech't dame doth man the forrein stock.
Is't not a shame to see ech homely groome
Sit perched in an idle charriot-roome,
That were not meete some pannell to bestride
Surcingled to a galled Hackneys hide?
Ech Muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse gaine
Altho he smother vp mowes of seeuen yeares graine,
And hang'd himselfe when corn grows cheap againe;
Altho he buy whole Haruests in the spring
And foist in false strikes to the measuring:
Altho his shop be muffled from the light
Like a day-dungeon, or Cimmerian night,
Nor full nor fasting can the Carle take rest:
Whiles his George-Nobles rusten in his Chest.
He sleeps but once and dreames of burglarie,
And wakes and castes about his frighted eye,
And gropes for theeues in euery darker shade,
And if a Mouse but stir he cals for ayde.
The sturdy Plough-man doth the soldier see,
All scarfed with pide colours to the knee,
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate,
And now he gins to loath his former state:
Now doth he inly scorne his Kendall-greene,
And his patch't Cockers now despised beene.
Nor list he now go whistling to the Carre,
But sels his Teme and fetleth to the warre,
O warre to them that neuer tryde thee sweete;
When his dead mate fals groueling at his feete,
And angry Bullets whistlen at his eare,
And his dim eyes see nought but death & drere:
Oh happy Plough-mā were thy weale well known;
Oh happy all estates except his owne.
Some drunken Rimer thinks his time well spent,
If he can liue to see his name in print,
Who when he is once fleshed to the Presse;
And sees his handsell haue such fayre successe.
Sung to the wheele, and sung vnto the payle,
He sends forth Thraues of Ballads to the sale.
Nor then can rest: But volumes vp bodg'd Rimes,
To haue his name talk't of in future times:
The brainsicke youth that feeds his tickled eare,
With sweet-sauc'd lies of some false Traueiler,
Which hath the Spanish decades red a while;
Or whet-stone leasings of olde Maundeuile.
Now with discourses breakes his mid-night sleepe,
Of his aduentures through the Indian deepe,
Of all their massy heapes of golden mines,
Or of the antique Toombs of Palestine;
Or of Damascus Magike wall of Glasse,
Of Salomon his sweating Piles of Brasse,
Of the Bird Rue that beares an Elephant:
Of Mer-maids that the Southerne seas do haunt;
Of head-lesse men; of sauage Cannibals;
The fashions of their liues and Gouernals:
What monstrous Cities there erected bee,
Cayro, or the Citie of the Trinitie,
Now are they dung-hill-Cocks that haue not seene
The bordering Alpes, or else the Neighbour Rhene,
And now he plyes the newes-full Grashopper,
Of voyages and ventures to enquire.
His land morgag'd. He sea-beat in the way
Wishes for home a thousand fithes a day:
And now he deemes his home bred fare as leefe
As his parch't Bisket, or his Barreld Beefe:
Mong'st all these sturs of discontented strife,
Oh let me lead an Academicke life,
To know much, and to thinke we nothing know;
Nothing to haue, yet thinke we haue enough,
In skill to want, and wanting seeke for more,
In weale nor want, nor wish for greater store;
Enuye ye Monarchs with your proud excesse:
At our low Sayle, and our hye Happinesse.

LIB. 5.

SAT. 1. Sit pæna merenti.

Pardon ye glowing eares; Needs will it out,
Tho brazen wals compast'd my tongue about,
As thicke as welthy Scrobioes quick-set rowes,
In the wide Common that he did inclose.
Pull out mine eyes, if I shall see no vice,
Or let me see it with detesting eyes;
Renowmed Aquine, now I follow thee,
Farre as I may for feare of ieopardie;
And to thy hand yeeld vp the Iuye-mace,
From crabbed Persius, and more smooth Horace;
Or from that shrew, the Roman Poetesse,
That taught her gossips learned bitternesse,
Or Luciles muse whom thou did'st imitate,
Or Menips olde, or Pasquillers of late.
Yet name I not Mutius, or Tigilline;
Tho they deserue a keener stile then mine;
Nor meane to ransacke vp the quiet graue,
Nor burne dead bones, as he example gaue;
I taxe the liuing, let dead ashes rest,
Whose faults are dead, and nayled in their Chest;
Who can refraine, that's guiltlesse of their crime,
Whiles yet he liues in such a cruell time.
When Titius his grounds that in Grand-sires daies,
But one pound fine, one penny rent did raise
A sommer-snow-ball, or a winter-rose,
Is growne to thousands as the world now goes:
So thirst, and time sets other things on flote,
That now his Sonne sooups in a silken cote,
Whose Grandsire happily a poore hungry swayne,
Beg'd some cast Abby in the Churches wayne
And but for that, what euer he may vaunt,
Who now's a Monke, had beene a Mendicant;
While freezing Matho, that for one leane fee,
Wont terme ech Terme the Terme of Hilarie,
May now in steed of those his simple fees;
Get the fee-simples of fayre Manneryes.
What, did he counterfait his Princes hand,
For some braue Lord-ship of concealed land?
Or on ech Michaell, and Lady-day,
Tooke he deepe forfaits for an houres delay?
And gain'd no lesse by such iniurious braule,
Then Gamius by his sixt wines buriall?
Or hath he wonne some wider Interest,
By hoary charters from his Grand-sires chest,
Which late some bribed Scribe for slender wage,
Writ in the Characters of another age,
That Ploydon selfe might stammer to rehearse,
Whose date ore-lookes three Centuries of yeares;
Who euer yet the Trackes of weale so tride,
But there hath beene one beaten way beside?
He, when he lets a Lease for life, or yeares,
(As neuer he doth vntill the date expeares;
For when the full state in his fist doth lie,
He may take vantage of the vacancy,)
His Fine affor'ds so many trebled pounds,
As he agreeth yeares to Lease his grounds
His Rent in faire respondence must arise,
To double trebles of his one yeares price;
Of one bayes bread'th, God wot, a silly cote,
Whose thatched sparres are furr'd with sluttish soote
A whole inch thick; shining like Black-moors brows
Through smok that down the head-les barrel blows:
At his beds-feete feeden his stalled teme.
His swine beneath; his pullen ore the beame:
A starued Tenement, such as I gesse,
Stand stragling in the wasts of Holdernesse.
Or such as shiuer on a Peake-hill side,
When Marches lungs beate on their turfe-clad hide.
Such as nice Lipsius would grudge to see,
Aboue his lodging in wild West-phalye:
Or as the Saxon King his Court might make,
When his sides playned of the Neat-heards cake.
Yet must he haunt his greedy Land-lords hall,
With often presents at ech Festiuall;
With crammed Capons euery New-yeares morne,
Or with greene-cheeses when his sheepe are shorne,
Or many Maunds-full of his mellow fruite,
To make some way to win his waighty suite,
Whom cannot giftes at last cause to relent,
Or to win fauour, or flee punishment?
When griple Patrons turne their sturdy steele
To waxe; when they the golden flame doe feele:
When grand Mæcenas casts a glauering eye,
On the cold present of a Poesie:
And least he might more frankly take then giue,
Gropes for a french crowne in his emptie sleeue:
Thence Clodius hopes to set his shoulders free,
From the light burden of his Naperie.
The smiling Land-Lord shows a sun-shine face,
Faining that he will grant him further grace;
And lear's like Æsops Foxe vpon the Crane,
Whose necke he craues for his Chirurgian;
So lingers of the lease vntill the last,
What recks he then of paynes or promise past?
Was euer fether, or fond womans mind,
More light then words; the blasts of idle wind?
What's sib or sire, to take the gentle slip;
And in th' Exchequer rot for surety-ship;
Or thence thy starued brother liue and die,
Within the cold Cole-harbour sanctuary?
Will one from Scots-banke bid but one grote more
My old Tenant may be turned out of dore,
Tho much he spent in th' rotten roofes repayre,
In hope to haue it left vnto his heyre;
Tho many a lode of Marle and Manure led,
Reuiu'd his barren leas, that earst lay dead.
Were he as Furius, he would defie,
Such pilfring slips of Pety land-lordrye.
And might dislodge whole Collonyes of poore,
And lay their roofe quite leuell with their floore,
Whiles yet he giues as to a yeelding fence,
Their bagge and baggage to his Citizens,
And ships them to the new-nam'd Virgin-lond,
Or wilder wales, where neuer wight yet wound:
Would it not vexe thee where thy syres did keepe,
To see the dunged foldes of dag-tayld sheepe,
And ruined house where holy things were said,
Whose free-stone wals the thatched roofe vpbraid,
Whose shrill Saints bell hangs on his louerie,
While the rest are damned to the Plumbery.
Yet pure deuotion lets the steeple stand,
And ydle battlements on eyther hand;
Least that perhaps, were all those reliques gone,
Furious his Sacriledge could not be knowne.

SAT. 2. Heîc quærite Troiam.

Hous-keping's dead, Saturio; wot'st thou where?
For-sooth they say far hence in Brek-neck shire;
And euer since they say, that feele and tast,
That men may break their neck, soone as their fast;
Certes, if Pity died at Chaucers date,
He liu'd a widdower long behinde his mate:
Saue that I see some rotten bed-rid Syre,
Which to out-strip the nonage of his heire,
Is cram'd with golden broaths, and druges of price,
And ech day dying liu's, and liuing dies;
Till once suruiu'd his ward-ships latest eue,
His eies are clos'd with choyse to die or liue;
Plenty, and hee, dy'd both in that same yeare,
VVhen the sad skye did sheed so many a teare,
And now, who list not of his labour fayle;
Marke, with Saturio, my friendly tale:
Along thy way, thou canst not but descry,
Faire glittering Halls to tempt thy hopefull eye,
Thy right eye gines to leape for vaine delight,
And surbeate toes to tickle at the sight,
As greedy T. when in the sounding mold
Hee finds a shining pot-shard tip't with gold;
For neuer Syren tempts the pleased eares,
As these the eye of fainting passengers;
All is not so that seems; for surely than
Matrona should not bee a Curtizan.
Smooth Chrysalus should not bee rich with fraud,
Nor honest R. bee his owne wiues baude,
Looke not a squint, not stride a crosse the way,
Like some demurring Alcide to delay.
But walke on cherely, till thou haue espide,
Sant Peters finger at the Church-yard side,
But wilt thou needs when thou art warn'd so well
Goese who in so garish walls doth dwell?
There findest thou some stately Doricke frame
Or neate Ionicke worke;
Like the vaine bubble of Iberian pride,
That ouer-croweth all the world beside.
VVhich rear'd to raise the crazy Monarches fame,
Striues for a Court and for a Colledge name;
Yet nought within, but louzy coul's doth hold,
Like a scab'd Cuckow in a cage of gold;
So pride aboue doth shade the shame belowe:
A golden Periwig on a Black-mores brow.
When Mæuios first page of his poesy,
Nayl'd to an hundreth postes for noueltie,
With his big title, and Italian mott
Layes siege vnto the backward buyers grote.
Which all within is drafty sluttish geere,
Fit for the Ouen or the Kitchin fire:
So this gay gate adds fuell to thy thought,
That such proud piles were neuer rays'd for nought;
Beate the broad gates; a goodly hollow sound,
With doubled Ecchoes doth againe rebound,
But not a Dog doth barke to welcome thee,
Nor churlish Porter canst thou chafing see,
All dumb and silent, like the dead of night,
Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite,
The marble pauement hid with desart weede,
With house-leeke, thistle, docke, and hemlock-seed,
But if thou chance cast vp thy wondring eyes,
Thou shalt descerne vpon the Frontispice,
ΟΥΔΕΙΣΕΙΣΙΤΩ grauen vp on hye,
A fragment of olde Platoes Poesie,
The meaning is: Sir foole, ye may be gone,
Go backe by leaue, for way here lieth none.
Looke to the towred chymneis which should bee
The winde-pipes of good hospitalitie.
Through which it breatheth to the open ayre,
Betokening life and liberall welfare
Lo, there th' vnthankfull swallow takes her rest,
And fils the Tonnell with her circled nest,
Nor halfe that smoke from all his chymneies goes
As one Tobacco-pipe driues through his nose;
So rawbone hunger scorns the mudded walls,
And gin's to reuell it in Lordly Halls;
So the blacke Prince is broken loose againe
That saw no Sunne saue once (as stories faine)
That once was, when in Trinacry I weene
Hee stole the daughter of the haruest Queene;
And grip't the mawes of barren Sicily,
With long constraint of pinefull penury;
And they that should resist his second rage,
Haue pen'd themselues vp in the priuate cage,
Of some blind lane; and their they lurke vnkowne,
Till th' hungry tempest once bee ouerblowne;
Then like the coward, after his neighbours fray,
They creepe forth boldly, and aske where are they?
Meane while the hunger-staru'd Appurtenance
Must bide the brunt, what euer ill mischance;
Grim Famine sits in their forepined face
All full of Angles of vnequall space
Like to the plaine of many-sided squares,
That wont bee drawen out by Geometars;
So sharpe and meager that who should them see
Would sweare they lately came from Hungary.
When their brasse pans and winter couerled,
Haue wipt the maunger of the Horses-bread;
Oh mee; what ods there seemeth twixt their chere,
And the swolne Bezell at an Alehouse fyre,
That tonnes in gallons to his bursten panch,
Whose slimy droughts, his draught can neuer stanch;
For shame ye Gallants grow more hospitall
And turne your needlesse wardrope to your Hall:
As lauish Virro that keepes open doores
Like Ianus in the warres;
Except the twelue-daies, or the wakeday-feast
What time hee needs must bee his Cosens guest,
Philene hath bid him; can hee choose but come?
Who should pull Virroes sleeue to stay at home?
All yeare besides, who meal-time can attend,
Come Trebius welcome to the tables end:
What tho hee chires on purer manchets crowne,
Whiles his kind client grindes on blacke and brown;
A iolly rounding of a whole foote broad,
From of the Mong-corne heape shall Trebius load;
What tho hee quaffe pure Amber in his bowle
Of March-brewd wheat: yet slecks thy thirsting soule
With palish oat, froathing in Boston-clay
Or in a shallow cruce; nor must that stay,
Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd brain,
But call and craue; and haue thy cruse againe;
Else how shoulde euen tale bee registred
Of all thy draughts, on the chalk'd barrels head?
And if he list reuiue his hartles graine
With some French grape, or pure Canarian
When pleasing Bourdeaux fals vnto his lott,
Some fowrish Rochell cuts thy thirsting throte,
What tho himselfe carueth his welcome friend,
With a cool'd pittance from his trenchers-end?
Must Trebies lip hang toward his trencher-side?
Nor kisse his fist to take what doth betide?
What tho to spare thy teeth he emploies thy tongue
In busie questions all the dinner long?
What tho the scornfull wayter lookes askile,
And pouts and frowns, and curseth thee the while,
And takes his farewell with a iealous eye,
At euery morsell hee his last shall see?
And if but one exceed the common sise
Or make an hillocke in thy cheeke arise,
Or if perchance thou shouldest, ere thou wist
Hold thy knife vprights in thy griped fist,
Or sittest double on thy back-ward seat,
Or with thine elbow shad'st thy shared meat;
Hee laughs thee in his fellowes eare to scorne,
And asks aloud where Trebius was borne?
Tho the third Sewer takes thee quite away
Without a staffe: when thou would'st lenger stay
What of all this? Is't not inough to say
I din'd at Virro his owne boord to day?

SAT. 3. ΚΟΙΝΑ ΦΙΛΩΝ.

The Satyre should be like the Porcupine,
That shoots sharp quilles out in each angry line,
And wounds the blushing cheeke, and fiery eye,
Of him that heares, and readeth guiltily;
Ye Antique Satyres, how I blesse your daies,
That brook'd your bolder stile, their owne dispraise,
And wel-neare wish; yet ioy my wish is vaine,
I had beene then, or they were now againe:
For now our eares beene of more brittle mold,
Then those dull earthen cares that were of olde:
Sith theirs, like anuilles bore the hammers head,
Our glasse can neuer touch vnshiuered.
But from the ashes of my quiet stile
Hence forth may rise some raging rough Lucile,
That may with Eschylus both finde and leese
The snaky tresses of th' Eumenides:
Meane while, sufficeth mee, the world may say
That I these vices loath'd another day,
Which I haue done with as deuout a cheere
As he that rounds Poules-pillers in the eare,
Or bends his ham downe in the naked Queare.
T'was euer said, Frontine, and euer seene,
That golden Clearkes, but wooden Lawyers bene;
Could euer wise man wish in good estate
The vse of all things indiscriminate?
Who wots not yet how well this did beseeme,
The learned maister of the Academe?
Plato is dead, and dead is his deuise
Which some thought witty, none thought euer wise;
Yet certes Mæcha is a Platonist,
To all, they say, saue who so do not list;
Because her husband a farre-trafiq;d man,
Is a profest Peripatecian,
And so our Grandsires were in ages past,
That let their Lands lye all so widely wast,
That nothing was in pale or hedge ypent,
Within some prouince or whole shires extent;
As Nature made the earth, so did it lye,
Saue for the furrows of their husbandry;
When as the Neighbour-lands so couched layne,
That all bore show of one fayre Champian:
Some head-lesse crosse they digged on their lea,
Or rol'd some marked Meare-stone in the way,
Poore simple men! For what mought that auayle,
That my field might not fill my neighbours payle?
More then a pilled sticke can stand in stead,
To barre Cynedo from his neighbours bed,
More then the thred-bare Clients pouerty;
Debarres th' Atturney of his wonted fee?
If they were thriftlesse; Mote not, we amend?
And with more care our dangered fields defend:
Ech man can gard what thing he deemeth deere,
As fearefull Marchants doe their Female heyre,
Which were it not for promise of their welth,
Need not be stalled vp for feare of stelth;
Would rather sticke vpon the Belmans cries
Tho proferd for a branded Indians price:
Then rayse we muddy bul-warkes on our banks
Beset around with treble quick-set rankes;
Or if those walls be ouer weake a ward,
The squared Bricke may be a better gard:
Go to my thrifty Yeoman, and vpreare,
A brazen wall to shend thy land from feare,
Do so; and I shall praise thee all the while,
So be, thou stake not vp the common stile;
So be thou hedge in nought, but what's thine owne
So be thou pay what tithes thy neighbours done,
So be thou let not lye in fallowed plaine.
That which was wont yeelde Vsurie of graine,
But when I see thy pitched stakes do stand
On thy incroched peece of common land,
Whiles thou discommonest thy neighbours keyne,
And warn'st that none feed on thy field saue thine;
Brag no more Scrobius; of the mudded bankes,
Nor thy deepe ditches, nor three quickset rankes:
Oh happy daies of olde Deucalion.
When one was Land-Lord of the world alone,
But now whose coler would not rise to yeeld,
A pesant, halfe-stakes of his new-mowne field
Whiles yet he may not for the treble price
Buy out the remnant of his royalties:
Go on and thriue my pety Tyrants pride
Scorne thou to liue if others liue beside,
And trace proud Castile that aspires to be
In his old age a young fift Monarchie
Or the red Hat that tries the lucklesse mayne,
For welthy Thames to change his lowly Rhene.

SAT. 4. Possunt, quia posse videntur.

Villius the welthy farmer left his heire,
Twise twenty sterling pounds to spēd by yeare;
The neighbours praysen Villios hide-bound sonne;
And say it was a goodly portion;
Not knowing how some Marchants dowre can rise
By sundaies tale to fiftie Centuries;
Or to weigh downe a leaden Bride with Golde;
Worth all that Matho bought, or Pontice sold;
But whiles ten pound goes to his wiues new gowne,
Nor litle lesse can serue to sute his owne,
Whiles one peece payes her idle wayting man,
Or buyes an hoode, or siluer-handled Fanne.
Or hires a Friezeland Trotter halfe yarde deepe,
To drag his Tumbrell through the staring Cheape;
Or whiles he rideth with two liueries,
And's treble rated at the Subsidies
One end a kennell keeps of thriftlesse hounds,
What thinke you rest's of all my younkers pounds;
To diet him, or deale out at his doore,
To cofer vp, or stocke his wasting store;
If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare,
That fourtie pounds serue not the Farmers heyre.

LIB. 6.

SAT. 1. Semel insaniuimus.

Labeo reserues a long nayle for the nonce
To wound my Margēt throughten leaues at once
Much worse then Aristarchus his blacke Pile,
That pierc'd olde Homers side;
And makes such faces that mee seemes I see
Some foule Megæra in the Tragedie,
Threatning her twined snakes at Tantales Ghost;
Or the grim visage of some frowning post
The crab-tree Porter of the Guild-Hall gates
Whiles he his frightfull Beetle eleuates;
His angry eyne looke all so glaring bright,
Like th' hunted Badger in a moonelesse night
Or like a painted staring Saracin;
His cheeks change hew like th' ayre-fed vermins skin
Now red, now pale, and swolne aboue his eyes
Like to the old Colossian ymageries,
But when he doth of my recanting heare,
Away ye angrie fires, and frostes of feare;
Giue place vnto his hopefull tempered thought
That yeelds to peace, ere euer peace be sought;
Then let mee now repent mee of my rage;
For writing Satyres in so righteous age;
Whereas I should haue strok't her towardly head,
And cry'd Euæe in my Satyres stead,
Sith now not one of thousand does amisse,
Was neuer age I weene so pure as this,
As pure as olde Labulla from the Baynes,
As pure as through-fare Channels when it raynes,
As pure as is a Black-mores face by night,
As dung clad skin of dying Heraclite.
Seeke ouer all the world, and tell mee where,
Thou find'st a proud man, or a flatterer:
A theefe, a drunkard or a parricide,
A lechour, lyer, or what vice beside,
Marchants are no whit couetous of late,
Nor make no mart of Time, gaine of Deceit.
Patrons, are honest now, ore they of olde,
Can now no benefice be bought nor sold,
Giue him a gelding, or some two-yeares tithe,
For he all bribes and Simony defi'the.
Is not one Pick-thanke stirring in the Court,
That seld was free till now by all report,
But some one, like a claw-backe parasite,
Pick't mothes from his masters cloake in sight,
Whiles he could picke out both his eyes for need;
Nor now no more smell-feast Vitellio,
Smiles on his master for a meale or two;
And loues him in his maw, loaths in his heart,
Yet soothes, and yeas, and Nayes on eyther part.
Tattelius the new-come traueller,
With his disguised cote, and ringed eare,
Trampling the Burses Marble twise a day,
Tells nothing but starke truths I dare well say,
Nor would he haue them knowne for any thing,
Tho all the vault of his loud murmur ring;
Not one man tells a lye of all the yeare
Except the Almanacke or the Chronicler,
But not a man of all the damned-crue
For hils of gold would sweare the thing vntrue,
Pansophus now though all in a cold swart
Dares venture through the feared Castle-gate,
Albee the faithfull Oracles haue forsayne,
The wisest Senator shall there be slaine,
That made him long keepe home as well it might,
Till now he hopeth of some wiser wight.
The vale of Stand-gate, or the Suters hill,
Or westerne playne are free from feared ill,
Let him that hath nought, feare nought I areed;
But he that hath ought; hy him; and God speed;
Nor drunken Dennis doth by breake of day
Stumble into blinde Tauernes by the way,
And reele mee homeward at the Euening starre,
Or ride more easely in his neighbours chayre.
Well might these checks haue fitted former times
And shouldred angry Skeltons breath-lesse rimes;
Ere Chrysalus had bar'd the common boxe,
Which earst he pick't to store his priuate stocks;
But now hath all with vantage paid againe;
And locks and plates what doth behind remaine;
When earst our dry-soul'd Syres so lauish were,
To charge whole boots-full to their friends wel-fare;
Now shalt thou neuer see the salt beset
With a big-bellyed Gallon Flagonet.
Of an ebbe Cruce must thirsty Silen sip,
That's all forestalled by his vpper lip;
Somewhat it was that made his paunch so peare,
His girdle fell ten ynches in a yeare.
Or when old gouty beld-rid Euclio
To his officious factor fayre could show,
His name in margent of some olde cast bill
And say; Lo whom I named in my will
Whiles hee beleeues and looking for the share,
Tendeth his cumbrous charge with busy care;
For but a while; For now he sure will die,
By this strange qualme of liberalitie,
Great thanks he giues: but God him sheild & saue
From euer gayning by his masters graue,
Onely liue long and he is well repayd,
And weats his forced cheeks whiles thus he said,
Some strong-smeld Onion shall stirre his eyes
Rather then no salt teares shall then arise,
So lookes he like a Marble toward rayne,
And wrings, & smites, & weeps, & wipes againe,
Then turnes his backe and smiles & lookes askance,
Seasoning againe his sowred countenance,
Whiles yet he wearies heauen with daily cryes,
And backward Death with deuout sacrifice
That they would now his tedious ghost bereauen,
And wisheth well, that wish't no worse then heauen
When Zoylus was sicke, he knew not where
Saue his wrought night-cap, and laune Pillow-bere.
Kind fooles; they made him sick that made him fine,
Take those away, and ther's his medicine:
Or Gellia wore a veluet Mastick-patch
Vpon her temples when no tooth did ache,
When Beauty was her Reume I soone espide,
Nor could her plaister cure her of her pride,
These vices were, but now they ceas'd of long,
Then why did I a righteous age that wrong,
I would repent mee were it not too late
Were not the Angry world preiudicate
If all the seuens penitentiall
Or thousand white wands might me ought auaile,
If Trent or Thames could scoure my foule offence
And set mee in my former innocence
I would at last repent me of my rage,
Now; beare my wrong, I thine, O righteous age.
As for fine wits an hundreth thousand fold
Passeth our age what euer times of olde
For in that Puis-ne world; our Syres of long
Could hardly wagge their too-ynweldy tongue
As pined Crowes and Parrats can doe now,
When hoary age did bend their wrinckled brow;
And now of late did many a learned man
Serue thirty yeares Prenti-ship with Priscian,
But now can euery Nouice speake with ease,
The far-fetch'd language of Th-Antipodes
Would'st thou the tongues that earst were learned hight
Tho our wise age hath wipt them of their right;
Would'st thou the Courtly Three in most request
Or the two barbarous neighbours of the west?
Bibinus selfe can haue ten tongues in one
Tho in all Ten, not one good tongue alone.
And can deepe skill ly smothering within
Whiles neither smoke nor flame discerned bin,
Shall it not be a wild-figg in a wall
Or fited Brimstone in a Minerall?
Doe thou disdaine O ouer-learned age
The tongue-ty'de silence of that Samian sage;
Forth ye fine wits, and rush into the presse
And for the cloyed world your workes addresse,
Is not a Gnat, nor Fly, nor seely Ant
But a fine wit can make an Elephant;
Should Bandels Throsile die without a song?
Or Adamantius my Dog be laid along,
Downe in some ditch without his Exequies,
Or Epitaphs, or mournefull Elegies?
Folly it selfe, and baldnes may be praised,
And sweet conceyts from filthy obiects raysed;
VVhat do not fine witts dare to vndertake?
What dare fine wits doe for honors sake?
But why doth Balbus his deade-doing quill
Perch in his rusty scabbard all the while,
His golden Fleece ore-growne with moldy hore
As tho he had his witty works forswore,
Belike of late now Balbus hath no need,
Nor now belike his shrinking shoulders dread
The Catch-poles fist. The Presse may still remaine
And breath, till Balbus be in debt againe,
Soone may that bee; so I had silent beene,
And not thus rak't vp quiet crimes vnseene.
Silence is safe, when saying stirreth sore
And makes the stirred Puddle stinke the more.
Shall the controller of proud Nemesis
In lawlesse rage vpbrayd ech others vice,
While no man seeketh to reflect the wrong
And crub the rauge of his mis-ruly tongue?
By the two crownes of Pernasse euer-greene,
And by the clouen head of Hippocrene
As I true Poet am; I here auow
(So solemnly kist he his Lawrell bow)
If that bold Satyre vnreuenged be
For this so saucy and foule iniurie:
So Labeo weens it my eternall shame
To proue I neuer earnd a Poets name;
But would I be a Poet if I might,
To rub my brow three daies, and wake three nights,
And bite my nayles, and scrat my dullard head
And curse the backward Muses on my bed
About one peeuish syllable: Which out-sought
I take vp Thales ioy, saue for fore-thought
How it shall please ech Ale-knights censuring eye,
And hang'd my head for feare they deeme awry;
Whiles thred-bare Martiall turnes his merry note
To beg of Rufus a cast winter cote;
Whiles hungry Marot leapeth at a Beane
And dyeth like a staru'd Cappucien;
Go Ariost, and gape for what may fall
From Trencher of a flattring Cardinall,
And if thou gettest but a Pedants fee
Thy bed, thy board, and courser liuerye,
O honor farre beyond a Brazen shrine
To sit with Tarleton on an Ale-posts signe:
Who had but liued in Augustus daies
T'had beene some honor to be crown'd with Bayes,
VVhen Lucan streaked on his Marble-bed
To thinke of Cæsar, and great Pompeys deed;
Or when Archelaus shau'd his mourning head
Soone as he heard Stesichorus was dead.
At least would some good body of the rest,
Set a Gold-pen on their bay-wreathed Crest.
Or would their face in stamped coyne expresse,
As did the Mytolens their Poetesse.
Now as it is, beshrew him if he might,
That would his browes with Cæsars Laurell dight.
Tho what ayl'd mee, I might not well as they
Rake vp some for-worne tales that smothered lay
In chimny corners smok'd with winter-fires
To read and rocke asleepe our drouzy Sires,
No man his threshold better knowes, then I
Brutes first arriuall, and first victory,
Saint Georges Sorrell, or his crosse of blood,
Arthurs round Bord, or Caledonian wood,
Or holy battels of bold Charlemaine,
What were his knights did Salems siege maintaine;
How the mad Riuall of fayre Angelice.
VVas Phisick't from the new-found Paradice;
High-stories they; which with their swelling straine
Haue riuen Frontoes braod Rehearsall-Plane,
But so to fill vp bookes both backe and side
What needs it? Are there not enow beside.
O age well thriuen and well fortunate,
When ech man hath a Muse appropriate,
And shee like to some seruile eare-boar'd slaue
Must play and sing when, and what he would haue,
Would that were all: small fault in number lies,
Were not the feare from whence it should arise,
But can it be ought but a spurious seede,
That grows so rife in such vnlikely speed.
Sith Pontian left his barren wife at home,
And spent two yeares at Venice and at Rome,
Returned, heares his blessing askt of three
Cries out, O Iulian law, Adulterie.
Tho Labeo reaches right: (who can deny,)
The true straynes of Heroicke Poesie,
For he can tell how fury reft his sense
And Phœbus fild him with intelligence,
He can implore the heathen Deities,
To guide his bold and busy enterprise;
Or filch whole Pages at a clap for need
From honest Petrarch, clad in English weed;
While big But Ohs ech stranzae can begin,
Whose trunke and tayle sluttish and hartlesse bin;
He knows the grace of that new elegance,
Which sweet Philisides fetch't of late from France,
That well beseem'd his high-stil'd Arcady,
Tho others marre it with much liberty;
In Epithets to ioyne two words in one,
Forsooth for Adiectiues cannot stand alone,
As a great Poet could of Bacchus say,
That he was Semele-femori-gena.
Lastly he names the spirit of Astrophell,
Now hath not Labeo done wondrous well?
But ere his Muse her weapon learne to weild.
Or dance a sober Pirrhicke in the field,
Or marching wade in blood vp to the knees,
Her Arma Virûm goes by two degrees,
The shepe-cote first hath bene her nursery
Where she hath worne her ydle infancy,
And in hy startups walk't the pastur'd plaines
To tend her tasked heard that there remaines
And winded still a pipe of Ote or {Brere}
Striuing for wages who the praise shall beare;
As did whilere the homely Carmelite
Following Virgil and he Theocrite;
Or else hath bene in Venus Chamber traind
To play with Cupid, till shee had attain'd
To comment well vpon a beauteous face,
Then was she fitt for an Heroicke place;
As wittie Pontan in great earnest saed
His Mistres breasts were like two weights of lead,
Another thinks her teeth might likened bee
To two fayer rankes of pales of yuorie,
To fence in sure the wild beast of her tongue,
From eyther going farre, or going wrong;
Her grinders like two Chalk-stones in a mill,
which shall with time and wearing wax as ill
As olde Catillaes which wont euery night,
Lay vp her hollow pegs till next day light.
And with them grinds soft-simpring all the day,
When least her laughter should her gums bewray
Her hands must hide her mouth if she but smile;
Fayne would she seeme all frixe and frolicke still;
Her forehead fayre is like a brazen hill
Whose wrinckled furrows which her age doth breed
Are dawbed full of Venice chalke for need,
Her eyes like siluer saucers fayre beset,
With shining Amber and with shady-Iet
Her lids like Cupids-bowcase where he hides
The weapons which doth wound the wanton-eyde,
Her chin like Pindus or Pernassus hill
Where down descends th' oreflowing stream doth fill
The well of her fayre mouth. Ech hath his praise,
Who would not but wed Poets now a daies.

SAT 2. ΡΟΜΗ ΡΓΜΗ.

VVho say's these Romish Pageants bene too hy
To be the Scorne of sportfull Poesy?
Cerres not all the worlde such matter wist
As are the seuen hils, for a Satiryst.
Perdy, I loath an hundreth Mathoes tongues.
An hundreth Gamsters shiftes, or Landlords wrongs,
Or Labeos Poems, or base Lolios pride.
Or euer what I thought or wrote beside.
When once I thinke if carping Aquines spright
To see now Rome, were licenc'd to the light;
How his enraged ghost would stampe and stare
That Cesars throne is turn'd to Peters chayre.
To see an olde shorne Lozell perched hy
Crossing beneath a golden Canopy,
The whiles a thousand hairelesse crownes crouch low
To kisse the precious case of his proude Toe,
And for the Lordly Fasces borne of olde,
To see two quiet Crossed keyes of golde,
Or Cybiles shrine, the famous Pantheons frame
Turn'd to the honour of our Ladies name,
But that he most would gaze and wonder at,
Is th' horned Miter, and the bloudy Hat.
The crooked staffe, their Coules strange forme and store,
Saue that he saw the same in hell before,
To see their broken Nuns with new-shorne heads,
In a blinde Cloyster tosse their idle Beades,
Or Louzy Coules come smoking from the stewes.
To raise the Leud Rent to their Lord accrewes,
(Who with ranke Venice doth his pompe aduance
By trading of ten thousand Curtizans)
Yet backward must absolue a females sin,
Like to a false dissembling Theatine,
Who when his skine is red with shirts of Male
And rugged haire cloth scoures his greazy nayle,
Or wedding garment tames his stubburne back,
Which his hempe girdle dyes all blew and blacke.
Or of his Almes-Boule three dayes sup'd & din'd,
Trudges to open stewes of either kinde:
Or takes some Cardinals stable in the way,
And with some pampered Mule doth weare the day
Kept for his Lords owne sadle when him list;
Come Valentine, and play the Satryist.
To see poore sucklings welcom'd to the light
With searing yrons of some sowre Iacobite,
Or golden offers of an aged foole
To make his Coffin some Franciscans coule.
To see the Popes blacke knight, a cloked Frere
Sweating in the channell like a Scauengere.
Whom earst thy bowed hamme did lowly greete,
When at the Corner-crosse thou did'st him meet,
Tumbling his Rosaries hanging at his belt
Or his Barretta, or his towred felte,
To see a lasie dumb Acholithite,
Armed against a deuout Flyes despight,
Which at th' hy Alter doth the Chalice vaile
With a broad Flieflappe of a Peacockes tayle,
The whiles the likerous Priest spits euery tryce
With longing for his morning sacrifice.
Which he reres vp quite perpendiculare,
That the mid-church doth spite the Chancels fare,
Beating their emptie mawes that would be fed,
With the scant morsels of the Sacricts bread.
Would he not laugh to death, when he should heare
The shamelesse Legends of S. Christopher,
S. George, the Sleepers, or S. Peters well
Or of his daughter good S. Petronell,
But had he heard the Female Fathers grone,
Yeaning in mids of her procession.
Or now should see the needlesse tryall-chayre,
(When ech is proued by his bastard heyre)
Or saw the Churches, & new Calendere
Pestred with mungrell Saints, and reliques dere,
Should hee cry out on Codro's tedious Tomes,
Whē his new rage would aske no narrower rooms?