University of Virginia Library

I that euen now lisp'd like an Amorist,
Am turn'd into a snaphaunce Satyrist.
O tytle, which my iudgement doth adore!
But I dull-sprighted fat Boetian Boore,
Doe farre of honour that Censorian seate.
But if I could in milk-white robes intreate
Plebeians fauour, I would shew to be
Tribunus plebis, gainst the villany
Of these same Proteans, whose hipocrisie,
Doth still abuse our fond credulity.
But since my selfe am not imaculate,
But many spots my minde doth vitiate,
I'le leaue the white roabe, and the biting rimes
Vnto our moderne Satyres sharpest lines;
Whose hungry fangs snarle at some secret sinne.
And in such pitchy clouds enwrapped beene
His Sphinxian ridles, that old Oedipus
Would be amaz'd and take it in foule snufs
That such Cymerian darknes should inuolue
A quaint conceit, that he could not resolue.
O darknes palpable! Egipts black night!
My wit is stricken blind, hath lost his sight.
My shins are broke, with groping for some sence
To know to what his words haue reference.
Certes (sunt) but (non videntur) that I know.
Reach me some Poets Index that will show.
Imagines Deorum. Booke of Epithites,
Natales Comes, thou I know recites,
And mak'st Anatomie of Poesie.
Helpe to vnmaske the Satyres secresie.
Delphick Apollo, ayde me to vnrip,
These intricate deepe Oracles of wit.
These darke Enigmaes, and strange ridling sence
Which passe my dullard braines intelligence.
Fie on my senceles pate; Now I can show
Thou writest that which I, nor thou, doo'st know.
Who would imagine that such squint-ey'd sight
Could strike the worlds deformities so right.
But take heede Pallas, least thou ayme awry
Loue, nor yet Hate, had ere true iudging eye.
Who would once dreame that that same Elegie,
That faire fram'd peece of sweetest Poesie,
Which Muto put betwixt his Mistris paps,
(When he (quick-witted) call'd her Cruell chaps,
And told her, there she might his dolors read
Which she, oh she, vpon his hart had spread)
Was penn'd by Roscio the Tragedian.
Yet Muto, like a good Vulcanian,
An honest Cuckold, calls the bastard sonne,
And brags of that which others for him done.
Satyre thou lyest, for that same Elegie
Is Mutos owne, his owne deere Poesie:
Why tis his owne, and deare, for he did pay
Ten crownes for it, as I heard Roscius say.
Who would imagine yonder sober man,
That same deuout meale-mouth'd Precisean,
That cries good brother, kind sister, makes a duck
After the Antique grace, can alwayes pluck
A sacred booke, out of his ciuill hose,
And at th'op'ning, and at our stomacks close
Sayes with a turn'd-vp eye a solemne grace
Of halfe an houre, then with his silken face
Smiles on the holy crue, And then doth cry
O manners! ô times of impurity!
With that depaints a church reformed state,
The which the female tongues magnificate:
Because that Platos odd opinion,
Of all things (common) hath strong motion
In their weake minds. Who thinks that this good man
Is a vile, sober, damn'd, Polititian?
Not I, till with his baite of purity
He bit me sore in deepest vsury.
No Iew, no Turke, would vse a Christian
So inhumanely as this Puritan.
Diomedes Iades were not so bestiall
As this same seeming-saint, vile Canniball.
Take heede ô world, take heede aduisedly
Of these same damned Anthropophagy.
I had rather be within a Harpies clawes
Then trust my selfe in their deuouring iawes.
Who all confusion to the world would bring
Vnder the forme of their new discipline.
O I could say, Briareus hundred hands
Were not so ready to bring Ioue in bands
As these to set endles contentious strife
Betwixt Iehoua, and his sacred wife.

But see who's yonder, true Humility
The perfect image of faire Curtesie.
See, he doth daine to be in seruitude
Where he hath no promotions liuelihood.
Marke, he doth curtsie, and salutes a block,
Will seeme to wonder at a wethercock,
Trenchmore with Apes, play musick to an Owle,
Blesse his sweet honours running brasell bowle:
Cries (brauely broake) when that his Lordship mist,
And is of all the thrunged scaffold hist.
O is not this a curteous minded man?
No foole, no, a damn'd Macheuelian.
Holds candle to the deuill for a while,
That he the better may the world beguile
That's fed with shows. He hopes thogh som repine,
When sunne is set, the lesser starres will shine:
He is within a haughty malecontent,
Though he doe vse such humble blandishment.
But bold-fac'd Satyre, straine not ouer hie,
But laugh and chuck at meaner gullery.

In fayth yon is a well fac'd Gentleman,
See how he paceth like a Ciprian:
Faire Amber tresses of the fairest haire
That ere were waued by our London aire,
Rich laced sute, all spruce, all neat in truth.
Ho Linceus! What's yonder brisk neat youth
Bout whom yon troupe of Gallants flocken so?
And now together to Brownes common goe?
Thou knowst I am sure, for thou canst cast thine eie
Through nine mud wals, or els odd Poets lie.
Tis loose legg'd Lais, that same common Drab,
For whom good Tubrio tooke the mortall stab.
Ha ha, Nay then I'le neuer raile at those
That weare a codpis, thereby to disclose
What sexe they are, since strumpets breeches vse,
And all mens eyes saue Linceus can abuse.
Nay steed of shadow, lay the substance out,
Or els faire Briscus I shall stand in doubt
What sex thou art, since such Hermaphrodites
Such Protean shadowes so delude our sights.

Looke, looke, with what a discontented grace
Bruto the trauailer doth sadly pace
Long Westminster, ô ciuill seeming shade,
Marke his sad colours, how demurely clad,
Staidnes it selfe, and Nestors grauity
Are but the shade of his ciuility.
And now he sighes. O thou corrupted age,
Which slight regard'st men of sound carriage,
Vertue, knowledge, flie to heauen againe
Daine not mong these vngratefull sots remaine.
Well, some tongs I know, some Countries I haue seene
And yet these oily Snailes respectles beene
Of my good parts. O worthles puffie slaue!
Did'st thou to Venis goe ought els to haue?
But buy a Lute and vse a Curtezan?
And there to liue like a Cyllenian?
And now from thence what hether do'st thou bring?
But surpheulings, new paints and poysonings?
Aretines pictures, some strange Luxury?
And new found vse of Venis venery?
What art thou but black clothes? Say Bruto say
Art any thing but onely sad array?
Which I am sure is all thou brought'st from France,
Saue Naples poxe, and French-mens dalliance.
From haughty Spayne, what brought'st thou els beside,
But lofty lookes, and their Lucifrian pride?
From Belgia what? but theyr deepe bezeling,
Their boote-carouse, and theyr Beere-buttering.
Well, then exclaime not on our age good man,
But hence poluted Neopolitan.

Now Satyre cease to rub our gauled skinnes,
And to vnmaske the worlds detested sinnes.
Thou shalt as soone draw Nilus riuer dry,
As clense the world from foule impietie.