The poems of John Marston :: :: University of Virginia Library

Cvrio , know'st me? why thou bottle-ale,
Thou barmy froth! O stay me, least I raile
Beyond Nil vltra, to see this Butterflie,
This windie bubble taske my balladry
With sencelesse censure. Curio, know'st my spright?
Yet deem'st that in sad seriousnes I write
Such nastie stuffe as is Pigmalion?
Such maggot-tainted lewd corruption?

Ha, now he glauers with his fawning snowte,
And swears, he thought, I meant but faintly flowte,
My fine smug ryme. O barbarous dropsie noule!
Think'st thou that Genius that attends my soule,
And guides my fist to scourge Magnifico's
Wil daigne my mind be ranck'd in Paphian showes?
Think'st thou, that I, which was create to whip
Incarnate fiends, will once vouchsafe to trip
A Pauins trauerse? or will lispe (sweet loue)
Or pule (Aye me) some female soule to moue?
Think'st thou, that I in melting poesie
Will pamper itching sensualitie?
(That in the bodyes scumme all fatally
Intombes the soules most sacred faculty.)

Hence thou misiudging Censor, know I wrot
Those idle rimes to note the odious spot
And blemish that deformes the lineaments

136

Of moderne Poesies habiliments.
Oh that the beauties of Invention,
For want of Iudgements disposition
Should all be soyl'd, ô that such treasurie,
Such straines of well-conceited poesie,
Should moulded be, in such a shapelesse forme,
That want of Art, should make such wit a scorne.

Here's one must invocate some lose-legg'd dame,
Some brothell drab, to helpe him stanzaes frame,
Or els (alas) his wits can haue no vent
To broch conceits industrious intent.
Another yet dares tremblingly come out,
But first he must invoke good Colyn Clout.

Yon's one hath yean'd a fearefull prodigie,
Some monstrous mishapen Balladry,
His guts are in his braines, huge Iobbernoule,
Right Gurnets-head, the rest without all soule.
Another walkes, is lazie, lyes him downe,
Thinkes, reades, at length some wonted sleep doth crowne
His new falne lids, dreames, straight tenne pound to one,
Out steps some Fayery with quick motion,
And tells him wonders, of some flowrie vale,
Awakes straight, rubs his eyes, and prints his tale.

Yon's one, whose straines haue flowne so high a pitch
That straight he flags, & tumbles in a ditch.
His sprightly hote high-soring poesie
Is like that dreamed of Imagerie,
Whose head was gold, brest siluer, brassie thigh,
Lead leggs, clay feete; ô faire fram'd poesie.

137

Here's one, to get an vndeseru'd repute
Of deepe deepe learning, all in fustian sute
Of ill-plac'd farre-fetch'd words attiereth
His period, that all sence forsweareth.

Another makes old Homer, Spencer cite
Like my Pigmalion, where, with rare delight
He cryes, O Ouid. This caus'd my idle quill,
The worlds dull eares with such lewd stuffe to fill,
And gull with bumbast lines, the witlesse sence
Of these odde naggs; whose pates circumference
Is fild with froth! O these same buzzing Gnats
That sting my sleeping browes, these Nilus Rats,
Halfe dung, that haue their life from putrid slime,
These that doe praise my loose lasciuious rime:
For these same shades I seriously protest
I slubber'd vp that Chaos indigest,
To fish for fooles, that stalke in goodly shape,
What though in veluet cloake, yet still an Ape.
Capro reads, sweares, scrubs, and sweares againe,
Now by my soule an admirable straine,
Strokes vp his haire, cryes passing passing good,
Oh, there's a line incends his lustfull blood.

Then Muto comes with his new glasse-set face,
And with his late kist-hand my booke dooth grace,
Straight reades, then smyles & lisps (tis prety good)
And praiseth that he neuer vnderstood.
But roome for Flaccus, he'le my Satyres read.
Oh how I trembled straight with inward dread!
But when I saw him read my fustian,

138

And heard him sweare I was a Pythian,
Yet straight recald, & sweares I did but quote
Out of Xilinum to that margents note,
I scarce could hold, & keepe my selfe conceal'd,
But had well-nigh my selfe and all reueal'd.

Then straight comes Friscus, that neat gentleman,
That newe discarded Academian,
Who for he could cry (Ergo) in the schoole,
Straight-way, with his huge iudgement dares controle
What so'ere he viewes, that's prety, prety good,
That Epethite hath not that sprightly blood
Which should enforce it speake, that's Persius vaine,
That's Iuvenals, heere's Horace crabbed straine,
Though he nere read one line in Iuvenall,
Or in his life his lazie eye let fall
On duskie Persius. O indignitie
To my respectlesse free-bred poesie.

Hence ye big-buzzing-little-bodied Gnats,
Yee tatling Ecchoes, huge tongu'd pigmy brats,
I meane to sleepe, wake not my slumbring braine
With your malignant weake detracting vaine.

What though the sacred issue of my soule
I heare expose to Ideots controule?
What though I bare to lewd Opinion
Lay ope to vulgar prophanation

139

My very Genius. Yet know my poesie
Doth scorne your vtmost, rank'st indignitie.
My pate was great with child, & here tis eas'd,
Vexe all the world, so that thy selfe be pleas'd.