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

Sleep grim Reproofe, my iocond Muse dooth sing
In other keyes, to nimbler fingering.
Dull sprighted Melancholy, leaue my braine
To hell Cimerian night, in liuely vaine
I striue to paint, then hence all darke intent
And sullen frownes, come sporting meriment,
Cheeke dimpling laughter, crowne my very soule
With iouisance, whilst mirthfull iests controule
The goutie humours of these pride-swolne dayes,
Which I doe long vntill my pen displaies.
O I am great with mirth, some midwifrie,
Or I shall breake my sides at vanitie.

Roome for a capering mouth, whose lips nere stur,
But in discoursing of the gracefull slur:
Who euer heard spruce skipping Curio
Ere prate of ought, but of the whirle on toe.
The turne aboue ground, Robrus sprauling kicks,
Fabius caper, Harries tossing tricks?
Did euer any eare, ere heare him speake
Vnlesse his tongue of crosse-poynts did intreat?
His teeth doe caper whilst he eates his meate,
His heeles doe caper, whilst he takes his seate,
His very soule, his intellectuall
Is nothing but a mincing capreall.
He dreames of toe-turnes, each gallant hee doth meete
He fronts him with a trauers in the streete,
Prayse but Orchestra, and the skipping art,

168

You shall commaund him, faith you haue his hart
Euen capring in your fist. A hall, a hall,
Roome for the Spheres, the Orbes celestiall
Will daunce Kemps Iigge. They'le reuel with neate iumps
A worthy Poet hath put on their Pumps?
O wits quick trauers, but sance ceo's slow,
Good faith tis hard for nimble Curio.
Yee gracious Orbs, keepe the old measuring,
All's spoyld if once yee fall to capering.

Luscus what's playd to day? faith now I know
I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow
Naught but pure Iuliat and Romio.
Say, who acts best? Drusus, or Roscio?
Now I haue him, that nere of ought did speake
But when of playes or Plaiers he did treate.
H'ath made a common-place booke out of plaies,
And speakes in print, at least what ere he sayes
Is warranted by Curtaine plaudeties,
If ere you heard him courting Lesbias eyes;
Say (Curteous Sir) speakes he not mouingly
From out some new pathetique Tragedie?
He writes, he railes, he iests, he courts, what not,
And all from out his huge long scraped stock
Of well penn'd playes.

Oh come not within distance, Martius speakes,
Who nere discourseth but of fencing feates,
Of counter times, finctures, slye passataes,
Stramazones, resolute Stoccataes,
Of the quick change, with wiping mandritta,

169

The carricado, with th'enbrocata,
Oh, by Iesu Sir, (me thinks I heare him cry)
The honourable fencing mistery,
Who doth not honor? Then fals he in againe,
Iading our eares, and some-what must be saine
Of blades, and Rapier-hilts, of surest garde,
Of Vincentio, and the Burgonians ward.

This bumbast foile-button I once did see
By chaunce, in Liuias modest companie,
When after the God-sauing ceremonie,
For want of talke-stuffe, falls to foinerie,
Out goes his Rapier, and to Liuia
He showes the ward by puncta reuersa.
The incarnata. Nay, by the blessed light,
Before he goes, he'le teach her how to fight
And hold her weapon. Oh I laught amaine,
To see the madnes of this Martius vaine.

But roome for Tuscus, that iest-mounging youth,
Who nere did ope his Apish gerning mouth
But to retaile and broke anothers wit.
Discourse of what you will, he straight can fit
Your present talke, with, Sir, I'le tell a iest,
(Of some sweet Lady, or graund Lord at least)
Then on he goes. And nere his tongue shall lye
Till his ingrossed iests are all drawne dry;
But then as dumbe as Maurus, when at play
H'ath lost his crownes, and paun'd his trim array.
He doth naught but retaile iests, breake but one
Out flies his table-booke, let him alone,
He'le haue't i-fayth; Lad, hast an Epigram,

170

Wilt haue it put into the chaps of Fame?
Giue Tuscus coppies, sooth as his owne wit
His propper issue he will father it.
O that this Eccho, that doth speake, spet, write
Naught but the excrements of others spright,
This ill-stuft truncke of iests, whose very soule
Is but a heape of Iibes, should once inroule
His name mong creatures termed rationall,
whose cheefe repute, whose sence, whose soule & al
Are fedde with offall scrapes, that sometimes fal
From liberall wits, in their large festiuall.

Come a loft Iack, roome for a vaulting skip,
Roome for Torquatus, that nere op'd his lip
But in prate of pummado reuersa,
Of the nimble tumbling Angelica.
Now on my soule, his very intelect
Is naught but a curuetting Sommerset.

Hush, hush, cryes (honest Phylo) peace, desist,
Doost thou not tremble sower Satyrist
Now iudiciall Musus readeth thee?
He'le whip each line, he'le scourge thy balladry,
Good fayth he will. Phylo I prethee stay
Whilst I the humour of this dogge display:
He's naught but censure, wilt thou credite me,
He neuer wrote one line in poesie,
But once at Athens in a theame did frame
A paradox in prayse of Vertues name,
Which still he huggs, and lulls as tenderly
As cuckold Tisus his wifes bastardie.
Well, here's a challenge, I flatly say he lyes

171

That heard him ought but censure Poesies.
Tis his discourse, first hauing knit the brow,
Stroke vp his fore-top, champing euery row,
Belcheth his slauering censure on each booke
That dare presume euen on Medusa looke.

I haue no Artists skill in simphonies,
Yet when some pleasing Diapason flies
From out the belly of a sweet touch'd Lute,
My eares dares say tis good, or when they sute
Some harsher seauens for varietie,
My natiue skill discernes it presently.
What then? Will any sottish dolt repute
Or euer thinke me Orpheus absolute?
Shall all the world of Fidlers follow me,
Relying on my voyce in musickrie?

Musus here's Rhodes, let's see thy boasted leape,
Or els avaunt lewd curre, presume not speake,
Or with thy venome-sputtering chapps to barke
Gainst well-pend Poems, in the tongue-tied darke.

O for a humour, looke who yon doth goe,
The meager lecher, lewd Luxurio,
Tis he that hath the sole monopolie
By patent, of the Suburbe lecherie.
No new edition of drabbs comes out,
But seene and allow'd by Luxurios snout.
Did euer any man ere heare him talke
But of Pick-hatch, or of some Shorditch baulke,
Aretines filth, or of his wandring whore,
Of some Cynedian, or of Tacedore,
Of Ruscus nastie lothsome brothell rime,
That stincks like Aiax froth, or muck-pit slime.
The newes he tells you, is of some new flesh,

172

Lately broke vp, spanne new, hote piping fresh;
The curtesie he showes you, is some morne
To giue you Venus fore her smock be on.
His eyes, his tongue, his soule, his all is lust,
Which vengeance and confusion follow must.
Out on this salt humour, letchers dropsie,
Fie, it doth soyle my chaster poesie.

O spruce! How now Piso, Aurelius Ape,
What strange disguise, what new deformed shape
Doth hold thy thoughts in contemplation?
Faith say, what fashion art thou thinking on?
A stitch'd Taffata cloake, a payre of slops
Of Spanish leather? O who heard his chops
Ere chew of ought, but of some strange disguise.
This fashion-mounger, each morne fore he rise
Contemplates sute shapes, & once from out his bed,
He hath them straight full liuely portraied.
And then he chukes, and is as proud of this,
As Taphus when he got his neighbours blisse.
All fashions since the first yeare of this Queene,
May in his studdie fairely drawne be seene,
And all that shall be to his day of doome,
You may peruse within that little roome.
For not a fashion once dare show his face,
But from neate Pyso first must take his grace.
The long fooles coat, the huge slop, the lugg'd boot
From mimick Piso, all doe claime their roote.
O that the boundlesse power of the soule
Should be coop'd vp in fashioning some roule!

But ô, Suffenus, (that dooth hugge, imbrace
His propper selfe, admires his owne sweet face,
Prayseth his owne faire limmes proportion,

173

Kisseth his shade, recounteth all alone
His owne good parts) who enuies him? not I,
For well he may, without all riualrie.

Fie, whether's fledde my sprights alacritie?
How dull I vent this humorous poesie.
In fayth I am sad, I am possest with ruth,
To see the vainenes of fayre Albions youth;
To see their richest time euen wholy spent
In that which is but Gentries ornament.
Which beeing meanely done, becomes them well,
But when with deere times losse they doe excell,
How ill they doe things well. To daunce & sing,
To vault, to fence, & fairely trot a ring
With good grace, meanely done. O what repute
They doe beget, but beeing absolute,
It argues too much time, too much regard
Imploy'd in that which might be better spard,
Then substance should be lost. If one should sew
For Lesbias loue, hauing two dayes to woe
And not one more, & should imploy those twaine
The fauour of her wayting-wench to gaine,
Were he not mad? Your apprehension,
Your wits are quicke in application.

Gallants,
Me thinks your soules should grudge, & inly scorne
To be made slaue, to humors that are borne
In slime of filthy sensualitie.
That part not subiect to mortalitie
(Boundlesse discursiue apprehension
Giuing it wings to act his function)

174

Me thinks should murmure, when you stop his course,
And soile his beauties in some beastly source,
Of brutish pleasures. But it is so poore,
So weake, so hunger bitten, euermore
Kept from his foode, meagar for want of meate,
Scorn'd and reiected, thrust from out his seate,
Vpbray'd by Capons greace, consumed quite
By eating stewes, that waste the better spright.
Snib'd by his baser parts, that now poore Soule,
(Thus pesanted to each lewd thoughts controule)
Hath lost all hart, bearing all iniuries,
The vtmost spight, and rank'st indignities
With forced willingnes. Taking great ioy
If you will daine his faculties imploy
But in the mean'st ingenious qualitie.
(How proude he'le be of any dignitie?)
Put it to musick, dauncing, fencing schoole,
Lord how I laugh to heare the pretty foole
How it will prate, his tongue shall neuer lie,
But still discourse of his spruce qualitie;
Egging his maister to proceed from this,
And get the substance of celestiall blisse.
His Lord straight calls his parliament of sence,
But still the sensuall haue preheminence.
The poore soules better part so feeble is,
So cold and dead is his Synderisis,
That shadowes by odde chaunce somtimes are got,
But ô the substance is respected not.
Here ends my rage, though angry brow was bent,
Yet I haue sung in sporting merriment.

FINIS.