 | The poems of John Marston |  |
63
SATYRES.
65
The Authour in prayse of his precedent Poem.
Now
Rufus, by old Glebrons fearefull mace
Hath not my Muse deseru'd a worthy place?
Come come Luxurio, crowne my head with Bayes,
Which like a Paphian, wantonly displayes
The Salaminian titillations,
Which tickle vp our leud Priapians.
Is not my pen compleate? are not my lines
Right in the swaggering humor of these times?
O sing Peana to my learned Muse.
Io bis dicite. Wilt thou refuse?
Doe not I put my Mistres in before?
And pitiously her gracious ayde implore?
Doe not I flatter, call her wondrous faire?
Vertuous, diuine most debonaire?
Hath not my Goddesse in the vaunt-gard place,
The leading of my lines theyr plumes to grace?
And then ensues my stanzaes, like odd bands
Of voluntaries, and mercenarians:
Which like Soldados of our warlike age,
March rich bedight in warlike equipage:
Glittering in dawbed lac'd accoustrements,
And pleasing sutes of loues habiliments.
Yet puffie as Dutch hose they are within,
Faint, and white liuer'd, as our gallants bin;
Patch'd like a beggars cloake, and run as sweet
As doth a tumbrell in the paued street.
And in the end, (the end of loue I wot)
Pigmalion hath a iolly boy begot.
So Labeo did complaine his loue was stone,
Obdurate, flinty, so relentlesse none:
Yet Lynceus knowes, that in the end of this,
He wrought as strange a metamorphosis.
Ends not my Poem then surpassing ill?
Come, come, Augustus, crowne my laureat quill.
Hath not my Muse deseru'd a worthy place?
Come come Luxurio, crowne my head with Bayes,
Which like a Paphian, wantonly displayes
The Salaminian titillations,
Which tickle vp our leud Priapians.
Is not my pen compleate? are not my lines
Right in the swaggering humor of these times?
O sing Peana to my learned Muse.
Io bis dicite. Wilt thou refuse?
Doe not I put my Mistres in before?
And pitiously her gracious ayde implore?
Doe not I flatter, call her wondrous faire?
Vertuous, diuine most debonaire?
Hath not my Goddesse in the vaunt-gard place,
The leading of my lines theyr plumes to grace?
And then ensues my stanzaes, like odd bands
Of voluntaries, and mercenarians:
Which like Soldados of our warlike age,
March rich bedight in warlike equipage:
Glittering in dawbed lac'd accoustrements,
And pleasing sutes of loues habiliments.
Yet puffie as Dutch hose they are within,
Faint, and white liuer'd, as our gallants bin;
Patch'd like a beggars cloake, and run as sweet
As doth a tumbrell in the paued street.
And in the end, (the end of loue I wot)
Pigmalion hath a iolly boy begot.
So Labeo did complaine his loue was stone,
Obdurate, flinty, so relentlesse none:
66
He wrought as strange a metamorphosis.
Ends not my Poem then surpassing ill?
Come, come, Augustus, crowne my laureat quill.
Now by the whyps of Epigramatists,
Ile not be lasht for my dissembling shifts.
And therefore I vse Popelings discipline,
Lay ope my faults to Mastigophoros eyne:
Censure my selfe, fore others me deride
And scoffe at mee, as if I had deni'd
Or thought my Poem good, when that I see
My lines are froth, my stanzaes saplesse be.
Thus hauing rail'd against my selfe a while,
Ile snarle at those, which doe the world beguile
With masked showes. Ye changing Proteans list,
And tremble at a barking Satyrist.
Ile not be lasht for my dissembling shifts.
And therefore I vse Popelings discipline,
Lay ope my faults to Mastigophoros eyne:
Censure my selfe, fore others me deride
And scoffe at mee, as if I had deni'd
Or thought my Poem good, when that I see
My lines are froth, my stanzaes saplesse be.
Thus hauing rail'd against my selfe a while,
Ile snarle at those, which doe the world beguile
With masked showes. Ye changing Proteans list,
And tremble at a barking Satyrist.
67
CERTAINE SATYRES
SATYRE. 1. Quedam videntur, et non sunt.
I cannot show in strange proportion,
Changing my hew like a Camelion.
But you all-canning wits, hold water out,
Yee vizarded-bifronted-Ianian rout.
Tell mee browne Ruscus, hast thou Gyges ring,
That thou presum'st as if thou wert vnseene?
If not. Why in thy wits halfe capreall
Lett'st thou a superscribed Letter fall?
And from thy selfe, vnto thy selfe doost send,
And in the same, thy selfe, thy selfe commend?
For shame leaue running to some Satrapas,
Leaue glauering on him in the peopled presse:
Holding him on as he through Paules doth walke,
With nodds and leggs, and odde superfluous talke:
Making men thinke thee gracious in his sight,
When he esteemes thee but a Parasite.
For shame vnmaske, leaue for to cloke intent,
And show thou art vaine-glorious, impudent.
Changing my hew like a Camelion.
But you all-canning wits, hold water out,
Yee vizarded-bifronted-Ianian rout.
Tell mee browne Ruscus, hast thou Gyges ring,
That thou presum'st as if thou wert vnseene?
If not. Why in thy wits halfe capreall
Lett'st thou a superscribed Letter fall?
And from thy selfe, vnto thy selfe doost send,
And in the same, thy selfe, thy selfe commend?
For shame leaue running to some Satrapas,
Leaue glauering on him in the peopled presse:
Holding him on as he through Paules doth walke,
With nodds and leggs, and odde superfluous talke:
Making men thinke thee gracious in his sight,
When he esteemes thee but a Parasite.
For shame vnmaske, leaue for to cloke intent,
And show thou art vaine-glorious, impudent.
Come Briscus, by the soule of Complement,
I'le not endure that with thine instrument
(Thy Gambo violl plac'd betwixt thy thighes,
Wherein the best part of thy courtship lyes)
Thou entertaine the time, thy Mistres by:
Come, now lets heare thy mounting Mercurie,
What mum? giue him his fiddle once againe,
Or he's more mute then a Pythagoran.
But oh! the absolute Castilio,
He that can all the poynts of courtship show.
He that can trot a Courser, breake a rush,
And arm'd in proofe, dare dure a strawes strong push.
He, who on his glorious scutchion
Can quaintly show wits newe inuention,
Aduauncing forth some thirstie Tantalus,
Or els the Vulture on Promethius,
With some short motto of a dozen lines.
He that can purpose it in dainty rimes,
Can set his face, and with his eye can speake,
And dally with his Mistres dangling feake,
And wish that he were it, to kisse her eye
And flare about her beauties deitie.
Tut, he is famous for his reueling,
For fine sette speeches, and for sonetting;
He scornes the violl and the scraping sticke,
And yet's but Broker of anothers wit.
Certes if all things were well knowne and view'd
He doth but champe that which another chew'd.
Come come Castilion, skim thy posset curd,
Show thy queere substance, worthlesse, most obsurd.
Take ceremonius complement from thee,
Alas, I see Castilios beggery.
I'le not endure that with thine instrument
(Thy Gambo violl plac'd betwixt thy thighes,
Wherein the best part of thy courtship lyes)
Thou entertaine the time, thy Mistres by:
Come, now lets heare thy mounting Mercurie,
What mum? giue him his fiddle once againe,
Or he's more mute then a Pythagoran.
68
He that can all the poynts of courtship show.
He that can trot a Courser, breake a rush,
And arm'd in proofe, dare dure a strawes strong push.
He, who on his glorious scutchion
Can quaintly show wits newe inuention,
Aduauncing forth some thirstie Tantalus,
Or els the Vulture on Promethius,
With some short motto of a dozen lines.
He that can purpose it in dainty rimes,
Can set his face, and with his eye can speake,
And dally with his Mistres dangling feake,
And wish that he were it, to kisse her eye
And flare about her beauties deitie.
Tut, he is famous for his reueling,
For fine sette speeches, and for sonetting;
He scornes the violl and the scraping sticke,
And yet's but Broker of anothers wit.
Certes if all things were well knowne and view'd
He doth but champe that which another chew'd.
Come come Castilion, skim thy posset curd,
Show thy queere substance, worthlesse, most obsurd.
Take ceremonius complement from thee,
Alas, I see Castilios beggery.
O if Democritus were now aliue
How would he laugh to see this deuill thriue!
And by an holy semblance bleare mens eyes
When he intends some damned villanies.
Ixion makes faire weather vnto Ioue,
That he might make foule work with his faire loue,
And is right sober in his outward semblance,
Demure, and modest in his countenance;
Applies himselfe to great Saturnus sonne,
Till Saturns daughter yeeldes his motion.
Night-shining Phœbe knowes what was begat,
A monstrous Centaure, illegitimate.
How would he laugh to see this deuill thriue!
And by an holy semblance bleare mens eyes
When he intends some damned villanies.
Ixion makes faire weather vnto Ioue,
That he might make foule work with his faire loue,
And is right sober in his outward semblance,
Demure, and modest in his countenance;
Applies himselfe to great Saturnus sonne,
69
Night-shining Phœbe knowes what was begat,
A monstrous Centaure, illegitimate.
Who would not chuck to see such pleasing sport.
To see such troupes of gallants still resort
Vnto Cornutos shop. What other cause
But chaste Brownetta, Sporo thether drawes?
Who now so long hath prays'd the Choughs white bill
That he hath left her ne're a flying quill:
His meaning gain, though outward semblance loue,
So like a Crabfish Sporo still doth moue.
Laugh, laugh, to see the world Democritus
Cry like that strange transformed Tyreus.
Now Sorbo with a fayned grauity
Doth fish for honour, and high dignity.
Nothing within, nor yet without, but beard
Which thrice he strokes, before I euer heard
One wise graue word, to blesse my listning eare.
But marke how Good-opinion doth him reare.
See, he's in office, on his foot-cloth placed:
Now each man caps, and striues for to be graced
With some rude nod of his maiestick head,
Which all doe wish in Limbo harried.
But ô I greeue, that good men daine to be
Slaues vnto him, that's slaue to villany.
Now Sorbo swels with selfe conceited sence,
Thinking that men doe yeeld this reuerence
Vnto his vertues: fond credulity!
Asse, take of Isis, no man honours thee.
To see such troupes of gallants still resort
Vnto Cornutos shop. What other cause
But chaste Brownetta, Sporo thether drawes?
Who now so long hath prays'd the Choughs white bill
That he hath left her ne're a flying quill:
His meaning gain, though outward semblance loue,
So like a Crabfish Sporo still doth moue.
Laugh, laugh, to see the world Democritus
Cry like that strange transformed Tyreus.
Now Sorbo with a fayned grauity
Doth fish for honour, and high dignity.
Nothing within, nor yet without, but beard
Which thrice he strokes, before I euer heard
One wise graue word, to blesse my listning eare.
But marke how Good-opinion doth him reare.
See, he's in office, on his foot-cloth placed:
Now each man caps, and striues for to be graced
With some rude nod of his maiestick head,
Which all doe wish in Limbo harried.
But ô I greeue, that good men daine to be
Slaues vnto him, that's slaue to villany.
Now Sorbo swels with selfe conceited sence,
Thinking that men doe yeeld this reuerence
Vnto his vertues: fond credulity!
Asse, take of Isis, no man honours thee.
Great Tubrios feather gallantly doth waue,
Full twenty falls doth make him wondrous braue.
Oh golden Ierkin! royall arming coate!
Like ship on Sea, he on the land doth flote.
He's gone, he's shipt, his resolution
Pricks him (by heauen) to this action.
The poxe it doth: not long since I did view
The man betake him to a common stew.
And there (I wis) like no quaint stomack't man
Eates vp his armes. And warres munition
His wauing plume, falls in the Brokers chest.
Fie that his Ostridge stomack should disgest
His Ostridge feather: eate vp Venis-lace.
Thou that did'st feare to eate Pore-Iohns aspace.
Lie close ye slaue at beastly luxury;
Melt and consume in pleasures surquedry.
But now, thou that did'st march with Spanish Pike before,
Come with French-pox out of that brothell dore.
The fleet's return'd. What newes from Rodio?
Hote seruice, by the Lord, cryes Tubrio.
Why do'st thou halt? Why six times throgh each thigh
Pusht with the Pike of the hote enemie.
Hote seruice, hote, the Spaniard is a man,
I say no more, and as a Gentleman
I serued in his face. Farwell. Adew.
Welcome from Netherland, from steaming stew.
Asse to thy crib, doffe that huge Lyons skin,
Or els the Owle will hoote and driue thee in.
For shame, for shame, lew'd liuing Tubrio
Presume not troupe among that gallant crue
Of true Heroike spirits, come vncase,
Show vs the true forme of Dametas face.
Hence, hence ye slaue, dissemble not thy state
But hence-forth be a turne-coate, runnagate.
Oh hold my sides, that I may breake my spleene,
With laughter at the shadowes I haue seene.
Full twenty falls doth make him wondrous braue.
70
Like ship on Sea, he on the land doth flote.
He's gone, he's shipt, his resolution
Pricks him (by heauen) to this action.
The poxe it doth: not long since I did view
The man betake him to a common stew.
And there (I wis) like no quaint stomack't man
Eates vp his armes. And warres munition
His wauing plume, falls in the Brokers chest.
Fie that his Ostridge stomack should disgest
His Ostridge feather: eate vp Venis-lace.
Thou that did'st feare to eate Pore-Iohns aspace.
Lie close ye slaue at beastly luxury;
Melt and consume in pleasures surquedry.
But now, thou that did'st march with Spanish Pike before,
Come with French-pox out of that brothell dore.
The fleet's return'd. What newes from Rodio?
Hote seruice, by the Lord, cryes Tubrio.
Why do'st thou halt? Why six times throgh each thigh
Pusht with the Pike of the hote enemie.
Hote seruice, hote, the Spaniard is a man,
I say no more, and as a Gentleman
I serued in his face. Farwell. Adew.
Welcome from Netherland, from steaming stew.
Asse to thy crib, doffe that huge Lyons skin,
Or els the Owle will hoote and driue thee in.
For shame, for shame, lew'd liuing Tubrio
Presume not troupe among that gallant crue
Of true Heroike spirits, come vncase,
Show vs the true forme of Dametas face.
Hence, hence ye slaue, dissemble not thy state
But hence-forth be a turne-coate, runnagate.
71
With laughter at the shadowes I haue seene.
Yet I can beare with Curios nimble feete
Saluting me with capers in the streete.
Although in open view, and peoples face,
He fronts me with some spruce, neate, sinquepace.
Or Tullus, though when ere he me espies
Straight with loud mouth (a bandy Sir) he cries.
Or Robrus, who adic't to nimble fence,
Still greetes me with Stockadoes violence.
These I doe beare, because I too well know
They are the same, they seeme in outward show.
But all confusion seuer from mine eye
This Ianian-bifront hypocrisie.
Saluting me with capers in the streete.
Although in open view, and peoples face,
He fronts me with some spruce, neate, sinquepace.
Or Tullus, though when ere he me espies
Straight with loud mouth (a bandy Sir) he cries.
Or Robrus, who adic't to nimble fence,
Still greetes me with Stockadoes violence.
These I doe beare, because I too well know
They are the same, they seeme in outward show.
But all confusion seuer from mine eye
This Ianian-bifront hypocrisie.
72
SATYRE. 2. Quedam sunt, et non videntur.
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.
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.
73
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
74
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.
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.
75
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.
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.
Bruto the trauailer doth sadly pace
76
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.
And to vnmaske the worlds detested sinnes.
Thou shalt as soone draw Nilus riuer dry,
As clense the world from foule impietie.
77
SATYRE. 3. Quedam et sunt, et videntur.
Now grim Reprofe, swel in my rough-heu'd rime,
That thou maist vexe the guilty of our time.
Yon is a youth, whom how can I ore'slip,
Since he so iumpe doth in my mashes hit?
He hath been longer in preparing him
Then Terence wench, and now behold he's seene.
Now after two yeeres fast and earnest prayer,
The fashion change not, (least he should dispaire
Of euer hoording vp more faire gay clothes)
Behold at length in London streets he showes.
His ruffe did eate more time in neatest setting
Then Woodstocks worke in painfull perfecting.
It hath more doubles farre, then Aiax shield
When he gainst Troy did furious battell weild.
Nay he doth weare an Embleme bout his necke.
For vnder that fayre Ruffe so sprucely set
Appeares a fall, a falling-band forsooth.
O dapper, rare, compleat, sweet nittie youth!
Iesu Maria! How his clothes appeare
Crost, and recrost with lace, sure for some feare,
Least that some spirit with a tippet Mace
Should with a gastly show affright his face.
His hat, himselfe, small crowne & huge great brim,
Faire outward show, and little wit within.
And all the band with feathers he doth fill,
Which is a signe of a fantasticke still,
As sure, as (some doe tell me) euermore
A Goate doth stand before a brothell dore.
His clothes perfum'd, his fustie mouth is ayred,
His chinne new swept, his very cheekes are glazed.
That thou maist vexe the guilty of our time.
Yon is a youth, whom how can I ore'slip,
Since he so iumpe doth in my mashes hit?
He hath been longer in preparing him
Then Terence wench, and now behold he's seene.
Now after two yeeres fast and earnest prayer,
The fashion change not, (least he should dispaire
Of euer hoording vp more faire gay clothes)
Behold at length in London streets he showes.
His ruffe did eate more time in neatest setting
Then Woodstocks worke in painfull perfecting.
It hath more doubles farre, then Aiax shield
When he gainst Troy did furious battell weild.
Nay he doth weare an Embleme bout his necke.
For vnder that fayre Ruffe so sprucely set
Appeares a fall, a falling-band forsooth.
O dapper, rare, compleat, sweet nittie youth!
Iesu Maria! How his clothes appeare
Crost, and recrost with lace, sure for some feare,
Least that some spirit with a tippet Mace
Should with a gastly show affright his face.
His hat, himselfe, small crowne & huge great brim,
Faire outward show, and little wit within.
And all the band with feathers he doth fill,
Which is a signe of a fantasticke still,
As sure, as (some doe tell me) euermore
78
His clothes perfum'd, his fustie mouth is ayred,
His chinne new swept, his very cheekes are glazed.
But ho, what Ganimede is that doth grace
The gallants heeles. One, who for two daies space
Is closely hyred. Now who dares not call
This Æsops crow, fond, mad, fantasticall.
Why so he is, his clothes doe sympathize,
And with his inward spirit humorize.
An open Asse, that is not yet so wise
As his derided fondnes to disguise.
Why thou art Bedlam mad, starke lunaticke,
And glori'st to be counted a fantastick.
Thou neyther art, nor yet will seeme to be
Heire to some vertuous praised qualitie.
O frantick men! that thinke all villanie
The compleate honors of Nobilitie.
When some damn'd vice, som strange mishapen sute,
Makes youths esteeme themselues in hie repute.
O age! in which our gallants boast to be
Slaues vnto riot, and lewd luxury!
Nay, when they blush, and thinke an honest act
Dooth their supposed vertues maculate!
Bedlame, Frenzie, Madnes, Lunacie,
I challenge all your moody Empery
Once to produce a more distracted man
Then is inamorato Lucian.
For when my eares receau'd a fearefull sound
That he was sicke, I went, and there I found
Him layd of loue, and newly brought to bed
Of monstrous folly, and a franticke head.
His chamber hang'd about with Elegies,
With sad complaints of his loues miseries:
His windowes strow'd with Sonnets, and the glasse
Drawne full of loue-knots. I approcht the Asse,
And straight he weepes, and sighes some sonnet out
To his faire loue. And then he goes about
For to perfume her rare perfection
With some sweet-smelling pinck Epitheton.
Then with a melting looke he writhes his head,
And straight in passion riseth in his bed;
And hauing kist his hand, stroke vp his haire,
Made a French conge, cryes. O cruell feare
To the antique Bed-post. I laught a maine
That down my cheeks the mirthful drops did raine.
Well he's no Ianus, but substantiall,
In show, and essence a good naturall.
When as thou hear'st me aske spruce Duceus
From whence he comes. And hee straight answers vs,
From Lady Lilla. And is going straight
To the Countesse of (---) for she doth waite
His comming. And will surely send her Coach,
Vnlesse he make the speedier approch.
Art not thou ready for to breake thy spleene
At laughing at the fondnes thou hast seene
In this vaine-glorious foole? When thou dost know
He neuer durst vnto these Ladies show
His pippin face. Well, he's no accident,
But reall, reall, shamelesse, impudent.
And yet he boasts, and wonders that each man
Can call him by his name, sweet Ducean:
And is right proude that thus his name is knowne.
I, Duceus, I, thy name is too farre blowne.
The world too much, thy selfe too little know'st
Thy priuate selfe. Why then should Duceus boast?
But humble Satyre, wilt thou daine display
These open naggs, which purblind eyes bewray?
Come, come, and snarle more darke at secrete sin,
Which in such Laborinths enwrapped bin,
That Ariadne I must craue thy ayde
To helpe me finde where this foule monster's layd,
Then will I driue the Minotaure from vs,
And seeme to be a second Theseus.
The gallants heeles. One, who for two daies space
Is closely hyred. Now who dares not call
This Æsops crow, fond, mad, fantasticall.
Why so he is, his clothes doe sympathize,
And with his inward spirit humorize.
An open Asse, that is not yet so wise
As his derided fondnes to disguise.
Why thou art Bedlam mad, starke lunaticke,
And glori'st to be counted a fantastick.
Thou neyther art, nor yet will seeme to be
Heire to some vertuous praised qualitie.
O frantick men! that thinke all villanie
The compleate honors of Nobilitie.
When some damn'd vice, som strange mishapen sute,
Makes youths esteeme themselues in hie repute.
O age! in which our gallants boast to be
Slaues vnto riot, and lewd luxury!
Nay, when they blush, and thinke an honest act
Dooth their supposed vertues maculate!
Bedlame, Frenzie, Madnes, Lunacie,
I challenge all your moody Empery
Once to produce a more distracted man
Then is inamorato Lucian.
For when my eares receau'd a fearefull sound
That he was sicke, I went, and there I found
Him layd of loue, and newly brought to bed
Of monstrous folly, and a franticke head.
His chamber hang'd about with Elegies,
With sad complaints of his loues miseries:
His windowes strow'd with Sonnets, and the glasse
79
And straight he weepes, and sighes some sonnet out
To his faire loue. And then he goes about
For to perfume her rare perfection
With some sweet-smelling pinck Epitheton.
Then with a melting looke he writhes his head,
And straight in passion riseth in his bed;
And hauing kist his hand, stroke vp his haire,
Made a French conge, cryes. O cruell feare
To the antique Bed-post. I laught a maine
That down my cheeks the mirthful drops did raine.
Well he's no Ianus, but substantiall,
In show, and essence a good naturall.
When as thou hear'st me aske spruce Duceus
From whence he comes. And hee straight answers vs,
From Lady Lilla. And is going straight
To the Countesse of (---) for she doth waite
His comming. And will surely send her Coach,
Vnlesse he make the speedier approch.
Art not thou ready for to breake thy spleene
At laughing at the fondnes thou hast seene
In this vaine-glorious foole? When thou dost know
He neuer durst vnto these Ladies show
His pippin face. Well, he's no accident,
But reall, reall, shamelesse, impudent.
And yet he boasts, and wonders that each man
Can call him by his name, sweet Ducean:
And is right proude that thus his name is knowne.
I, Duceus, I, thy name is too farre blowne.
The world too much, thy selfe too little know'st
Thy priuate selfe. Why then should Duceus boast?
But humble Satyre, wilt thou daine display
These open naggs, which purblind eyes bewray?
Come, come, and snarle more darke at secrete sin,
80
That Ariadne I must craue thy ayde
To helpe me finde where this foule monster's layd,
Then will I driue the Minotaure from vs,
And seeme to be a second Theseus.
81
[SATYRE 4]
REACTIO.
Now doth Ramnusia Adrastian,
Daughter of Night, and of the Ocean
Prouoke my pen. What cold Saturnian
Can hold, and heare such vile detraction?
Yee Pines of Ida, shake your fayre growne height,
For Ioue at first dash will with thunder fight.
Yee Cedars bend, fore lightning you dismay,
Yee Lyons tremble, for an Asse doth bray.
Who cannot raile? what dog but dare to barke
Gainst Phoebes brightnes in the silent darke?
What stinking Scauenger (if so he will
Though streets be fayre,) but may right easily fill,
His dungy tumbrel? sweep, pare, wash, make cleane,
Yet from your fairnes he some durt can gleane.
The windie-chollicke striu'd to haue some vent,
And now tis flowne, and now his rage is spent.
So haue I seene the fuming waues to fret,
And in the end, naught but white foame beget.
So haue I seene the sullen clowdes to cry,
And weepe for anger that the earth was dry
After theyr spight, that all the haile-shot drops
Could neuer peirce the christall water tops,
And neuer yet could worke her more disgrace
But onely bubble quiet Thetis face.
Vaine enuious detractor from the good
What Cynicke spirit rageth in thy blood?
Cannot a poore mistaken title scape
But thou must that into thy Tumbrell scrape?
Cannot some lewd, immodest beastlines
Lurke, and lie hid in iust forgetfulnes,
But Grillus subtile-smelling swinish snout
Must sent, and grunt, and needes will finde it out?
Come daunce yee stumbling Satyres by his side
If he list once the Syon Muse deride.
Ye Granta's white Nymphs, come & with you bring
Some sillabub, whilst he doth sweetly sing
Gainst Peters teares, and Maries mouing moane,
And like a fierce enraged Boare doth foame
At sacred Sonnets. O daring hardiment!
At Bartas sweet Semaines, raile impudent
At Hopkins, Sternhold, and the Scottish King,
At all Translators that doe striue to bring
That stranger language to our vulgar tongue,
Spett in thy poyson theyr faire acts among.
Ding them all downe from faire Ierusalem,
And mew them vp in thy deserued Bedlem.
Daughter of Night, and of the Ocean
Prouoke my pen. What cold Saturnian
Can hold, and heare such vile detraction?
Yee Pines of Ida, shake your fayre growne height,
For Ioue at first dash will with thunder fight.
Yee Cedars bend, fore lightning you dismay,
Yee Lyons tremble, for an Asse doth bray.
Who cannot raile? what dog but dare to barke
Gainst Phoebes brightnes in the silent darke?
What stinking Scauenger (if so he will
Though streets be fayre,) but may right easily fill,
His dungy tumbrel? sweep, pare, wash, make cleane,
Yet from your fairnes he some durt can gleane.
The windie-chollicke striu'd to haue some vent,
And now tis flowne, and now his rage is spent.
So haue I seene the fuming waues to fret,
And in the end, naught but white foame beget.
So haue I seene the sullen clowdes to cry,
And weepe for anger that the earth was dry
After theyr spight, that all the haile-shot drops
Could neuer peirce the christall water tops,
And neuer yet could worke her more disgrace
But onely bubble quiet Thetis face.
Vaine enuious detractor from the good
What Cynicke spirit rageth in thy blood?
Cannot a poore mistaken title scape
But thou must that into thy Tumbrell scrape?
Cannot some lewd, immodest beastlines
Lurke, and lie hid in iust forgetfulnes,
82
Must sent, and grunt, and needes will finde it out?
Come daunce yee stumbling Satyres by his side
If he list once the Syon Muse deride.
Ye Granta's white Nymphs, come & with you bring
Some sillabub, whilst he doth sweetly sing
Gainst Peters teares, and Maries mouing moane,
And like a fierce enraged Boare doth foame
At sacred Sonnets. O daring hardiment!
At Bartas sweet Semaines, raile impudent
At Hopkins, Sternhold, and the Scottish King,
At all Translators that doe striue to bring
That stranger language to our vulgar tongue,
Spett in thy poyson theyr faire acts among.
Ding them all downe from faire Ierusalem,
And mew them vp in thy deserued Bedlem.
Shall Painims honor, their vile falsed gods
With sprightly wits? and shall not we by ods
Farre, farre, more striue with wits best quintessence
To adore that sacred euer-liuing Essence?
Hath not strong reason moou'd the Legists mind,
To say the fayrest of all Natures kinde
The Prince by his prerogatiue may claime?
Why may not then our soules without thy blame,
(which is the best thing that our God did frame)
Deuote the best part to his sacred Name?
And with due reuerence and deuotion
Honor his Name with our inuention?
No, Poesie not fit for such an action,
It is defild with superstition:
It honord Baule, therefore polute, polute,
Vnfit for such a sacred institute.
So haue I heard an Heritick maintaine
The Church vnholy, where Iehouas Name
Is now ador'd: because he surely knowes
Some-times it was defil'd with Popish showes.
The Bells profane, and not to be endur'd,
Because to Popish rites they were inur'd.
Pure madnes peace, cease to be insolent,
And be not outward sober, inlye impudent.
Fie inconsiderate, it greeueth me
An Academick should so senceles be.
Fond Censurer! Why should those mirrors seeme
So vile to thee? which better iudgements deeme
Exquisite then, and in our polish'd times
May run for sencefull tollerable lines.
What, not mediocria firma from thy spight?
But must thy enuious hungry fangs needs light
On Magistrates mirrour? must thou needs detract
And striue to worke his antient honors wrack?
What, shall not Rosamond, or Gaueston,
Ope their sweet lips without detraction?
But must our moderne Critticks enuious eye
Seeme thus to quote some grosse deformity?
Where Art, not error shineth in their stile,
But error and no Art doth thee beguile.
For tell me Crittick, is not Fiction
The soule of Poesies inuention?
Is't not the forme? the spirit? and the essence?
The life? and the essentiall difference?
Which omni, semper, soli, doth agree
To heauenly discended Poesie?
Thy wit God comfort mad Chirurgion
What, make so dangerous an Incision?
At first dash whip away the instrument
Of Poets Procreation? fie ignorant!
When as the soule, and vitall blood doth rest
And hath in Fiction onely interest?
What Satyre! sucke the soule from Poesie
And leaue him spritles? ô impiety!
Would euer any erudite Pedant
Seeme in his artles lines so insolent?
But thus it is when pitty Priscians
Will needs step vp to be Censorians.
When once they can in true skan'd verses frame
A braue Encomium of good Vertues name.
Why thus it is, when Mimick Apes will striue
with Iron wedge the trunks of Oakes to riue.
With sprightly wits? and shall not we by ods
Farre, farre, more striue with wits best quintessence
To adore that sacred euer-liuing Essence?
Hath not strong reason moou'd the Legists mind,
To say the fayrest of all Natures kinde
The Prince by his prerogatiue may claime?
Why may not then our soules without thy blame,
(which is the best thing that our God did frame)
Deuote the best part to his sacred Name?
And with due reuerence and deuotion
Honor his Name with our inuention?
No, Poesie not fit for such an action,
It is defild with superstition:
It honord Baule, therefore polute, polute,
Vnfit for such a sacred institute.
So haue I heard an Heritick maintaine
The Church vnholy, where Iehouas Name
83
Some-times it was defil'd with Popish showes.
The Bells profane, and not to be endur'd,
Because to Popish rites they were inur'd.
Pure madnes peace, cease to be insolent,
And be not outward sober, inlye impudent.
Fie inconsiderate, it greeueth me
An Academick should so senceles be.
Fond Censurer! Why should those mirrors seeme
So vile to thee? which better iudgements deeme
Exquisite then, and in our polish'd times
May run for sencefull tollerable lines.
What, not mediocria firma from thy spight?
But must thy enuious hungry fangs needs light
On Magistrates mirrour? must thou needs detract
And striue to worke his antient honors wrack?
What, shall not Rosamond, or Gaueston,
Ope their sweet lips without detraction?
But must our moderne Critticks enuious eye
Seeme thus to quote some grosse deformity?
Where Art, not error shineth in their stile,
But error and no Art doth thee beguile.
For tell me Crittick, is not Fiction
The soule of Poesies inuention?
Is't not the forme? the spirit? and the essence?
The life? and the essentiall difference?
Which omni, semper, soli, doth agree
To heauenly discended Poesie?
Thy wit God comfort mad Chirurgion
What, make so dangerous an Incision?
At first dash whip away the instrument
Of Poets Procreation? fie ignorant!
When as the soule, and vitall blood doth rest
And hath in Fiction onely interest?
84
And leaue him spritles? ô impiety!
Would euer any erudite Pedant
Seeme in his artles lines so insolent?
But thus it is when pitty Priscians
Will needs step vp to be Censorians.
When once they can in true skan'd verses frame
A braue Encomium of good Vertues name.
Why thus it is, when Mimick Apes will striue
with Iron wedge the trunks of Oakes to riue.
But see, his spirit of detraction
Must nible at a glorious action.
Euge! some gallant spirit, some resolued blood
will hazard all to worke his Countries good
And to enrich his soule, and raise his name
will boldly saile vnto the rich Guiane.
What then? must straight some shameles Satyrist
with odious and opprobrius termes insist
To blast so high resolu'd intention
with a malignant vile detraction?
So haue I seene a curre dogge in the streete
Pisse gainst the fairest posts he still could meete.
So haue I seene the march wind striue to fade
The fairest hewe that Art, or Nature made.
So Enuy still doth barke at clearest shine
And striues to staine heroyick acts, deuine.
well, I haue cast thy water, and I see
Th'art falne to wits extreamest pouerty,
Sure in Consumption of the spritely part.
Goe vse some Cordiall for to cheere thy hart:
Or els I feare that I one day shall see
Thee fall, into some dangerous Litargie.
Must nible at a glorious action.
Euge! some gallant spirit, some resolued blood
will hazard all to worke his Countries good
And to enrich his soule, and raise his name
will boldly saile vnto the rich Guiane.
What then? must straight some shameles Satyrist
with odious and opprobrius termes insist
To blast so high resolu'd intention
with a malignant vile detraction?
So haue I seene a curre dogge in the streete
Pisse gainst the fairest posts he still could meete.
So haue I seene the march wind striue to fade
The fairest hewe that Art, or Nature made.
So Enuy still doth barke at clearest shine
And striues to staine heroyick acts, deuine.
well, I haue cast thy water, and I see
Th'art falne to wits extreamest pouerty,
Sure in Consumption of the spritely part.
Goe vse some Cordiall for to cheere thy hart:
Or els I feare that I one day shall see
Thee fall, into some dangerous Litargie.
But come fond Bragart, crowne thy browes with Bay
Intrance thy selfe in thy sweet extasie.
Come, manumit thy plumie pinion,
And scower the sword of Eluish champion,
Or els vouchsafe to breathe in wax-bound quill,
And daine our longing eares with musick fill:
Or let vs see thee some such stanzaes frame
That thou maist raise thy vile inglorious name.
Sommon the Nymphs and Driades to bring
Some rare inuention, whilst thou doost sing
So sweet, that thou maist shoulder from aboue
The Eagle from the staires of freendly Ioue:
And leade sad Pluto Captiue with thy song,
Gracing thy selfe, that art obscur'd so long.
Come somewhat say (but hang me when tis done)
Worthy of brasse, and hoary marble stone;
Speake yee attentiue Swaines that heard him neuer
Will not his Pastorals indure for euer?
Speake yee that neuer heard him ought but raile
Doe not his Poems beare a glorious saile?
Hath not he strongly iustled from aboue
The Eagle from the staires of friendly Ioue?
May be, may be, tut tis his modesty,
He could if that he would, nay would if could I see.
Who cannot raile? and with a blasting breath
Scorch euen the whitest Lillies of the earth?
Who cannot stumble in a stuttering stile?
And shallow heads with seeming shades beguile?
Cease, cease, at length to be maleuolent,
To fairest bloomes of Vertues eminent.
Striue not to soile the freshest hewes on earth
With thy malitious and vpbraiding breath.
Enuie, let Pines of Ida rest alone,
For they will growe spight of thy thunder stone,
Striue not to nible in their swelling graine
With toothles gums of thy detracting braine:
Eate not thy dam, but laugh and sport with me
At strangers follies with a merry glee.
Lets not maligne our kin. Then Satyrist
I doe salute thee with an open fist.
Intrance thy selfe in thy sweet extasie.
85
And scower the sword of Eluish champion,
Or els vouchsafe to breathe in wax-bound quill,
And daine our longing eares with musick fill:
Or let vs see thee some such stanzaes frame
That thou maist raise thy vile inglorious name.
Sommon the Nymphs and Driades to bring
Some rare inuention, whilst thou doost sing
So sweet, that thou maist shoulder from aboue
The Eagle from the staires of freendly Ioue:
And leade sad Pluto Captiue with thy song,
Gracing thy selfe, that art obscur'd so long.
Come somewhat say (but hang me when tis done)
Worthy of brasse, and hoary marble stone;
Speake yee attentiue Swaines that heard him neuer
Will not his Pastorals indure for euer?
Speake yee that neuer heard him ought but raile
Doe not his Poems beare a glorious saile?
Hath not he strongly iustled from aboue
The Eagle from the staires of friendly Ioue?
May be, may be, tut tis his modesty,
He could if that he would, nay would if could I see.
Who cannot raile? and with a blasting breath
Scorch euen the whitest Lillies of the earth?
Who cannot stumble in a stuttering stile?
And shallow heads with seeming shades beguile?
Cease, cease, at length to be maleuolent,
To fairest bloomes of Vertues eminent.
Striue not to soile the freshest hewes on earth
With thy malitious and vpbraiding breath.
Enuie, let Pines of Ida rest alone,
For they will growe spight of thy thunder stone,
Striue not to nible in their swelling graine
86
Eate not thy dam, but laugh and sport with me
At strangers follies with a merry glee.
Lets not maligne our kin. Then Satyrist
I doe salute thee with an open fist.
87
SATYRE [5]
Parua magna, magna nulla.
Ambitious
Gorgons, wide-mouth'd Lamians,
Shape-changing Proteans, damn'd Briareans,
Is Minos dead? is Radamanth a sleepe?
That yee thus dare vnto Ioues Pallace creepe?
what, hath Ramnusia spent her knotted whip?
That yee dare striue on Hebes cup to sip?
Yet know Apolloes quiuer is not spent
But can abate your daring hardiment.
Python is slaine, yet his accursed race,
Dare looke deuine Astrea in the face:
Chaos returne, and with confusion
Inuolue the world with strange disunion:
For Pluto sits in that adored chaire
which doth belong vnto Mineruas heire.
O Hecatombe! ô Catastrophe!
From Mydas pompe, to Irus beggery.
Promethius, who celestiall fier
Did steale from heauen, therewith to inspire
Our earthly bodies with a sence-full mind,
whereby we might the depth of Nature find,
Is ding'd to hell, and vulture eates his hart
which did such deepe Philosophy impart
To mortall men. When theeuing Mercury
That euen in his new borne infancy
Stole faire Apollos quiuer, and Ioues mace,
And would haue filch'd the lightning from his place,
But that he fear'd he should haue burnt his wing
And sing'd his downy feathers new come spring;
He that in gastly shade of night doth leade
Our soules, vnto the empire of the dead.
When he that better doth deserue a rope
Is a faire planet in our Horoscope.
And now hath Caduceus in his hand
Of life and death that hath the sole command.
Thus petty thefts are payed, and soundly whipt,
But greater crimes are slightly ouerslipt:
Nay he's a God that can doe villany
with a good grace, and glib facility.
Shape-changing Proteans, damn'd Briareans,
Is Minos dead? is Radamanth a sleepe?
That yee thus dare vnto Ioues Pallace creepe?
what, hath Ramnusia spent her knotted whip?
That yee dare striue on Hebes cup to sip?
Yet know Apolloes quiuer is not spent
But can abate your daring hardiment.
Python is slaine, yet his accursed race,
Dare looke deuine Astrea in the face:
Chaos returne, and with confusion
Inuolue the world with strange disunion:
For Pluto sits in that adored chaire
which doth belong vnto Mineruas heire.
O Hecatombe! ô Catastrophe!
From Mydas pompe, to Irus beggery.
Promethius, who celestiall fier
Did steale from heauen, therewith to inspire
Our earthly bodies with a sence-full mind,
whereby we might the depth of Nature find,
Is ding'd to hell, and vulture eates his hart
which did such deepe Philosophy impart
To mortall men. When theeuing Mercury
That euen in his new borne infancy
Stole faire Apollos quiuer, and Ioues mace,
And would haue filch'd the lightning from his place,
But that he fear'd he should haue burnt his wing
And sing'd his downy feathers new come spring;
88
Our soules, vnto the empire of the dead.
When he that better doth deserue a rope
Is a faire planet in our Horoscope.
And now hath Caduceus in his hand
Of life and death that hath the sole command.
Thus petty thefts are payed, and soundly whipt,
But greater crimes are slightly ouerslipt:
Nay he's a God that can doe villany
with a good grace, and glib facility.
The harmles hunter, with a ventrous eye
When vnawares he did Diana spie,
Nak'd in the fountaine he became straightway
Vnto his greedy hounds a wished pray,
His owne delights taking away his breath,
And all vngratefull forc'd his fatall death.
(And euer since Hounds eate their Maisters cleane,
For so Diana curst them in the streame.)
When strong backt Hercules in one poore night
With great, great ease, and wondrous delight
In strength of lust and Venus surquedry
Rob'd fifty wenches of virginity.
Farre more then lusty Laurence. Yet poore soule
He with Acteon drinks of Nemis bole,
When Hercules lewd act, is registred,
And for his fruitfull labour Deified.
And had a place in heauen him assigned
When he the world, vnto the world resigned.
Thus little scapes are deepely punished,
But mighty villanes are for Gods adored.
Ioue brought his sister to a nuptiall bed,
And hath an Hebe, and a Ganemede,
A Leda, and a thousand more beside,
His chast Alcmena, and his sister bride:
Who fore his face was odiously defil'd
And by Ixion grosely got with child.
This thunderer, that right vertuously
Thrust forth his father from his empery
Is now the great Monarko of the earth,
Whose awfull nod, whose all commaunding breath
Shakes Europs ground-worke. And his title makes
As dread a noyse, as when a Canon shakes
The subtile ayre. Thus hell-bred villany
Is still rewarded with high dignity.
When Sisyphus that did but once reueale
That this incestious villane had to deale
In Ile Phliunte with Egina faire,
Is damn'd to hell, in endles black dispaire
Euer to reare his tumbling stone vpright
Vpon the steepy mountaines lofty height.
His stone will neuer now get greenish mosse
Since he hath thus encur'd so great a losse
As Ioues high fauour. But it needs must be
whilst Ioue doth rule, and sway the empery
And poore Astrea's fled into an Ile
And liues a poore and banished exile:
And there pen'd vp, sighs in her sad lament,
wearing away in pining languishment.
If that Sylenus Asse doe chaunce to bray,
And so the Satyres lewdnes doth bewray,
Let him for euer be a sacrifice;
Prick, spurre, beate, loade, for euer tyranise
Ouer the foole. But let some Cerberus
Keepe back the wife of sweet tongu'd Orpheus,
Gnato applaudes the Hound. Let that same child
Of Night, and Sleepe, (which hath the world defil'd
with odious railing) barke gainst all the work
Of all the Gods, and find some error lurke
In all the graces. Let his lauer lip
Speake in reproch of Natures workmanship,
Let him vpbraid faire Venus if he list
For her short heele. Let him with rage insist
To snarle at Vulcans man, because he was
Not made with windowes of transparant glas
That all might see the passions of his mind.
Let his all-blasting tongue great errors find
In Pallas house, because if next should burne
It could not from the sodaine perill turne.
Let him vpbraide great Ioue with luxury
Condemne the Heauens Queene of ielousie.
Yet this same Stygius Momus must be praysed
And to some Godhead at the least be raised.
But if poore Orpheus sing melodiously,
And striue with musicks sweetest symphonie
To praise the Gods, and vnaduisedly
Doe but ore-slip one drunken Deitie,
Forthwith the bouzing Bacchus out doth send
His furious Bacchides, to be reueng'd.
And straight they teare the sweet Musition,
And leaue him to the dogs deuision.
Hebrus, beare witnes of their crueltie,
For thou did'st view poore Orpheus tragedie.
Thus slight neglects are deepest villanie,
But blasting mouthes deserue a deitie.
Since Gallus slept, when he was set to watch
Least Sol or Vulcan should Mauortius catch
In vsing Venus: since the boy did nap,
Whereby bright Phœbus did great Mars intrap.
Poore Gallus now, (whilom to Mars so deere)
Is turned to a crowing Chaunteclere;
And euer since, fore that the sunne doth shine,
(Least Phœbus should with his all-piercing eyne
Discry some Vulcan,) he doth crow full shrill,
That all the ayre with Ecchoes he doth fill.
Whilst Mars, though all the Gods doe see his sin,
And know in what lewd vice he liueth in,
Yet is adored still, and magnified,
And with all honors duly worshipped.
Euge! small faults to mountaines straight are raised,
Slight scapes are whipt, but damned deeds are praised.
When vnawares he did Diana spie,
Nak'd in the fountaine he became straightway
Vnto his greedy hounds a wished pray,
His owne delights taking away his breath,
And all vngratefull forc'd his fatall death.
(And euer since Hounds eate their Maisters cleane,
For so Diana curst them in the streame.)
When strong backt Hercules in one poore night
With great, great ease, and wondrous delight
In strength of lust and Venus surquedry
Rob'd fifty wenches of virginity.
Farre more then lusty Laurence. Yet poore soule
He with Acteon drinks of Nemis bole,
When Hercules lewd act, is registred,
And for his fruitfull labour Deified.
And had a place in heauen him assigned
When he the world, vnto the world resigned.
Thus little scapes are deepely punished,
But mighty villanes are for Gods adored.
Ioue brought his sister to a nuptiall bed,
And hath an Hebe, and a Ganemede,
A Leda, and a thousand more beside,
His chast Alcmena, and his sister bride:
89
And by Ixion grosely got with child.
This thunderer, that right vertuously
Thrust forth his father from his empery
Is now the great Monarko of the earth,
Whose awfull nod, whose all commaunding breath
Shakes Europs ground-worke. And his title makes
As dread a noyse, as when a Canon shakes
The subtile ayre. Thus hell-bred villany
Is still rewarded with high dignity.
When Sisyphus that did but once reueale
That this incestious villane had to deale
In Ile Phliunte with Egina faire,
Is damn'd to hell, in endles black dispaire
Euer to reare his tumbling stone vpright
Vpon the steepy mountaines lofty height.
His stone will neuer now get greenish mosse
Since he hath thus encur'd so great a losse
As Ioues high fauour. But it needs must be
whilst Ioue doth rule, and sway the empery
And poore Astrea's fled into an Ile
And liues a poore and banished exile:
And there pen'd vp, sighs in her sad lament,
wearing away in pining languishment.
If that Sylenus Asse doe chaunce to bray,
And so the Satyres lewdnes doth bewray,
Let him for euer be a sacrifice;
Prick, spurre, beate, loade, for euer tyranise
Ouer the foole. But let some Cerberus
Keepe back the wife of sweet tongu'd Orpheus,
Gnato applaudes the Hound. Let that same child
Of Night, and Sleepe, (which hath the world defil'd
with odious railing) barke gainst all the work
Of all the Gods, and find some error lurke
90
Speake in reproch of Natures workmanship,
Let him vpbraid faire Venus if he list
For her short heele. Let him with rage insist
To snarle at Vulcans man, because he was
Not made with windowes of transparant glas
That all might see the passions of his mind.
Let his all-blasting tongue great errors find
In Pallas house, because if next should burne
It could not from the sodaine perill turne.
Let him vpbraide great Ioue with luxury
Condemne the Heauens Queene of ielousie.
Yet this same Stygius Momus must be praysed
And to some Godhead at the least be raised.
But if poore Orpheus sing melodiously,
And striue with musicks sweetest symphonie
To praise the Gods, and vnaduisedly
Doe but ore-slip one drunken Deitie,
Forthwith the bouzing Bacchus out doth send
His furious Bacchides, to be reueng'd.
And straight they teare the sweet Musition,
And leaue him to the dogs deuision.
Hebrus, beare witnes of their crueltie,
For thou did'st view poore Orpheus tragedie.
Thus slight neglects are deepest villanie,
But blasting mouthes deserue a deitie.
Since Gallus slept, when he was set to watch
Least Sol or Vulcan should Mauortius catch
In vsing Venus: since the boy did nap,
Whereby bright Phœbus did great Mars intrap.
Poore Gallus now, (whilom to Mars so deere)
Is turned to a crowing Chaunteclere;
And euer since, fore that the sunne doth shine,
(Least Phœbus should with his all-piercing eyne
91
That all the ayre with Ecchoes he doth fill.
Whilst Mars, though all the Gods doe see his sin,
And know in what lewd vice he liueth in,
Yet is adored still, and magnified,
And with all honors duly worshipped.
Euge! small faults to mountaines straight are raised,
Slight scapes are whipt, but damned deeds are praised.
Fie, fie, I am deceiued all thys while,
A mist of errors doth my sence beguile;
I haue beene long of all my wits bereauen,
Heauen for hell taking, taking hell for heauen;
Vertue for vice, and vice for vertue still,
Sower for sweet, and good for passing ill.
If not? would vice and odious villanie
Be still rewarded with high dignity?
Would damned Iouians, be of all men praised,
And with high honors vnto heauen raised?
A mist of errors doth my sence beguile;
I haue beene long of all my wits bereauen,
Heauen for hell taking, taking hell for heauen;
Vertue for vice, and vice for vertue still,
Sower for sweet, and good for passing ill.
If not? would vice and odious villanie
Be still rewarded with high dignity?
Would damned Iouians, be of all men praised,
And with high honors vnto heauen raised?
Tis so, tis so; Riot, and Luxurie
Are vertuous, meritorious chastitie:
That which I thought to be damn'd hel-borne pride
Is humble modestie, and naught beside;
That which I deemed Bacchus surquedry,
Is graue, and staied, ciuill, Sobrietie.
O then thrice holy age, thrice sacred men!
Mong whom no vice a Satyre can discerne,
Since Lust, is turned into Chastitie,
And Riot, vnto sad Sobrietie.
Nothing but goodnes raigneth in our age,
And vertues all are ioyn'd in marriage.
Heere is no dwelling for Impietie,
No habitation for base Villanie.
Heere are no subjects for Reproofes sharpe vaine,
Then hence rude Satyre, make away amaine;
And seeke a seate where more Impuritie
Doth lye and lurke in still securitie.
Are vertuous, meritorious chastitie:
That which I thought to be damn'd hel-borne pride
Is humble modestie, and naught beside;
That which I deemed Bacchus surquedry,
Is graue, and staied, ciuill, Sobrietie.
O then thrice holy age, thrice sacred men!
Mong whom no vice a Satyre can discerne,
Since Lust, is turned into Chastitie,
And Riot, vnto sad Sobrietie.
Nothing but goodnes raigneth in our age,
And vertues all are ioyn'd in marriage.
Heere is no dwelling for Impietie,
No habitation for base Villanie.
Heere are no subjects for Reproofes sharpe vaine,
Then hence rude Satyre, make away amaine;
92
Doth lye and lurke in still securitie.
Now doth my Satyre stagger in a doubt,
Whether to cease, or els to write it out.
The subiect is too sharp for my dull quill.
Some sonne of Maya show thy riper skill.
For I'le goe turne my tub against the sunne,
And wistly marke how higher Plannets runne,
Contemplating their hidden motion.
Then on some Latmos with Endimion,
I'le slumber out my time in discontent,
And neuer wake to be maleuolent,
A beedle to the worlds impuritie;
But euer sleepe in still securitie.
Whether to cease, or els to write it out.
The subiect is too sharp for my dull quill.
Some sonne of Maya show thy riper skill.
For I'le goe turne my tub against the sunne,
And wistly marke how higher Plannets runne,
Contemplating their hidden motion.
Then on some Latmos with Endimion,
I'le slumber out my time in discontent,
And neuer wake to be maleuolent,
A beedle to the worlds impuritie;
But euer sleepe in still securitie.
If thys displease the world's wrong-iudging sight,
It glads my soule, and in some better spright
I'le write againe. But if that this doe please,
Hence, hence, Satyrick Muse, take endlesse ease.
Hush now yee Band-doggs, barke no more at me,
But let me slide away in secresie.
It glads my soule, and in some better spright
I'le write againe. But if that this doe please,
Hence, hence, Satyrick Muse, take endlesse ease.
Hush now yee Band-doggs, barke no more at me,
But let me slide away in secresie.
FINIS.
| The poems of John Marston | |