University of Virginia Library

His defiance to Enuy.

The Authors Prologue.

1. Booke.

THE FIRST BOOKE.

Satyre 1. Insatiat Cron.

Time was, when down declining toothlesse age,
Was of a holy and diuine presage:
Diuining prudent and foretelling truth,
In sacred points, instructing wandring youth.
But oh detraction of our latter daies,
How much from veritie this age estraies?
Raunging the bryerie desarts of blacke sin,
Seeking a dismall caue to reuell in.
This latter age or member of that time,
Of whom my snarling muse now thūdreth rime
Wandred the brackes vntill a hidden Cell,
He found at length, and still therin doth dwell:
The house of gaine insatiat it is,
Which this hore aged pesant deemes his blis:
Oh that desire might hunt amongst that fur,
It should go hard but he would loose a cur:
To rowse the fox, hid in a bramble bush,
Who frighteth conscience with a wrimouth'd push:
But what need I to wish or would it thus,
When I may find him starting at the burs:
Where he infecteth other pregnant wits,
Making them Coheires to his damned fits.
There may you see this writhen faced masse,
Of rotten mouldring clay, that prating asse:
That riddles wonders meere compact of lies,
Of heauen, of hell, of earth and of the skies:
Of heauen thus he reasons: heauen theres none,
Vnles it be within his mantion.
Oh there is heauen: why? because theres gold,
That from the late to this last age controld,
The massie scepter of Earthes hauenly round,
Exiling forth her siluer paued bound,
The Leaders, brethren, brazen counterfets,
That in this golden age contempt begets:
Vaunt then I mortall I, I onely King,
And golden God of this eternall being.
Of Hell Cyinerian thus Auarus reasons:
Though hell be hot, yet it obserueth seasons:
Hauing within his Kingdome residence,
Ore which his godhead hath preheminence:
An obscure angell of his Heauen it is,
Wherein's containd that Hell deuouring blis:
Into this Hell sometimes an Angell fals,
Whose white aspect black forlorn soules appals,
And that is when a Saint beleeuing gold,
Old in that heauen, yong in being old.
Falls headlong downe into that pit of woe,
Fit for such damned creatures ouerthrow.
To make this publike that obscured lies,
And more apparant vulgar secrecies:
To make this plaine, harsh vnto common wits,
Simplicitie in common iudgement sits.
This down-cast angell, or declining saint,
Is greedy Croone, when Cron makes his compt:
For his poore creditors falne to decay,
Being banke routs, take heeles and run away.
Then franticke Cron, gald to the very hart,
In some by corner playes a diuels part:
Repining at the losse of so much pelfe,
And in a humor goes and hangs himselfe.
So of a saint, a diuell Cron is made,
The diuel lou'd Cron, and Cron the diuels trade.
Thus may you see such angels often fall,
Making a working day a festiuall.
Now to the third point of his deitie,
And that's th' earth, thus reasons credulitie:
Credulous Cron, Cron credulous in all,
Sweares that his kingdome is in generall.
As he is Regent of this Heauen and Hell,
So of the Earth, all others hee'le expell:
The Skies at his dispose, the Earth his owne,
And if Cron please, all must be ouerthrowne.
Cron, Crō, aduise thee Crō with the copper nose,
And be not rulde so much by false suppose:
Least Crons professing holinesse turne euil,
And of a false god, proue a perfect diuil.
I prithee Cron find out some other talke,
Make not the Burse a place for spirits to walke:
For doubtlesse if thy damned lies take place,
Destruction followes, farwell sacred grace.
Th' Exchāge for goodly Merchāts is appointed
Why not for me sayes Cron, & mine annointed?
Can Marchants thriue and not the Vse'r nie?
Can Marchants liue without my companie?
No Cron helps all, and Cron hath help frō none,
What others haue is Crons, & Crons his owne.
And Cron will hold his owne, or't shal go hard,
The diuel will helpe him for a small reward:
The diuels helpe, oh tis a mightie thing,
If he but say the word, Cron is a King.
Oh then the diuel is greater yet then hee,
I thought as much, the diuel would master bee.
And reason too (saith Cron) for what care I,
So I may liue as God, and neuer die.
Yea golden Cron, death will make thee away,
And each dog Cron, must haue a dying day.
And with this resolution I bequeath thee,
To God or to the diuel, and so I leaue thee.

Satyre 2. Prodigall Zodon

Who knowes not Zodon; Zodon, what is he?
The true borne child of insatietie.
If true borne, when? if borne at all, say where?
Where conscience beg'd in worst time of the yeare,
His name yong Prodigall, son to greedy gaine:
Let bloud by folly, in a contrary vaine.
For scraping Cron, seeing he needs must die,
Bequeathed all to prodigallitie.
The will once prou'd, and he possest of all,
Who then so gallant as yong Prodigall?
Mounted aloft on flattering Fortunes wings,
Where like an Nightingale secure he sings:
Floating on Seas of scarce prosperitie,
In girt with pleasures sweete tranquillitie.
Sute vpon sure, satten too too base,
Veluet laid on with gold or siluer lace:
A meane man doth become, but yee must ride
In cloth of fyned gold, and by his side
Two footmen at the least, with choise of steeds,
Attired when she rides in gorgeous weeds.
Zodon must haue his Charrot gilded ore,
And when he triumphes, fowre bare before,
In pure white Satten to vsher out his way,
To make him glorious on his progresse day,
Vaile bonnet he that doth not passing by,
Admiring on that Sunne in riching skie,
Two dayes incag'd at least in strongest hold,
Storme he that list, he scornes to be controld.
What is it lawfull that a mounted begger,
May vncōtrolled thus beare sway and swagger?
A base borne issue of a baser syer:
Bred in a cottage, wandring in the myer,
With nailed shooes, and whipstaffe in his hand,
Who with a hey and ree the beasts command:
And being seuen years practizde in that trade,
At seuen yeares end by Tom a iournyes made,
Vnto the Citie of faire Troynouant,
Where through extremitie of need and want,
Hees forc't to trot with fardle at his backe,
From house to house, demaunding if they lacke
A poore yong man that's willing to take paine,
And mickle labour, though for little gaine.
Well, some kind Troyan thinking he hath grace,
Keepes him himselfe, or gets some other place.
The world now god be thanked's wel amended
Want that erewhile did want, is now befrended.
And scraping Cron hath got a world of welth,
Now what of that, Cron's dead, wher's al his pelf?
Bequeathed to yong prodigall: That's well,
His God hath left him, and he's fled to hell:
See goulden soules, the end of ill got gaine,
Reade and marke well, to do the like refraine.
This youthful gallant like the prince of pleasure,
Floting on golden seas of earthly treasure:
Treasure ill got by ministring of wrong,
Made a faire show, but endured not long.
Ill got, worse spent, gotten by deceit:
Spent on lasciuions wantons which await,
And hourely expect such prodigallitie,
Lust breathing leachers giuen to venerie.
No day expired but Zodon hath his trull,
He hath his tyt, and she likewise her gull.
Gull he, Trull she, oh tis a gallant age,
Men may haue hacknyes of good carriage:
Prouided that their rayne a golden shower,
Then come whose will, at th' appointed hower.
Hower me no howers, howers breake no square,
Where gold doth raine, be sure to find thē there.
Well: Zodon hath his pleasure, he hath gold,
Young in his golden age, in sin too old:
Now he wants gold, all his treasures done,
Hees banished the Stewes, pittie findes none,
Rich yesterday in wealth, this day as poore,
To morrow like to beg from doore to doore.
See youthfull spendthrifts all your brauery,
Euen in a moment turnd to misery.

Satyre 3. Insolent Superbia.

List ye profane faire painted images,
Predestinated by the destenies,
At your first being to fall eternallie
Into Cymerian black obscuritie.
Il fauoured Idols, Pride anatomie,
Foule coloured puppets, balls of infamie:
Whome zealous soules do racket too and fro,
Sometimes aloft ye flye, otherwhiles below:
Banded into the ayres loose continent:
Where hard vpbearing winds hold parlament.
For such is the force of downe declining sin,
Where our short feathered peacocks wallow in.
That when sweete motions vrge them to aspire,
They are so bathed ore by sweete desire
In the odiferous fountaine of sweete pleasure,
Wherein delight hath all embalmd her treasure.
I meane where Sin the mistris of disgrace,
Hath residence, and her abiding place.
And sin though it be foule, yet faire in this,
In being painted with a show of blis.
For what more happie creature to the eie,
Then is Superbia in her brauerie?
Yet who more foule disrobed of attire?
Perld with the botch as children burnt with fire,
That for their outward cloake vpon the skin,
Worser enormities abound within.
Looke they to that, truth tels them there amis,
And in this glasse, all telling truth it is.
Whē welcome Spring had clad the hils in green,
And pretty whistling birds were heard and seen,
Superbia abrode gan take her walke:
With other peacocks for to finde her talke.
Kyron that in a bush lay closely couched,
Heard all their chat, and how it was auouched:
Sister sayes one, and softly packt away,
In what faire company did you dine to day?
Mongst gallāt dames, & then she wipes her lips,
Placing both hands vpon her whalebone hips,
Puft vp with a round circling farthingale,
That done: she gins go forward with her tale:
Sitting at table caru'd of walnut tree,
All couered with damaskt naperie,
Garnisht with saults of pure beaten gould,
Whose siluer plated edge of rarest mould,
Mou'd admiration in my searching eie,
To see the goldsmiths ritch artificie.
The Butlers placing of his manchets white,
The plated cupbord for our more delight.
Whose goulden bewty glauncing from on hie,
Illuminated other chambers nie.
The slowly pacing of the seruing men,
Which were appointed to attend vs then,
Holding in either hand a siluer dish,
Of costly cates of farfetcht daintie fish,
Vntill they do approch the table nye,
Where the appointed caruer carefully
Dischargeth them of their full freighted hands,
Which instantly vpon the table stands.
The musick sweet which al that while did sound,
Rauish the hearers, and their sence confound.
This done, the master of that sumptuous feast,
In order gins to place his welcome gest.
Bewtie first seated in a throne of state,
Vnmatchable disdaining other mate
Shone like the sun, wheron mine eies stil gazed,
Feeding on her perfections that amazed:
But oh, her siluer framed Coronet
With low downe dangling spangles all beset,
Her sumptuous perewig, her curious curles,
Her hie prizde necklace of entrailed perles:
Her pretious Iewels wondrous to behold,
Her basest Iem framde of the purest gold.
Oh I could kill my selfe for very spight,
That my dim stars giue not so cleere a light.
Hartburning ire new kindled, bids dispaire,
Since Bewtie liues in her, and I want faire.
Oh had I dyde in youth, or not bin borne,
Rather then liue in hate, and dye forlorne.
And dye I will, therewith she drew a knife
To kill her selfe, but Kyron sau'd her life.
See heere proud puppets hie aspiring euils,
Scarse any good, most of you worse then diuels.
Excellent in ill, ill in aduising well,
Wel in thats worst, worse then the worst in hell.
Hell is starke blind, so blind most women bee:
Blinde & yet not blind whē they should not see.
Fine Madam Tiptoes in her veluet gowne,
That quotes her paces in Characters downe:
Valuing each step that she had made that day,
Worth twenty shillings in her best aray.
And why forsooth some little durty spot
Hath fell vpon her gowne or petticote.
Perhaps that nothing much, or something little,
Nothing in manies view, in hers a mickle:
Doth thereon surfet, and some day or two
Shees passing sick, and knowes not what to do.
The poore handmaid seeing her mistres wed
To frantick sicknes, wishes she were dead:
Or that her diuellish tyranizing fits
May mend, and she enioy her former wits.
For whilst that Helth thus counterfets not well,
Poore here at hand, liues in the depth of hell.
Wher is this baggadge, wher's this girle, what ho
(Quoth she) was euer woman troubled so?
What huswife Nan, and then she gins to brall,
Then in comes Nan, sooth mistris did you call?
Out on thee queane, now by the liuing God,
And then she strikes & on the wench layes load.
Poore silly maide with finger in the eye,
Sighing and sobbing takes all patiently.
Nimble Affection stung to the very hart,
To see her fellow mate susteine such smart,
Flies to the Burse gate for a match or two,
And salues th' amis, there is no more to do.
Quickfooted kindnes, quick as it selfe thought
With that wel pleasing newes but lately bought
By loues assiduat care and industry,
Into the Chamber runs immediatly.
Where she vnlades the fraight of sweet content,
The hagler pleasd doth rise incontinent.
Then thought of sicknes is not thought vpon,
Care hath no being in her mantion.
But former peacock pride, grand insolence,
Euen in the highest thought hath residence.
But it on tiptoe stands, well: what of that?
It is more prompt to fall and ruinate:
And fall it will whē deaths shrill clamorous bell
Shall summon you vnto the depth of hell:
Repent proude Princocks, cease for to aspire,
Or dye to liue, with Pride in burning fire.

Satyre 4. Cheating Droone.

There is a Cheater by profession,
That takes more shapes then the Camelion.
Sometimes he iets it in a black furd gowne,
And that is, when he harbours in the towne.
Sometimes a cloake to mantle hoary age,
Ilfauoured like an ape in spightfull rage:
And then he walks in Paules a turne or two,
To see by Cheating what his wit can do.
Perhaps heele tell a Gentleman a tale,
Will cost him twenty angels in the sale:
But if he know his purse well linde within,
And by that meanes he cannot finger him,
He'le proffer him such far fet curtesie,
That shortly in a Tauerne neighbring by,
He hath encag'd the silly Gentleman,
To whom he proffers seruice all he can.
Sir, I perceiue you are of gentle bloud,
Therefore I will, our Cates be new and good:
For well I wot, the Country yeeldeth plenty,
And as they diuers be, so are they dainty.
May it please you then a while to rest you merry,
Some Cates I will make choise of and not tarry.
The silly Cunny blith and merrily,
Doth for his kindnes thanke him hartily.
Then hies the Cheater very hastily,
And with some Pesant where he is in fee
Iugles, that dinner being almost ended,
He in a matter of weight may then be frended.
The Pesant for an angell then in hand,
Will do what ere his worship shall command:
And yeelds, that when a reckoning they call in,
To make reply ther's one to speake with him.
The plot is laid, now comes the Cheater back,
And calls in hast for such things as they lack.
The rable fraighted with all dainty cates,
Hauing well fed, they fall to pleasant chates:
Discoursing of the mickle difference,
Twixt perfit truth and painted eloquence.
Plaine troth that harbours in the country swain
The Cunny stands defendant, the Cheaters vain
Is to vphold an eloquent smooth toong
To be truths Orator righting euery wrong:
Before the cause concluded tooke effect,
In comes a crew of fidling knaues abiect,
The very refuse of that rabble rout,
Halfe shooes vpon their feet torne round about,
Saue little Dicke the dapper singing knaue,
He had a threadbare coate to make him braue:
God knowes scarce worth a tester, if it were
Vallewed at most, of seuen it was too deere.
Well take it as they list, shakerag came in,
Making no doubt but they would like of him:
And twere but for his person a pretty lad
Well quallified, hauing a singing trade.
Well so it was the Cheater must be merry,
And he a song must haue, cald hey down derry.
So Dick begins to sing, the fidler play,
The melancholly Cunny replies, nay, nay:
No more of this: the tother bids play on,
Tis good our spirits shuld something work vpō.
Tut gentle sir, be pleasant man (quoth he)
Yours be the pleasure, mine the charge shall be.
This do I for the loue of gentlemen,
Hereafter happily if we meete agen,
I shall of you expect like curtesie,
Finding fit time and opportunitie:
Or else I were vngratefull quoth the cunny,
It shall go hard, but we wil find some mony.
For some we haue, that some wel vsd gets more,
And so in time we shall increase our store.
Meane time said he, imploy it to good vse,
For time ill spent, doth purchase times abuse.
With that more wine he calls for and intends
That either of them carouse to all their frends.
The cunny nods the head, yet sayes not nay,
Because the other would the charge defray:
The end tryes all, and here begins the iest,
My gentleman betooke him to his rest.
Wine tooke possessiō of his drowsie head,
And Cheating Droone hath brought the foole to bed.
The fidlers were dischargd, and al things whist,
Then pilfring Droone gan vse him as he list.
Ten pound he finds, the reckoning he doth pay:
And with the residue passeth sheere away.
Anon the Conny wakes, his coyne being gon,
He exclaymes against dissimulation.
But twas too late, the Cheater had his pray,
Be wise young heads, care for an afterday.

Satyre 5. Ingling Pyander.

Age hath his infant youth, old trees their sprigs,
Orespreading brāches their inferior twigs:
Old beldam hath a daughter or a sonne
True borne, or illegitimate alls one:
Issue she hath: the father? aske you mee?
The house wide open stands, her lodgings free.
Admit my selfe for recreation
Sometimes did enter her possession,
It argues not that I haue bin the man,
That first kept reuels in that mantian,
No no, the hagling common place is old,
The Tenement hath oft bin bought and sold:
Tis rotten now, earth to earth, dust to dust,
Sodoms on fire, and consume it must:
And wanting second reparations,
Pluto hath ceasd the poore reuertions.
But that hereafter worlds may truly know,
What hemlocks & what rue there erst did grow:
As it is Sathans vsuall pollicie,
He left an issue of like quallitie:
The still memoriall if I aime aright,
Is a pale Chequered black Hermophrodite.
Sometimes he iets it like a Gentleman,
Otherwhiles much like a wanton Curtesan:
But truth to tell a man or woman whether,
I cannot say shees excellent in ether.
But if Report may certifie a truth,
Shees nether of ether, but a Cheating youth.
Yet Troynouant that all admired towne,
Where thousands still do trauell vp and downe,
Of Bewties counterfets affoords not one,
So like a louely smiling parragon,
As Is Pyander in a Nymphes attire,
Whose rowling eye sets gazers harts on fire:
Whose cherry lip, black brow & smiles procure
Lust burning buzzards to the tempting lure.
What shall I cloake sin with a coward feare,
And suffer not Pyanders sin appeare?
I will I will: your reason? why, Ile tell,
Because time was, I loued Pyander well:
True loue in deed, wil hate loues black defame,
So loathes my soule to seeke Pyanders shame.
Oh but I feele the worme of conscience sting,
And summons me vpon my soule to bring
Sinfull Pyander into open viewe,
There to receiue the shame that will ensue.
Oh this sad passion of my heauie soule,
Torments my heart, and sences do controule:
Shame thou Pyander, for I can but shame,
The meanes of my amisse, by thy means came:
And shall I then procure eternall blame,
By secret cloaking of Pyanders shame,
And he not blush?
By heauen I will not, Ile not burne in hell,
For false Pyander though I lou'd him well:
No no, the world shall know thy villany,
Least they be cheated with like rogery:
Walking the Cittie as my wonted vse,
There was I subiect to this foule abuse,
Troubled with many thoughts pacing along,
It was my chance to shoulder in a throng,
Thrust to the Channel I was, but crowding her,
I spide Piander in a Nymphes attire:
No Nymph more faire, then did Pyander seeme,
Had not Pyander, then Pyander beene:
No Lady with a fairer face more graced,
But that Pyanders selfe, himselfe defaced
Neuer was boy so pleasing to the hart,
As was Pyander for a womans part:
Neuer did woman foster such an other,
As was Pyander, but Pyanders mother:
Foole that I was in my affection,
More happie I, had it bene a vision.
So far intangled was my soule by loue,
That force perforce, I must Pyander proue:
The issue of which proofe did testifie,
Ingling Pyanders damned villanie:
I loued indeed, and to my mickle cost,
I loued Pyander, so my labour lost.
Faire words I had for store of coyne I gaue,
But not enioyde the fruite I thought to haue.
Oh so I was besotted with her words,
His words that no part of a she affords:
For had he bene a she iniurious boy,
I had not bene so subiect to annoy.
A plague vpon such filthy gullery,
The world was nere so drunke with mockery:
Rash headed Caualeires learne to be wise,
And if you needs will do, do with aduise,
Tye not affection to each wanton smile,
Least doting Fancie truest loue beguile:
Trust not a painted puppet as I haue done,
Who far more doted then Pigmalion:
The streetes are full of iugling parasites,
With the true shape of Virgins counterfets:
But if of force you must a hackney hire,
Be curious in your choise, the best will tire:
The best is bad, therefore hire none at all,
Better to go on foot, then ride and fall.

Satyre 6. Wise Innocent.

Why for an Innocent ho: what a pure foole?
Not so (pure asse) asse, wher wēt you to schoole?
With Innocents, that makes the foole to prate:
Foole will you any? yes the foole shall hate.
Wisedome what shal he haue? the foole at least:
Prouinder for the Asse ho: stalk vp the beast,
What shall we haue a railing Innocent?
No gentle gull, a wise mans president.
Then forward wisedome, not without I list,
Twentie to one, foole's some Satirist,
Stil doth the foole haunt me, fond foole be gon,
No I will stay, the foole to gaze vpon.
Well foole stay still, stil shall the foole stay? no:
Then pack simplicitie, good Innocent, why so?
Nor go nor stay, what will the foole do then?
Vexe him that seemes to vexe all other men.
It is impossible, streames ye are bard their course,
Swel with more rage, & far more greater force:
Vntill there full stuft gorge a passage makes
Into the wide mawes of more scopious lakes:
Spight me: not spight it selfe can discontent,
My steeled thoughts, or breed disparagement:
Had pale fac't coward feare bene resident
Within the bosome of me Innocent:
I would haue housde me from the eyes of ire,
Whose bitter spleen vomits forth flames of fire
A resolute Asse, oh for a spurring Rider,
A brace of Angels: what is the foole a briber?
Is not the Asse yet wearie of his load?
What with once bearing of the foole abroad?
Mount againe Foole: then the Asse will tire
And leaue the Foole to wallow in the mire.
Dost thou think otherwise? good Asse thē be gō
I stay but till the Innocent get on.
What wilt thou needs of the foole bereaue mee?
Then pack good foolish Asse, & so I leaue thee.

Epilouge to the last Satyre of the first booke.

Thus may we see by folly of the wise,
Stumble and fall into fooles paradise:
For iocand wit of force must iangling bee,
Wit must haue his will and so had hee.
Wit must haue his will, yet parting of the fray,
Wit was enioynd to carrie the foole away.