Follies Anatomie or Satyres and Satyricall Epigrams. With a compendious History of Ixion's Wheele. Compiled by Henry Hutton |
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| SATYRES. |
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 | Follies Anatomie |  |
SATYRES.
[I vrge no time, with whipt, stript Satyrs Lines]
I vrge no time, with whipt, stript Satyrs Lines,With furies scourge whipping depraued times.
My muse (tho fraught) with such shall not begin
T'vncase, vnlace, the centinell of sin:
Yet let earths vassailes, pack-horse vnto shame,
Know I could lash their lewdnesse, euill fame;
Reade them a Lecture, should their vice imprint
With sable lines, in the obdured flint;
Their Mappes of knauery and shame descry,
In liuely colours, with a sanguine die;
And tell a tale, should touch them to the quick;
Shold make them startle; fain thēselues cap-sick;
But, that no Patron dare, or will maintaine
The awfull subiect of a Satyre's vaine.
[What haue we here? a mirror of this age]
What haue we here? a mirror of this age,Acting a Comicks part vpon the stage.
What Gallant's this? His nature doth vnfold
Him, to be framed in Phantastes mold.
Lo how he iets; how sterne he shewes his face,
Whiles from the wall he passengers doth chase.
Ne with sharpe censure gainst his vice inuey:
For, sith his humor can no iesting brooke,
He will much lesse endure a Satyre's booke.
Beshrew me, sirs, I durst not stretch the streete,
Gaze thus on conduits scrowls, base vintners beat
Salute a Mad-dame with a french cringe grace,
Greete with God-dam-me, a confronting face,
Court a rich widow, or my bonnet vaile,
Conuerse with Bankrupt Mercers in the Gaile,
Nor in a Metro shew my Cupide's fire,
Being a french-poxt Ladies apple-squire;
Lest taxing times (such folly being spide)
With austere Satyres should my vice deride.
Nere breath, I durst not vse my Mistrisse Fan,
Or walke attended with a Hackney-man,
Dine with Duke Humfrey in decayed Paules,
Confound the streetes with Chaos of old braules,
Dancing attendance on the Black-friers stage,
Call for a stoole with a commanding rage,
Nor in the night time ope my Ladies latch,
Lest I were snared by th' all-seeing Watch:
Which Critick knaues, with Lynxes pearcing eye,
Into mens acts obseruantly do prye.
[Mvse, shew the rigour of a Satyres art]
Mvse, shew the rigour of a Satyres art,In harsh Sarcasmes, dissonant and smart.
Which, Polipe-like, doth enterchange his mind.
Note how this Timist, scratching of his pate,
Inuents a fable to aduance his state,
Venting a Legend of Man, Diuells lies,
VVhich in the eares of potentates must flie.
See how he squares it, takes a priuate stand,
To Gnathonize, to act it with his hand.
Behold his gesture, and his brazen face,
How stoutely he doth manage his disgrace.
Lo how he whispers in his Masters eare;
In's Closet tattles lest the seruants heare;
Winkes of an eye, and laughs his Lord to scorne,
By his attractiue fingers making hornes.
His swimming braine, thus being brought to bed,
As motiues to his wit, he rubs his head:
Then like a ledger at the Tables end,
Takes place for an inuited friend;
Applauding in discourse his Masters speech,
Admiring's vertu, ore the pot doth preach:
Inueies 'gainst ding-thrifts, that their lands haue spent
Detesting Ryot more then thin cheekt Lent:
Censures base whoredome, with a Mustard face.
VVith a sowre pis-pot visage, doth disgrace
A Ruffled Boote, and will in no case stand,
In view of a (sir reuerence) yellow band.
He rayles on Musick, pride, and wines excesse,
And from an Organ-pipe himselfe doth blesse,
And sayes Tobaccho is the Diuells smoake;
The thought of To. his intrailes more doth gripe,
Then Physicks art, or a strong Glister-pipe.
Go tell this slaue, his vices shall not passe,
Such craftie colts, must feele the Satyres lash.
The Lyons skinne a while may shade the Ape:
But yet his worship shall not scot-free scape.
Though he seeme nice, demeane himself demure,
The world perceiues, this Sycophants impure.
His Harpies face, dissembling Syrens voyce,
VVhich in each corner make a whistling noyce,
Cannot be sconced with each male pretence,
Nor blind the world with som misconstru'd sense
We know his thoght concurs not with his word
His mouth speaks peace, his hart intends a sword
None can discerne whence Titan fram'd this mold
VVhich, Gnato like, doth blowe both hot & cold
O subtle Tyrant, whose corroding hate,
Depriues both life, and consummates the state
Of senselesse Noddies, who repose in rest,
Foster hot embers, Serpents in their brest,
Which sparkling flames, t'accomplish vain desire
Makes fooles, their subiects, fuell to the fire;
And like the Viper, fraught with spleenefull maw
The Intralls of their Patrons states doe gnaw.
[Next, lets suruey the Letchers obscœne shame]
Next, lets suruey the Letchers obscœne shame,Rouze him from 's squat, pursuing of the game,
Depriue this wel mouth'd dog of his intēt,
Tracing each footestep, by his fresh made sent,
And pinch him with a scandald soule, impure,
Note him with Theta, for ay to endure.
Wil't please you view this monster in his glasse?
It best discouers a Phantastick Asse.
See how, Narcissus like, the foole doth doate,
Viewing his picture, and his guarded coate;
And with what grace, bold actor like he speakes,
Hauing his beard precisely cut ith' peake;
How neat 's Mouchatoes do a distance stand,
Lest they disturbe his lips, or saffron band:
How expert he 's; with what attentiue care,
Doth he in method place each stragling haire.
This idle I doll, doth bestow his wit,
In being spruce; in making 's ruffe to sit:
His daies endeauours are to be compleate,
To vse his vestures nitid and facete:
For vulgar oathes, he raps forth blood and heart,
As coadiutors in the wenching art:
In 's frizled Periwig, with bended brow,
Sweares at each word: for, to confirm his vow,
He holds an oath 's the ornamentall grace
Of veniall discourse, befitting 's place;
And doth maintaine, in 's humor, To be drunk,
Is the preparatiue to loue a punke;
Vsing Potatoes to preserue the Raines.
Pale horned Luna, sister to darke Night,
In Uenus sport he vseth for a light;
Thinking Earth 's sable mantle hides his shame,
Depriues the terror of swift winged Fame.
VVhen darknesse doth eclipse Don Phœbus raies,
VVhen nights vast terror hath expelld the daies,
Then doth this subiect pase it to Pickt-hatch,
Shore-ditch, or Turneball, in despite oth' Watch,
And there reposing on his Mistrisse lap,
Beg some fond fauour, be 't a golden cap:
Plaied with her plume of feathers or her Fan,
VVishing he were accepted for her man;
And then at large in ample tearmes doth showe
His Cupids dart, and much endured woe,
Desiring cure to salue his languisht care,
T' expell the willow-garland of despaire:
And that he may obtaine his lust, compares
Her eyes to starres, to Amber her pounc't hayres:
Equalls her hand to Cignets purest white,
VVhich in Mæanders streames do take delight:
Her sanguine blush, and ruby painted mold,
Vnto Aurora's red, rich Indies gold.
Hauing earth 's weaker vassaile ouercome,
He bribes a Pandar with some trifling sum;
Doth frolike with the Musick in this vaine,
Hearing the Diapason of their straine.
And with his Curtail some odde Galliard dance;
Then glutted with his lust make quick dispatch,
Pretending hee's in danger of the Watch:
So taking Vale, till some other night,
Must be conducted by a Tapers light,
Along the streete to his polluted Cell,
Where this vile letcher doth inhabit, dwell.
He thinkes the secret quietnesse of night,
Which with phantasmes doth possesse each sprite,
Is a safe shelter to conceale his fact,
Hauing no witnesse to record his act.
O stupid foole! the Heauens al-seeing eye,
Beholds thy base frequented infamy;
And will repay thee treble, with a pox,
For the night-hanting of base Shoreditch smocks
[All haile Tom Tospot: welcome to the Coast.]
All haile Tom Tospot: welcome to the Coast.What Paris news canst brag of, or make bost?
Thy phisnomie bewraies thou canst relate
Some strange exploits attempted in the State.
I know th'hast courted Venus lusting dames,
'Twas thy intēt whē thou tookst ship on Thames.
Let's sympathize thy hap, enioy some sport.
What art thou sencelesse, dead-drunk, alla mort?
Gallants, this abiect obiect which you see,
Is an old picture of Gentilitie.
To see Christs crosse, the tree where Iudas hangd.
Diuelin and Amsterdam his sea crab pase,
With other countries moe, did often trace.
Earth's circled orbe, he frequent trudged, went,
With lesse expences then Tom Odcombe spent:
With fewer cloaths, thogh furnisht with mo shifts
With sparing diet, fewe receiued gifts.
Tom had one payre of stockins, shooes, one suite;
But Tospots case Tom Coxcombs doth confute.
For he has trauell'd all Earths globe a foote,
Without whole cloathes, good stockin, shooe or boote.
His ragged iournall, I bemone, condole;
Yet (God be thankt) he is return'd all-hole.
Tom had assistants, as his bookes report:
But Tospot trauell'd voide of all consort;
Hauing no creature with him whiles he slept,
Or walkt; but such as in his bosome crept.
Tospot detests all cloaths, hates new found forme,
Vnlesse it were no cloaths at all were worne.
Which Method (I dare say) he would obserue,
Goe naked with his com-ragges, beg, and sterue.
He is no boasting Thraso which will vant
Of his aduentures, penurie, and scant.
Yet if you please to reade my slender Muse,
I shall describe the humor he doth vse.
Tobaccho, Bottle ale, hot Pippin-pies:
Such traffique, merchandize, he daily buies.
With double iugges doth his Orexis glut,
Sweares a God-dam-me for the tapsters shottes,
And may pledge no health lesse then with 2. pots.
He has a Sword to pawne in time of neede,
A perfect beggers phrase wherewith to pleade
For maintenance, when his exhausted store
Is profuse lauisht on some pockie whore.
Tibornes triangle trees will be the thing,
Must send this knaue to Heauens in a string.
[Mounsier Brauado, are you come t'out face]
Mounsier Brauado, are you come t'out face,With your Mouchatoes, gallants of such place?
Pack hence, it is an humor to contend,
In a brauado, with your neerest friend.
Wee'l not contest or squabble for a wall,
Nor yet point field, though you vs vassailes call.
Inuent some other subiect to employ
Your gilded blade, your nimble footed boy.
Correct your frizled locks, and in your glasse
Behold the picture of a foolish Asse.
Barter your lowsie sutes for present gaine,
Vnto a Broker in rich Birchin lane.
Compile a sonnet of your Mistrisse gloue.
Copy some Odes t'expresse conceited loue.
Ride with your sweet-heart in a hackney coach.
Pick quarrells for her sake, set fraies on broach.
Vnder your Ladies window in the night.
Stretch with a plume, & cloak wrapt vnder th'arm
Yong Gallants glories soone will Ladies charm
S'foot walke the streets, in cringing vse your wit
Suruey your Loue, which in her window sits.
Black-Friers, or the Palace-garden Beare,
Are subiects fittest to content your eare.
An amorous discourse, a Poets wit,
Doth humor best your melancholy fit.
The Globe to morrow acts a pleasant play,
In hearing it consume the irkesome day.
Goe take a pipe of To. the crowded stage
Must needs be graced with you and your page.
Sweare for a place with each controlling foole,
And send your hackney seruant for a stoole.
Or if your Mistrisse frowne, seeme malecontent
Then let your Muse be cloistred vp, ypent.
Be loue sicke, and harsh Madrigalls expresse,
That she may visit you in such distresse.
I'me sure you haue some pamphlet, idle toy,
Which you rate high, esteeme a matchlesse ioy.
Where's your Tobacco box, your steele & touch
Roarers respect, and value these too much.
Where is your larum watch your Turkies Rings
Muske-comfits, bracelets, & such idle things?
Y'are nak't as Adam if you haue not these,
And your endeauours cannot Ladies please.
Goe vse th'Apothecarie for perfume,
Weare eare-rings, iewels, cordiuants strong sent,
Which comely ornaments dame Nature lent.
Fy, fy: you are to blame, which times misspend,
That for a trifling cost will lose a friend.
Do not contend in each frequented Lane,
With euere idle coxcombe, busie braine:
But your Mineruaes industry employ,
Your Ladies golden tresses to enioy.
Record your name in some rich Mercers note,
That tradesmen may come pull you by the coate.
And in th'abysse of Vintners chalked score,
Shipwrack good fortune, run thy state on shoare.
Diue in Mechanicks books, till in the streete
Seargeants arrest, conuey thee to the Fleete,
And there in durance cag'd, consume with woe,
Beg with a purse, and sing Fortune's my foe.
[Write, Poetaster: fy for shame, your dayes]
Write, Poetaster: fy for shame, your dayesWil dy without remembrancers of praise.
Tis pitty, such a pregnant witty verse
Should be intombed in the fatall herse.
Confine your Muse some tractates to compile,
In scanned Metre, or condigner stile;
That Earth's milde censure may applauding blaze
Your Phœnix quill, with volleys of great prayse.
Vnlesse you wright, all Fortunes shall be crost.
What canst thy stile prohibit? gazing mute,
Where Earth 's contending for the golden fruite
You vilisie your selfe with endlesse shame,
Imposing scandall to each Poets name.
I grieue he should be silent, in despite
Of all the Muses, which Sarcasmies write.
He doth resemble Minstrells in each thing;
Inuited once, hee'l neyther play, nor sing;
Vnbidden, will inuey against each friend,
Incessant write great volumes without end.
The amorist which doth your wardrobe keepe,
Admires your sluggish Muse is yet asleepe.
He should a riming Madrigall compose;
And wanting you, must tell his griefs in prose.
The wenches they exclayme, cry out, and call
For Poetasters workes extemporall.
The alehouse tippler, he protests, your Muse
Greatly dishonours him, with grosse abuse,
Infringing promise: which you lately made,
Concerning Libells, that should touch the trade
He gaue you earnest after you were wooed,
A dozen of strong liquor he bestowed,
To bathe your Muse, to make your fluent vain,
Apt to despise a Satyres taxing braine.
The idle Minstrell, he cries out of wrong,
Because you doe his sonnets still prolong.
Depriues him of the townships armes, red coate.
Such wrongs may not passe free: inuent a theam,
Rouze vp your Muse from her conceited dreame.
Giue him a cup of Ale, a pipe of To:
And let him to his priuate study go.
Hee'l breake a iest, when he has drunke a glasse,
Which shal for currant mongst the tapsters passe,
And rime to any word you can propound,
Although a Metre for it, nere were found,
Wright Panegyricks in the praise of's friend,
Make compleat verses, on his fingers end.
He has a subiect he did late inuent,
Will shame the riming sculler, Iack a Lent.
'Tis writ in print; perhaps you'l see't anon,
'Twas made of Robin Hood and little Iohn.
'Twil be discouerd er 't be long; and ly
Vnder the bottome of a pippin-py,
Be pind to Capons backs to shroude the heate,
Fixt to some solid ioynt of Table meate.
Wish it be put to no worse seruice, then
To shelter the scorcht Caponet or Hen.
I pray 't may haue such office, worthy place,
Yet feares 'tmust suffer vile rebuke, disgrace.
Iack out of office wee 't ere long shall finde
'lth house of office, being mew'd, confinde.
Well though it be, yet for the Muses sakes,
Hee'l pen a pithie tractate of A-iax.
Twill serue but for A-iax and come behinde:
For men adiudge the volumes of this foole,
Worthie no chayre, scarce to deserue the stoole.
Let cease the clamor of thy hotchpot verse,
The stupid pots, or sencelesse streetes to pearce.
The doggrell discord of thy long leg'd rime,
Defameth Poets, scandalize the time.
Your mock-verse Muse deserueth nought but fire
The beggers whipstock, or the Gallowes hire.
In silence spend the reliques of your dayes:
For being mute you will attaine most prayse.
Auoide each Satyres lash, censures of times,
Which doe deriding read pot-Poets rimes.
[The crane-throate hell, of this depraued age]
The crane-throate hell, of this depraued age,Earths belly-god, let's view vpon the stage.
See how the squadron of his full fraught panch
Out-squares the straightnes of his narrow hanch;
Making his stumppes supporters to vpholde
This masse of guttes, this putrefied molde.
His belly is a Cesterne of receit,
A grand confounder of demulcing meate.
A Sabariticke Sea, a depthlesse Gulfe,
A sencelesse Vulture, a corroding Wolfe.
Behold this Helluo, how he doth glut,
Fill (like a wallet) his immeasurde gut,
Like a stuft bladder, hates bigge swelling Toade;
And rammes his panch, that bottomlesse abysse,
As if to glut were legall, promis'd blisse.
All's fish that comes to net, this Harpy's tooth
Eates what's within the compasse of his mouth.
His table-talke hates hunger, more then vice,
Railes against fortune, cheating, cards, and dice,
Enuies 'gainst actors, taxing such as fight,
Or in Tobacco doe repose delight,
And thousand subiects mo exactly scannes,
Rayling on cloakebagge breeches, yellow bands;
Wishing the fencing-schooles might be supprest,
And all saue belly-timber doth detest.
This large discourse his gluttony doth cloake,
Are motiues his Orexis to prouoke.
Which being fraught, till sences are a mort,
At no one tide to concoct he takes a snort.
His drowsie sences hudwinkt in a cap,
Leaning vpon his chaire do take a nap.
Conferre his belly with his lower part,
And you'l adiudge dame Natures rarest art
Made not this bulke, infusing life, or blood,
In such vnsquared timber, vnheawn wood.
He's more mishapen then Crete's monstrous sin,
Deformed both without, and eke within.
His circled panch, is barrell like rotound,
Like earths vast concaues hollow, and profound.
With the straight compasse of a Par a-dox,
He doth into so little compasse bring,
As if they should be drawne through Gyges ring,
So that he seemes as if black Vulcans art,
Of diuerse fossiles had compil'd each part;
As if some taylor had bound on with points,
Nero's great belly, to staru'd Midas ioynts.
I could discipher this huge map of shame,
And liuely pourtrait his abhorred name,
Wer't not that Criticks would debase, reuile,
Censure the sharpenesse of a Satyres stile!
'Tis shame, such vipers, all deuouring Hell,
Should be indured in our Coasts to dwell.
We can frame nothing of such naughtie Earth,
Except a storehouse in the time of dearth;
Or beg this Minotaure, when he doth die,
T' make dice of's bones or an Anatomie.
Ile therefore leaue him in his pan-warm'd bed,
Resting on's pillow his distempr'd head.
Wer't not for censures, I should make him prance
Skip at the Satyr's lash, leade him a dance,
Vnrip his bowels, and Anatomize
His filthy intrailes, which he doth much prize.
But taxing times such proiects doe confute,
Silence sterne Satyres, warnes them to be mute.
The golden dayes are chang'd, when Foxes sins
Passe scot free, marching in the Lyons skins;
Without controule, of contradicting might.
[My treatise next must touch (thogh somwhat late)]
My treatise next must touch (thogh somwhat late)A woman creature most insatiate.
See this incarnate monster of her sex,
Play the virago, vnashamde, perplext.
See Omphale her effeminated king,
Basely captiue; make him doe any thing.
Her whole discourse is of Guy Warwicks armes,
Of errant Knights, or of blinde Cupids charmes.
Her ciuill gesture, is to faigne a lie
In decent phrase, in true Ortographie.
Her modest blush, immodest shame, O fy,
'Tis grand disgrace to blush, indignity.
She counts him hut a Nazard, halfe a-mort,
That will not iumble, vse dame Venus sport.
To kisse, to cull, t'admire her painted face
And doe no more; ignoble, vile disgrace.
She likes his humor which plaies for the marke,
Affects the man that's expert in the darke.
With costly vnguents she depaints her browes,
Calls them the palace of chast Hymens vowes.
And yet this statue for her honor'd trade,
With eu'ry vassaile will be vnderlaide.
Her sole delight is fixed in a fan,
Or to walke vsherd by a proper man.
Of this vile dame with Oratories Art;
Making each limb an Oratour, defence,
To maske her scandall with some good pretence,
Doe but conferre and note her priuate speech,
Her diuine frame, will passe your humane reach.
Shee'l complement, pathetically act
A tragick story, or a fatall fact.
Liuely discouer Cupid and his bowe,
Manage his sauage quiuer in her brow,
Court so compleately, rarely tune a song,
Thas she will seeme a Dido for a tongue;
And by the vertue of all-conquering sight,
Infuse euen life in him, that has no sprite.
Her golden phrase will rauish so your eares
With amorous discourse, pale louers teares,
That you would iudge her rarest parts diuine,
Deeme her a virgin of chast Vestaes shrine.
Yet this proud Iezabell, so nice, demure,
Is but a painted Sepulchre impure.
Shee seemes a Saint (in conference being hard)
Yet is more spotted then the Leopard.
Though she bestow her vigilancie, care,
In coyning phrases, pouncing of her hayre:
Yet are her Legends, golden masse of wit,
But like Apocrypha, no sacred writ.
All's not authenticall the which she pleades,
Or wholsome doctrine, that she daily reades.
Y'haue spoke Satyricall, I doubt, too much.
Ile rather pitty, then enuy, inuay,
Their Kalender of wretch'nesse to display,
Shutting my Muse in silence, least she strip
This Saint-like creature with a Satyres whip.
I blush, my quill with so immodest face
Abruptly pointed at her great disgrace,
Loathing the subiect of a Satyres stile,
Discernes desert, which should this sect defile.
Pardon my Muse (kinde sirs) she whips not all
Whom we in specie do women call.
'Tis Corinths Lais, Romes confronting whore,
Which like the Hellespont we run on shore;
Such as resemble Dian in their deedes,
I meane in giuing large Actæons heads.
These are the Subiects which demerit blame,
And such we tax with earths eternall shame.
Applauding such chast Philomels, whose loue,
Idem, per idem, doth most constant proue.
FINIS.
| Follies Anatomie | |