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They baunt the tided Thames and salt Medway, When he conceives upon his faigned stage
E'er since the fame of their late bridal day?. The stalking steps of his great personage,
Nought have we here but willow-shaded shore, Graced with huff-cap terms and thundring threats,
To tell our Grant his banks are left for lore. That his poor hearers' hair quite upright sets.

Such soon as some brave-ininded hungry youth
Sees fitly frame to his wide-strained mouth,
He vannts his voyce upon an hired stage,

With high-set steps, and princely carriage;
SATIRE II.

Now soouping in side robes af royalty,

That erst did skrub in lowsy brokery, Whilom the sisters nine were vestal maides,

There if he can with terms Italianate
And held their temple in the secret shades

Big-sounding sentences, and words of state,
Of fair Parnassus, that two-headed hill,
Whose auncient fame the southern world did fill;

Fair patch me up his pure iambic verse,

He ravishes the gazing scaffolders:
And in the stead of their eternal fame,
Was the cool stream that took his endless name,

Then certes was the famous Corduban'

Never but half so high tragedian.
Prom out the fertile hoof of winged steed:
There did they sit and do their holy deed,

Now, lest such frightful shows of Fortune's fall, That pleas’d both Heav'n and Earth-till that of late and bloody tyrant's rage, should chance apall Whom should I fault? or the most righteous fate,

The dead-struck audience, 'midst the silent rout, Or Heav'n, or men, or feinds, or ought beside,

Comes leaping in a self-misformed lout, That ever made that foul mischance betide ?

And laughs, and grins, and frames his mimic face, Some of the sisters in securer shades

And justles straight into the prince's place; Deloured were......

Then doth the theatre echo all aloud, And ever since, disdaining sacred shame,

With gladsome noise of that applauding crowd. Doue ought that might their heav'nly stock defame. A goodly hotch-potch! when vile russetings

Are match'd with monarchs, and with mighty kings. Now is Parnassus turned to a stewes, And on bay stocks the wanton myrtle grewes ;

A goodly grace to sober tragic Muse, Cythêron hill's become a brothrel-bed,

When each base clown his clumbsy fist doth bruise,

And show his teeth in double rotten row, And Pyrene sweet turn’d to a poison'd head

For laughter at his self-resembled show. Of coal-black puddle, whose infectious stain

Meanwhile our poets in high parliament Corrupteth all the lowly fruitful plain.

Sit watching every word and gesturement, Their inodest stole, to garish looser weed,

Like curious censors of some doughty gear, Deck'd with love-favours, their late whoredoms meed:

Whispering their verdict in their fellow's ear. And where they wont sip of the simple flood,

Woe to the word whose margent in their scrole Now toss they bowls of Bacchus' boiling blood.

Is noted with a black condemning coal, I marvellid much, with doubtful jealousie,

But if each period might the synod please, Whence came such litters of new poetrie:

Ho!-bring the ivy boughs, and bands of bays. Methought I fear'd, lest the horse-hoofed well His native banks did proudly over-swell

Now when they part and leave the naked stage,

Gips the bare hearer, in a guilty rage, In some late discontent, thence to ensue

To curse and ban, and blame bis likerous eye, Such wondrous rabblements of rhymesters new :

That thus bath lavish'd his late half-penny. But since I saw it painted on Fame's wings,

Shame that the Muses should be bought and sold,
The Muses to be woren wantonings.
Each bush, each bank, and each base apple-squire for every peasant's brass, on each scaffold.
Can serve to sate their beastly lewd desire.
Ye bastard poets, see your pedigree,
From common trulls and loathsome brothelry!

SATIRE IV.
Too popular is tragic poesie,

Straining his tip-toes for a farthing fee,
SATIRE JII.

And doth beside on rhymeless numbers tread,

Unbid iambics flow from careless head. With some pot-fury, ravish'd from their wit, Some braver brain in high heroic rhymes They sit and muse on some no-vulgar writ: Compileth worm-eat stories of old times : As frozen dung-hills in a winter's morn,

And he like some imperious Maronist,
That void of vapour seemed all beforn,

Conjures the Muses that they him assist.
Soon as the Sun sends out his piercing beams Then strives he to bombast his feeble lines
Exhale out filthy smoak and stinking steams. With far-fetch'd phrase;
So doth the base and the fore-barren brain,

And maketh up his hard-betaken tale [vale, Soon as the raging wine begins to reiga.

With strange enchantments, fetch'd from darksom One bigher pitch'd doth set his soaring thought Of some Melissa “, that by magic doom On crowned kings, that Fortune hath low brought: To Tuscans soil transporteth Merlin's tomb. Or some upreared, high-aspiring swaine,

Painters and poets hold your auncient right: As it might be the Turkish Tamberlaine:

Write what you will; and write not what you might: Then weeneth he bis base drink-drowned spright, Their limits be their list, their reason will. Rapt to the threefold loft of Heaven hight, But if some painter, in presuming skill,

See Spenser.

3 Seneca.

2

4 Ariosto,

Should paint the stars in center of the Earth, Then pours he forth in patched sonettings, Could ye forbear some smiles, and taunting mirth? His love, his lust, and luathsome flatterings: But let no rebel satyr dare traduce

As though the staring world hang'd on his sleere, 'Th' eternal legends of thy faerie Muse,

When oace he smiles, to laugh: and when he sighs, Renowned Spencer: whom on earthly wight

to grieve. Dares once to emulate, much less dares despight. Careth the world, thou love, thou live, or die? Salust' of France, and Tuscan Ariost,

Careth the world how fair thy fair-one be? Yield up the lawrel garland ye have lost:

Fond wit-wal that wouldst load thy witless head And let all others willow wear with me,

With timely horus, before thy bridal bed.
Or let their undeserving temples bared be.

Then can he term his dirty ill-fac'd bride
Lady and queen, and virgin deify'd :
Be she all sooty black, or berry brown,
She's white as morrow's milk, or flakes new blown.

And though she be some dungbill drudge at bome,
SATIRE V.

Yet can he her resign some refuse room ANOTHER, whose more heavy hearted saint

Amidst the well known stars: or if not there,
Delights in nought but notes of rueful plaint,

Sure will be saint her in bis Kalendere.
Urgeth his melting Muse with solemn tears
Rhyme of some dreary fates of luckless peers.
Then brings he up some branded whiniog ghost,

SATIRE VIII.
To tell how old misfortunes had him toss'd.
Then must he ban the guiltless fates above,

Hence, ye profane! mell not with holy things. Or fortune frail, or unrewarded love.

That Sion's Muse from Palestina brings.

Parnassus is transform'd to Sion Hill,
And when he hath parbrak'd his grieved mind,
He sends him down where erst be did him find,

And iv'ry -palms her steep ascents done fill.
Without one penny to pay Charon's hire,

Now good St. Peter weeps pure Helicon,

And woth the Maries make a music moan:
That waiteth for the wand'ring ghosts retire.

Yea, and the prophet of the heav'nly lyre,
Great Solomon, sings in the English quire;
And is become a new-found sonnetist,

Singing his love, the holy spouse of Christ :
SATIRE VI.

Like as she were some light-skirts of the rest,

In mightiest inkbornisms he can thither wrest. ANOTHER scorns the home-epun thread of rhymes, Ye Son Muses shall by my dear will, Match'd with the lofty feet of elder times: For this your zeal and far-admired skill, Give me the numbred verse that Virgil sung, Be straight transported from Jerusalem, And Virgil's self shall speak the English tongue: Unto the holy house of Bethlehem. Manhood and garbuiles shall be chaunt with chanog

ed feet
And head-strong dactyls making music meet.

SATIRE IX.
The nimble dactyl striving to out-go,
The drawling spondees pacing it below.

Envy, ye Muses, at your thriving mate,
The lingring spondees, labour ing to delay,

Cupid hath crowned a new laureat: The breathless dactyls with a sudden stay.

I saw bis statue gayly 'tir'd in green, Whoever saw a colt wanton and wild,

As if he had some second Phæbus been. Yok'd with a slow-foot ox on fallow field,

His statue trimm'd with the venerean tree, Can right areed how handsomely besets

And shrined fair within your sanctuary. Dull spondees with the English dactylets.

What, he, that erst to gain the rhyming goal, If Jove speak English in a thundring cloud, The worn recital-post of capitol, “Thwick thwack," and "riffraff,” roars heout aloud. Rhymed in rules of stewish ribaldry, Fie on the forged mint that did create

Teaching experimental bawdery !
New coin of words never articulate.

Whiles th’itching vulgar, tickled with the song,
Hanged on their unready poet's tongue.
Take this, ye patient Muises ; and foul shame

Shall wait upon your once profaned name:
SATIRE VII.

Take this, ye Muses, this so high despite,

And let all hateful luckless birds of night; GREAT is the folly of a feeble brain,

Let screeching owls nest in your razed roofs,
O'er-rul'd with love, and tyrannous disdain : And let your floor with horned satyres' hoofs
For love, however in the basest breast,

Be dinted, and defiled every moru :
It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best. And let your walls be an eternal scorn.
Yet is he blind, and leads poor fools atry,

What if some Shoreditch fury should incite
While they hang gazing on their mistress' eye.

Some lust-stung lecher: must he needs indite The love-sick poet, whose importune prayer

The beastly rites of hired venery, Repulsed is with resolute despair,

The whole world's universal bawd to be? Hopeth to conquer his disdainful dame,

Did never yet no damned libertine, With public plaints of his conceived flame.

Nor elder heathen, nor new Florentine',

s Dubartas.

6 Robert Southwell's St. Peter's Complaint. 7 Peter Aretine.

Though they were famous for lewd liberty, Reade in each schoole, in everie margent quoted, Venture upon so shameful villany ;

In everie catalogue for an authour noted. Our epigrammatarians, old and late,

There 's happinesse well given and well got, Were wont be blam'd for too licentiate.

Lesse gifts, and lesser gaines, I weigh them not. Chaste men, they did but glance at Lesbia's deed, So may the giant roam and write on high, And handsomely leave off with cleanly speed. Be he a dwarfe that writes not their as I. But arts of whoring, stories of the stews,

But well fare Strabo, which, as stories tell, Ye Muses will ye bear, and may refuse?

Contriv'd all Troy within one walnut shell. Nay, let the Devil and St. Valentine

His curious ghost now lately hither came;
Be gossips to those ribald rhymes of thiue.

Arriving neere the mouth of luckie Tame,
I saw a pismire struggling with the load,
Dragging all Troy home towards her abode.
Now dare we hither, if we durst appeare,
The subtile stithy-man that liv'd while ere:

Such one was once, or once I was mistaught,
SATIRES.

A smith at Vulcan's owne forge up brought,

That made an iron chariot so light,
BOOK II.

The coach-horse was a flea in trappings dight.
The tamelesse steed could well his waggon wield,
Through downes and dales of the uneven field.

Strive they, laugh we: meane while the black storie
PROLOGUE,

Passes new Strabo, and new Strabo's Troy.

Little for great; and great for good; all one: On been the manes of that Cynic spright,

For shame! or better write, or Labeo write none. Cloath'd with some stubborn clay, and led to light? But who conjur'd this bawdie Poggie's ghost, Or do the relic ashes of his grave

From out the stewes of his lewde home-bred coast : Revive and rise from their forsaken cave?

Or wicked Rablais dronken revellings, That so with gall-wet words and speeches rude To grace the mis-rule of our tavernings? Controuls the manners of the multitude.

Or who put bayes ioto blind Cupid's fist, Envy belike incites his pining heart,

That he should crown what laureats him list? And bids it sate itself with others smart.

Whose words are those, to remedie the deed, Nay, no despight: but angry Nemesis,

That cause men stop their noses when they read? Whose scourge doth follow all that done amiss : Both good things ill, and ill things well; all one That scourge I bear, albe in ruder fist,

For shame! write cleanly, Labeo, or write none. And wound, and strike, and pardon whom she list.

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For shame! write better, Labeo, or write none; To what end did our lavish auncestours
Or better write, or Labeo write alone:

Erect of old these stately piles of ours !
Nay, call the Cynic but a wittie foole,

For thread-bare clerks, and for the ragged Muse, Thence to abjure his handsome drinking bowl; Whom better fit some cotes of sad secluse ? Because the tbirstie swaine with hollow hand, Blush, niggard Ago, and be asham'd to see Conveied the streame to weet his drie weasand.

These monuments of wiser ancestrie. Write they that can, though they that cannot doe: And ye faire heapes, the Muses sacred shrines, But who knowes that, but they that do not know. (In spite of time and envious repines) Lo! what it is that makes white rags so deare, Stand still and flourish till the world's last day, That men must give a teston for a queare.

Upbraiding it with former love's decay. Lo! what it is that makes goose wings so scant, Here may you, Muses, our deare soveraignes, That the distressed sempster did them want: Seorne each base lordling ever you disdaines; So lavish ope-tyde causeth fasting lents,

And every peasant churle, whose smokie roofe And starveling famine comes of large expense. Denied harbour for your deare behoofe. Might not (so they were pleas'd that beene above) Scorne ye the world before it do complaine, Long paper-abstinence our death remove?

And scorne the world that scorneth you againe. Then manie a Lollerd would in forfaitment, And scorne contempt itselfe that doth incite Beare paper-faggots o'er the pavement.

Each single-sold 'squire to set you at so light. But now men wager who shall blot the most, What needes me care for anie bookish skill, And each man writes. There's so much labour lost, To blot white papers with my restlesse quill: That's good, that's great: nay much is seldome well, Or pore on painted leaves, or beat my braine Of what is bad, a little's a greate deale.

With far-fetch thought; or to consume in vaine Better is more : but best is nought at all.

In latter even, or midst of winter nights, Lesse is the next, and lesser criminall.

Il smelling oyles, or some still watching lights? Little and good, is greatest good save one,

Let them that meane by bookish businesse Then, Labeo, or write little, or write none.

To earne their bread, or hopen to professe Tush, but small paines can be but little art, Their hard got skilt, let them alone for me, Or Jode full drie-fats fro the forren mart,

Busie their braines with deeper brokerie. With folio volumes, two to an oxe hide,

Great gaines shall bide you sure, when ye have spent Or else ye pamphleteer go stand aside;

A thousand lamps, and thousand reames have rent Of needless papers; and a thousand nights Tells on his tale as smoothly as him list, Have burned out with costly candle lights. But still the lawyer's eye squints on his fist; Ye palish ghosts of Athens, when at last

If that seem lined with a larger fee, Your patrimonies spent in witlesse wast,

Doubt not the suite, the law is plaine for thee. Your friends all wearie, and your spirits spent, Though must he buy his vainer hope with price, Ye may your fortunes seeke, and be forwent Disclout his crownes, and thanke him for advice. of your kind cousins, and your churlish sires, So have I seene in a tempestuous stowre Left there alone, midst the fast-folding briers. Some bryer-bush showing shelter froin the showre Have not I lands of faire inheritance,

Unto the hopefull sheepe, that faine would hide Deriv'd by right of long continuance,

His fleecie coate from that same angry tide: To first-borne males, so list the law to grace, The ruthlesse breere, regardlesse of his plight, Nature's first fruits in an eternal race?

Laies holde upon the fleece he should acquite, Let second brotners, and poore nestlings,

And takes advantage of the carelesse prey, Whom more injurious nature later brings

That thought she in securer shelter lay. Into the naked world; let them assaine

The day is faire, the sheepe would far to feede, To get hard pennyworths with so bootlesse paine. The tyrant brier holdes fast his shelters meed, Tush! what care I to be Arcesilas,

And claimes it for the fee of his defenee: Or some sad Solon, whose deed-furrowed face, So robs the sheepe, in favour's faire pretence. And sullen head, and yellow-clouded sight, Still on the stedfart earth are musing pight; Mutt'ring what censures their distracted minde, Of brain-sick paradoxes deeply hath definde : Or of Parmenides, or of darke Heraclite,

SATIRE IV. Whether all be one, or ought be infinite ? Long would it be ere thou hast purchase bought, WORTHIE were Galen to be weighed in gold, Or welthier wexen by such idle thought.

Whose help doth sweetest life and health uphold; Fond fool! six feet shall serve for all thy store; Yet by saint Esculape he solemne swore, And he that cares for most shall find no more. That for diseases they were never more, We scorne that wealth should be the finall end,

Fees never lesse, never so little gaine, Whereto the heavenly Muse her course doth bend; Men give a groate, and aske the rest againe. And rather had be pale with learned cares, Groats-worth of health can anie leech allot? Than paunched with thy choyce of changed fares. Yet should be have no more that gives a groate. Or doth thy glorie stand in outward glee?

Should I on each sicke pillow leane my brest, A lave-ear'd asse with gold may trapped be. And grope the pulse of everie mangie wrest; Or if in pleasure ? live we as we may,

And spie out marvels in each urinall;
Lèt swinish Grill delight in dunghill clay.

And rumble up the filths that from them fall;
And give a dosse for everie disease,
In prescripts long and tedious recipes,

All for so leave reward of art and me?
SATIRE III.

No horse-leach but will looke for larger fee.

Meane while if chaunce some desp'rate patient die, Wuo doubts? the laws fell down from Heaven's Com'n to the period of his destinie: height,

(As wbo can crosse the fatall resolution, Like to some gliding starre in winter's night? In the decreed day of dissolution:) Themis, the scribe of God, did long agone

Whether ill tendment, or recurelesse paine, Engrave them deepe in during marble stone, Procure his deatb ; the neighbours all complaine, And cast them downe on this unruly clay, TÀ unskilfull leech murdered his patient, That men might know to rule and to obey. By poyson of some foule ingredient. But now their characters depraved bin,

Hereon the vulgar may as soone brought By them that would make gain of others sin. To Socrates his poysoned hemloc drought, And now hath wrong so maistered the right, As to the wholsome julap, whose receat That they live best that on wrongs offall light. Might his disease's lingring force defeat. So loathly flye that lives on galled wound, If nor a dramme of triacle soveraigne, And scabby festers inwardly unsound,

Or aqua vitæ, or sugar candian, Feeds fatter with that poys'nous carrion,

Nor kitchin-cordials can it remedie, Than they that haunt the healthy limbs alone. Certes his time is come, needs mought he die Wo to the weale where many lawyers be,

Were I a leech, as who knowes what may be, For there is sure much storé of maladie.

The liberal man should live, and carle should die. 'T was truely said, and truely was foreseene The sickly ladie, and the gowtie peere The fat kine are devoured of the leane.

Still would I haunt, that love their life so deare. Genus and species long since barefoote went, Where life is deare, who cares for coyned drosse? Upon their ten-toes in wilde wanderment:

That spent is counted gaine, and spared, losse : Whiles father Bartoll on his footcloth rode, Or would conjure the chymic mercurie, Upon high pavement gayly silver-strow'd.

Rise from his horsedung bed, and upwards flie; Each home-bred science percheth in the chaire, And with glasse stills, and sticks of juniper, While sacred artes grovell on the ground sell bare. Raise the black spright that burnes not with the fire: Since pedling barbarismes gan be in request, And bring quintessence of elixir pale, Nor classicke tongues, nor learning found no rest. Out of sublimed spirits minerall. The crowching client, with low-beuded knee, Each powdred graine ransometh captive kings, And manie worships, and faire flatterie,

Purchaseth realmes, and life prolonged brings.

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His feare or hope, for plentie or for lacke,
SATIRE V.

Hangs'all upon his new-year's almanack.
Saw'st thou ever Siquis patch'd on Paul's church It was foretold: thus sayes mine almanack.

If chance once in the spring his head should ake, To seeke some vacant vicarage before ? [doore, In th' Heaven's high-street are but dozen roomes, Who wants a churchman that can service say,

In which dwells all the world, past and to come. Read fast and faire his monthly homiley?

Twelve goodly innes they are, with twelve fayre And wed and bury, and make christen-soules?

Ever well tended by our star-divines. [signes, Come to the left-side alley of Saint Poules.

Everie man's head innes at the horned Ramme, Thou servile foole, why could'st thou not repaire

The whiles the necke the black Bull's guest became, To buy a benefice at steeple-faire ?

Th’arms, by good hap, meet at the wrastling Twins, There moughtest thou, for but a slender price,

Th' heart in the way, at the blue Lion innes. Advowson thee with some fat benefice:

The leggs their lodging in Aquarius got; Or if thee list not waite for dead men's shoon,

That is dhe Bride-streete of the Heaven I wot. Nor pray each morn th’incumbent's daies were done: The feet took up the Fish with teeth of gold; A thousand patrons thither ready bring

But who with Scorpio lodg'd may not be told. Their new-faln churches to the chaffering;

What office then doth the star-gazer beare?
Stake three yeares' stipend; no man asketh more: Or let him be the Heaven's ostelere,
Go take possession of the church-porch doore,
And ring thy bells; lucke stroken in thy fist:

Or tapsters some, or some be chamberlaines,

To waite upon the guests they entertaine.
The parsonage is thine, or ere thou wist.
Saint Fooles of Gotam mought thy parish be

Hence can they reade, by virtue of their trade, For this thy base and servile symonie.

When any thing is mist, where it was laide.
Hence they divine, and hence they can devise,
If their aim faile, the stars to moralize.
Demon, my friend, once liver-sicke of love,

Thus learn'd I by the signes his griefe remove :
SATIRE VI.

In the blinde Archer first I saw the signe, A GENTLE squire would gladly entertaine

When thou receiv'dst that wilful wound of thine; Into his house some trencher-chaplaine;

And now in Virgo is that cruel mayde, Some willing man that might instruct his sons,

Which hath not yet with love thy love repaide. And that would stand to good conditions.

But marke when once it comes to Gemini, First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed,

Straightway fish-whole shall thy sicke-liver be. Whiles his young maister lieth o'er bis head.

But now (as th' angrie Heavens seeme to threat Second, that he do, on no default,

Manie hard fortunes, and disastres great) Ever presume to sit above the salt.

If chance it come to wanton-Capricorne, Third, that he never change his trencher twise.

And so into the Ram's disgraceful horne, Fourth, that he use all common courtesies ;

Then learne thou of the ugly Scorpion, Sit bare at meales, and one balfe rise and wait.

To hate her for her fowle abision : Last, that he never his yong maister beat,

Thy refuge then the balance be of right, But he must aske his mother to define,

Which shall thee from thy broken bond acquite: How manje jerkes she would his breech should line. So with the Crab, go back whence thou began, All these observ'd, he could contented bee,

From thy first match, and live a single man. To give five markes and winter liverie.

SATIRES.

BOOK III.

PROLOGUE

SATIRE VII.
In th' Heaven's universal alphabet
All earthly thinges so surely are foreset,
That who can read those figures, may foreshew
Whatever thing shall afterwards ensue:
Faine would I know (might it our artist please)
Why can his tell-troth Epemerides
Teach him the weather's state so long beforne,
And not foretell him, nor his fatall horne,
Nor his death's-day, nor no such sad event;
Which he mought wisely labour to prevent?
Thou damned mock-art, and thou brainsick tale
Of old astrologie: where did'st thou vaile
Thy cursed head thus long, that so it mist
The black bronds of some sharper satyrist?
Some doting gossip mongst the Chaldee wives,
Did to the credulous world thee first derive;
And Superstition purs'd thee ever sence,
And publisht in profounder art's pretence :
That now, who pares his nailes, or libs his swine,
But he must first take counsel of the signe.
So that the vulgars count for faire or foule,
Por living or for dead, for sick or whole.

Some say my Satyres over loosely flowe,
Nor bide their gall enough from open showe:
Not, riddle like, obscuring their intent;
But, packe-staffe plaine, uttring what thing they

ment:
Contrarie to the Roman ancients,
Whose words were short, and darksome was their

sense, Who reades one line of their barsh poesies, Thrice must he take his winde, and breathe him

thrice: My Muse would follow them that have foregone, But cannot with an English pineon; For looke how farre the ancient comedie Past former satyres in her libertie: So farre must mine yield unto them of olde; 'T is better be too bad, than be too bolde.

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