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An Englishman in none, a foole in all :
Many in one, and one in severall.
Then men were men; but now the greater part Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold, Beasts are in life, and women are in heart. When world and time were young, that now are old, Good Saturne selfe, that homely emperour, (When quiet Saturne sway'd the mace of lead, In proudest pompe was not so clad of yore, And pride was yet unborne, and yet unbred.) As is the under-groome of the ostlerie, Time was, that while the autumne fall did last, Husbanding it in work-day yeomanrie. Our hungrie sires gap'd for the falling mast
Lo! the long date of those expired dayes, of the Dodonian oakes. Which the inspired Merlin's word fore-sayes; Could no unhusked akorne leave the tree,
When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings, But there was challenge made whose it might be.
Then one confusion another brings: And if some nice and liquorous appetite
Then farewell fairest age, the world's best dayes, Desir'd more daintie dish of rare delite,
Thriving in ill, as it in age decayes.
When once great Osmond shall be dead and gone : Or chesnut's armed huske, and hid kernell,
Unlesse he reare up some rich monument, No squire durst touch, the law would not afford, Ten furlongs nearer to the firmament. Kept for the court, and for the king's owne board. Some stately tombe he builds, Egyptian wise, Their royall plate was clay, or wood, or stone; Rex regum written on the pyramis. The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none. Whereas great Arthur lies in ruder oak, Their onely cellar was the neighbour brooke: That never felt none but the feller's stroke. None did for better care, for better looke.
Small honour can be got with gaudie grave; Was then no plaining of the brewer's scape,
Nor it thy rotten name from death can save. Nor greedie vintner mixt the strained grape.
The fairer tombe, the fouler is thy name; The king's pavilion was the grassy green,
The greater pompe procuring greater shame. Under safe shelter of the shadie treen.
Thy monument make thou thy living deeds; Under each banke men layd their limbs along, No other tomb than that true virtue needs. Not wishing anie ease, not fearing wrong:
What! had he nought whereby he might be knowie Clad with their owne, as they were made of oid, But costly pilements of some curious stone? Not fearing shame, not feeling anie cold.
The matter Nature's, and the workman's frame; But when by Ceres huswifrie and paine,
His purse's cost : where then is Osmond's name? Men learn'd to burie the reviving graine,
Deserv'dst thou ill? well were thy name and thee, And father Janus taught the new-found vine,
Wert thou inditched in great secrecie; Rise on the elme, with many a friendly twine: Where as no passenger might curse thy dust, And base desire bade men to delven low,
Nor dogs sepulchrall sate their gnawing lust. For needlesse mettals, then gan mischief grow.
Thine ill deserts cannot be gray'd with thee,
The courteous citizen bade me to his feast,
“ Come, will ye dine with me this holyday ?" Though Thetis selfe should sweare her safetie; I yeelded, though he hop'd I would say nay: Nor fearfull beast can dig his cave so lowe, for had I mayden'd it, as many use; As could he further than Earth's center go; Loath for to grant, but loather to refuse. As that the ayre, the earth, or ocean,
“ Alacke, sir, I were loath; another day,Should shield them from the gorge of greedie man. I should but trouble you ;-pardon me, if you may.** Hath utmost Inde ought better than his owne? No pardon should I need; for, to depart Then utmost Inde is neare, and rife to gone. He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart. O Nature ! was the world ordain'd for nought Two words for monie, Darbishirian wise; But fill man's maw, and feede man's idle thought? (That 's one too manie) is a naughtie guise. Thy grandsires words savour'd of thriftie leekes, Who looks for double biddings to a feast, Or manly garlic; but thy furnace reekes
May dine at bome for an importune guest. Hot steams of wine; and can a-loofe descrie I went, then saw, and found the greate expense; The drunken draughts of sweete autumnitie. The fare and fashious of onr citizens. They naked went; or clad in ruder hide,
Oh, Cleopatrical ! what wanteth there Or home-spun russet, void of forraine pride: For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheere? But thou canst maske in garish gauderie,
Beefe, that erst Hercules held for finest fare; To suite a foole's far-fetched liverie.
Porke for the fat Boeotiari, or the hare A French head joya'd to necke Italian:
For Martial; fish for the Venetian; Thy thighs from Germanie, and brest from Spain : Goose-liver for the likorous Romane,
Tü' Athenian's goate; quaile, Iolan's cheere; I lookt and laught, and much I mervailed,
shade, Come there no more ; for so meant all that cost : With that which jerks the hams of every jade, Never hence take me for thy second host.
Or floor-strow'd locks from off the barber's sheares ? For whom he meaņes to make an often guest, But waxen crownes well gree with borrow'd haires. One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest.
SATIRE IV. WERE yesterday Palemon's natals kept, That so his threshold is all freshly steept With new-shed blood ? Could he not sacrifice Some sorry morkin that unbidden dies; Or meager heifer, or some rotten ewe; But he must needs his posts with blood embrew, And on his way-doore fixe the horned head, With flowers and with ribbands garnished ? Now shall the passenger decme the man devout. What boots it be so, but the world must know 't? O the fond boasting of vain-glorious man! Does be the best, that may the best be seene? Who ever gives a paire of velvet shooes To th' holy rood, or liberally allowes But a new rope to ring the curfew bell, But he desires that his great deed may dwell, Or graven in the chancel-window-glasse, Or in the lasting tombe of plated brasse? For he that doth so few deserving deeds, 'T were sure his best sue for such larger meeds. Who would inglorious live, inglorious die, And might eternize his name's memorie ? And he that cannot brag of greater store, Must make his somewhat much, and little more. Nor can good Myson weare on his left hond, A signet ring of Bristol diamond, But he must cut his glove to show his pride, That his trim jewel might be better spy'd: And that men mought some burgesse him repute, With sattin sleeves hath grac'd his sacke-cloth suit.
SATIRE VI. When Gullion dy'd (who knowes not Gullion ?) And his drie soule arriv'd at Acheron, He faire besought the feryman of Hell, That he might drinke to dead Pantagruel. Charon was afraid lest thirstie Gullion Would have drunke drie the river Acheron. Yet last consented for a little hyre, And downe he dips his chops deep in the myre, And drinkes, and drinkes, and swallowes in the
streeme, Untill the shallow shores all naked seeme. Yet still he drinkes, nor can the boatman's cries, Nor crabbed oares, nor prayers, make him rise. So long he drinkes, till the blacke caravell, Stands still fast gravellid on the mud of Hell. There stand they still, nor can go, nor retyre, Though greedie ghosts quicke passage did require. Yet stand they still, as though they lay at rode, Till Gullion his bladder would unlode. They stand, and waite, and pray for that good houre; Which, when it came, they sailed to the shore. But never since dareth the ferryman, Once entertaine the ghost of Gullion. Drinke on, drie soule, and pledge sir Gullion : Drinke to all healths, but drinke not to thine owne,
Fie on all courtesie, and unruly windes, Two onely foes that faire disguisement findes. Strange curse! but fit for such a fickle age, When scalpes are subject to such vassalage. Late travaling along in London way, Mee met, as seem'd by his disguis'd array, A lastie courtier, whose curled head With abron locks was fairely furnished. I him salated in our lavish wise: He answeres my untimely courtesies. His bonnet vaild, ere ever he could thinke, Tl unruly winde blowes off his periwinke. He lights and runs, and quickly bath him sped, To overtake his over-running head. The sportfull wiade, to mocke the headlesse man, Tosses apace his pitch'd Rogerian : And straight it to a deeper ditch hath blowne ; There must my yonker fetch bis, waxen crowne. I lookt and laught, whiles in his raging minde, He curst all courtesie, and unruly winde.
SATIRE VIL Seest thou how gayly my yong maister goes, Vaunting himselfe upon his rising toes; And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side; And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide ? 'T is Ruffio : trow'st thou where he din'd to day? In sooth I saw him sit with duke Humfray. Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheere, Keepes he for everie straggling cavaliere. An open house, haunted with greate resort; Long service mixt with musicall disport. Many faire yonker with a feather'd crest, Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest, To fare so freely with so little cost, Than stake his twelve-pence to a meaner host. Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say He touch't no meat of all this live-long day. For sure me thought, yet that was but a guesse, His eyes seemne sunke for verie hollownesse. But could he have (as I did it mistake) So little in his purse, so much upon his backe? So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt, That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt. Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip?' Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. Yet for all that, how stifly struts he by, All trapped in the new-found braverie.
The nuns of new-won Cales his bonnet lent, Cease ere you gin, and ere ye live be dead; In lieu of their so kind a conquerment.
And dye and live ere ever ye be borne; What needed he fetch that from farthest Spaine, And be not bore ere ye be buried, His grandame could have lent with lesser paine ? Then after live, sith you bave dy'd beforne, Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore, When I am dead and rotten in the dust Yet faine would counted be a conquerour.
Then gin to live, and leave when others lust. His haire, French like, stares on his frighted head, One lock amazon-like disheveled,
For when I dye, shall envy dye with me, As if he meant to weare a native cord,
And lie deep smother'd with my marble stone; If chaunce his fates should bin that bane afford. Which while I live cannot be done to dye, All British bare upon the bristled skin,
Nor, if your life gin ere my life be done, Close notched is his beard both lip and chin ; Will hardly yield t' await my mourning hearse, His linnen collar labyrinthian set,
But for my dead corps change my living verse. Whose thousand double turnings never met: His sleeves half hid with elbow-pineonings, What shall the ashes of my senselesse urne As if he meant to flie with linnen wings.
Need to regard the raving world above
Should it not joy and triumph in the sight?
Whatever eye shalt finde this hateful scrole
After the date of my deare exequies,
Ab, pity thou my plaining orphan's dole,
That faine would see the Sunne before it dies, Their bodie to their clothes might shapen be,
It dy'd before, now let it live againe, That nill their clothes shape to their bodie.
Then let it dye, and bide some famous bane.
Satis est potuisse videri.
Che baiar vuol, bai.
Who dares upbraid these open rhymes of mine
Scoring the margent with his blazing stars, Until the maw's wide mouth be stopt with store. And hundreth crooketh interlinears,
(Like to a merchant's debt-roll new defac'd, THE CONCLUSION.
When some crack'd manour cross'd his book at last) Thus have I writ in smoother cedar tree,
Should all in rage the curse-beat page ont rive,
And in each dust-heap bury me alive,
Stamping like Bucephall, whose slackned raines Search they that mean the secret meaning find.
And bloody fetlocks fry with seven men's braines.
More cruel than the cravon satire's ghost,
Or some more strait-lac'd juror of the rest,
Yet well bethought, stoops down and reads anew;
The best lies low, and loathes the shallow view,
Quoth old Eudemon, when his gout-swolne fist
Gropes for his double ducates in his chist:
To pose the pore-blind snake of Epidaore.
That Lyncius may be match'd with Gaulard's sight,
That sees not Paris for the houses' height; TO HIS SECOND COLLECTION OF SATIRES, CALLED BITING
Or wily Cyppus, that can winke and snort
While his wife dallies on Mæcenas' skort: Ye lucklesse rhymes, whom not unkindly spight Yet when he hath my crabbed pamphlet read
Begot long since of truth and holy rage, As oftentimes as Philip hath been dead, Lye here in wombe of silence and still night, Bids all the furies haunt each peevish line Until the broils of next unquiet age:
That thus have rack'd their friendly reader's eynė; That which is others' grave shall be your wombe, Worse than the Logogryphes of later times, And that which bears you, your eternal tombe. Or hundreth riddles shak'd to sleevelesse rhymes.
Should I endure these curses and despight
Whether his twilight-torch of love do call While no man's eare should glow at what I write? To revels of uncleanly musicall, Labeo is whipt, and laughs me in the face: Or midnight plays, or taverns of new wine, Why? for I smite and hide the galled place. Hye ye, white aprons, to your landlord's signe; Gird but the cynic's helmet on his head,
When all, save toothlesse age or infancy, Cares he for Talus, or his flayle of lead?
Are summon'd to the court of venery. Long as the crafty cuttle lieth sure
Who list excuse? when chaster dames can hire In the blacke cloud of his thicke vomiture, Some snont-fair stripling to their apple-squire, Who list complaine of wronged faith or fame, Whom, staked up like to some stallion steed, When he may shift it to another's name?
They keep with eggs and oysters for the breed. Calvus can scratch his elbow and can smile, O Lucine! barren Caia hath an heir, That thriftlesse Pontice bites his lip the while., After her husband's dozen years' despair. Yet I intended in that selfe device
And now the bribed midwife swears apace, To cbecke the churle for his knowne covetise. The bastard babe doth bear his father's face. Each points his straight fore-finger to his friend, But hath not Lelia pass'd her virgin years? Like the blind dial on the belfry end.
For modest shame (God wot!) or penal fears? Who turns it homeward, to say this is I,
He tells a merchant tidings of a prize,
That tells Cynedo of such novelties,
Or Gades' spoils, or a churl's funerale.
Can fit his pander for her paramoure,
Fly from the reach of Cyned's regiment. Whiles she lay doating on her death's bed, If Trent be drawn to dregs and low refuse, And now hath purchas'd lands with one night's Hence, ye hot lecher, to the steaming stewes. paine,
Tyber, the famous sink of Christendome, And on the morrow wooes and weds againe. Turn thou to Thames, and Thames run towards Now see I fire-flakes sparkle from his eyes,
Rome. Like a comet's tayle in th' angry skies ;
Whatever damned streame but thine were meet His pouting cheeks puff up above bis brow, To quench his lusting liver's boiling heat? Like a swolne toad touch'd with the spider's blow; Thy double draught may quench his dog-days rage His mouth shrinks side-ward like a scornful playse, with some stale Bacchis, or obsequious page, To take his tired ear's ingrateful place.
When writhen Lena makes her sale-set shows His ears hang laving like a new lugg'd swine,
Of wooden Venus with fair-limned brows; .
Or like him more some vailed matron's face,
The close adultresse, where her name is red,
Comes crawling from her husband's lukewarm Or prating puppet on a theatre;
bed, Or Mimoe's whistling to bis tabouret,
Her carrion skin bedaub'd with odours sweet,
Now play the satire whoso list for me,
In vaine she wisheth long Alkınæna's night, For Tigels grinning on the theatre?
Cursing the hasty dawning of the light; Or scar-babe threatnings of the rascal crew ? And with her cruel lady-star uprose Or wind-spent verdicts of each ale-knight's view ? She seeks her third roust on her silent toes, Whatever breast doth freeze for such false dread, Besmeared all with loatbsome smoake of lust, Besbrew his base white liver for his meed.
Like Acheron's steams, or smoldring sulphur dust.
And palish carcase, on his brothel-bed,
O Esculape ! how rife is physic made,
Of ridding pocky wretches from their paine, Neighs after bridals, and fresh maidenhead; And do the beastly cure for ten groats gaine? Whiles slavish Juno dares not look awry,
All these and more deserve some blood-drawn lines, To frowne at such imperious rivalry;
But my six cords beene of too loo e a twine : Not thougb she sees her wedding jewels drest Stay till ny beard shall sweep m ne aged breast, To make new bracelets for a strumpet's wrest;
Then shall I seem an awful satyrist : Or like some strange disguised Messaline, While now my rhymes relish of the ferule still, Hires a night's lodging of his concubine ;
Some nose-wise pedant saith; whose deep-seen skil) VOL V.
Hath three times construed either Flaccus o'er, What broker's lousy wardrobe cannot reach
To proud Sartorio that goes straddling by.
But hear’st thou Lolio's sonne? gin not thy gaite
Until the evening owl or bloody bat:
Never until the lamps of Paul's been light,
And niggard lanterns shade the moon-shine night; Old driveling Lolio drudges all he can
Then when the guilty bankrupt, in bold dreade, To make his eldest sonne a gentleman.
From his close cabbin thrusts his shrinking heade, Who can despaire to see another thrive,
That hath been long in shady shelter pent,
Shall call thee cousin, friend, or countryman,
As a catch-poll's fist unto a bankrupt's sleeve; And all to sun and air his suits untold
Or an hos ego from old Petrarch's spright From spightful moths, and frets, and hoary mold, Unto a plagiary sonnet-wright. Bearing bis pawn-laid bands upon bis backe There, soon as he can kiss his hand in gree, As spailes their shells, or pedlers do their packe. And with good grace bow it below the knee, Who cannot shine in tissues and pure gold Or make a Spanish face with fawning cheere, That hath his lands and patrimony sold ?
With th' iland conge like a cavalier, Lolio's side coat is rough pampilian
And shake his head, and cringe his neck and side, Gilded with drops that downe the bosome ran, Home bies he in his father's farm to bide. White carsey hose patched on either knee, The tenants wonder at their landlord's sonne, The very embleme of good husbandry,
And blesse them at so sudden coming on, And a knit night-cap made of coursest twine, More than who vies his pence to view some trick With two long labels button'd to his chin;
Of stranges Moroco's dumb arithmetick, So rides be mounted ou the market-day,
Or the young elephant, or two-tayl'd steere, Upon a straw-stufft pannel all the way,
Or the rigg'd camell, or the fiddling frere. With a maund charg'd with houshold merchandize, Nay then his Hodge shall leave the plough and waive, With eggs, or white-meate, from both dayries; And buy a booke, and go to schoole againe. And with that buys he roast for Sunday noone, Why mought not he as well as others done, Proud how he made that week's provision.
Rise from his fescue to his Littleton ? Else is he stall-fed on the worky-day,
Fools they may feed with words, and live by agre With browne-bread crusts soften'd in sodden whey, That climb to honour by the pulpit's stayre: Or water-gruell, or those paups of meale
Sit seven years pining in an anchore's chegre, That Maro makes his simule, and cybeale: To win soine patched shreds of Minivere; Or once a weeke, perhaps for novelty,
And seven more plod at a patron's tayle Reez'd bacon soords shall feast his family; To get a gilded chapel's cheaper sayle. And weens this more than one egg cleft in twaine Old Lolio sees, and laugheth in his sleeve To feast some patrone and his chappelaine: At the great hope they and his state da give. Or more than is some hungry gallant's dole, But that which glads and makes him proud'st of all, That in a dearth runs sneaking to an bole,
Is when the brabling neighbours on him call And leaves his man and dog to keepe bis ball, For counsel in some crabbed case of law, Lest the wild room should run forth of the wall. Or some indentments, or some bond to draw: Good man! him list not spend his idle meales His neighbour's goose hath grazed on his lea, In' quinsing plovers, or in wining quailes;
What action mought be enter'd in the plea? Nor toot in cheap-side baskets earne and late So new-fall’n länds bave made him in request, To set the first tooth in some novell cate.
That now he looks as lofty as the best. Let sweet-mouth'd Mercia bidwhat crowns she please And well done Lolio, like a thrifty sire, Por half-red cherries, or greene garden pease, 'T were pity but thy sonne should prore a squire. Or the first artichoaks of all the yeare,
How I foresee in many ages past, To make so lavish cost for little cheare:
When Lolio's caytive name is quite defac'd, When Lolio feasteth in his revelling fit,
Thine heir, tbine heir's heir, and his heir again, Some starved pullen scoures the rusted spit. From out the lines of careful Lolian, For else how should his sonne maintained be Shall climb up to the chancell pewes on high, At ions of court or of the chancery:
And rule and raigne in their rich tenancy; There to learn law, and courtly carriage,
When perch'd aloft to perfect their estate To make amends for his mean parentage;
They rack their rents unto a treble rate; Where he unknowne and rufiling as he can, And hedge in all the neighbour common lands, Goes currant each where for a gentleman?
And clodge their slavish tenants with commands; While yet he ronsteth at some uncouth signe, Whiles they, poor souls, with feeling sigh complaine, Nor ever red his tenure's second line.
And wish old Lolio were alive againe,