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Yet pure devotion lets the steeple stand,
But if thou chance cast up thy wond'ring eyes, And idle battlements on either hand :
Thou shalt discern upon the frontispiece
A fragment of old Plato's poesy :
Look to the tow'red chimnies which should be
The wind-pipes of good hospitality,
Through which it breatheth to the open aire,
Betokening life, and liberal welfare; House-keeping 's dead, Saturio, wot'st thou where? Lo ! there th' unthankful swallow takes her rest, Forsooth they say far hence in Breck-neck shire. And fills the tunnell with her circled nest; And ever since, they say that feel and taste, Nor half that smoke from all his chimnies goes That men may break their neck soon as their fast. Which one tobacco-pipe drives through his nose. Certes, if pity dy'd at Chaucer's date,
So raw-bone hunger scorns the mudded walls, He liv'd a widower long behind his mate:
And 'gins to revel it in lordly balls. Save that I see some rotten bed-rid sire,
So the black prince is broken loose againe Which to out-strip the nonage of his heire, That saw no Sunne save once, (as stories faine) Is cramm’d with golden broths, and drugs of price, That once was, when in Trinacry I weene And each day dying lives, and living dies;
He stole the daughter of the harvest queene, Till oncé surviv'd his wardship's laten eve, And gript the mawes of barren Sicily His eyes are clos'd, with choice to die or live. With long constraint of pineful penury; Plenty and he dy'd both in that same yeare, And they that should resist bis second rage, When the sad sky did shed so many a teare. Have pent themselves up in the private cage And now, who list not of his labour faile,
Of some blind lane, and there they lurk unknowne Mark with Saturio my friendly tale.
Till th' hungry tempest once be over-blowne: Along thy way thou canst not but descry
Then like the coward after neighbour's fray, Fair glittering halls to tempt the hopeful eye, They creep forth boldly, and ask, Where are Thy right eye 'gins to leap for vaine delight,
they? And surbeat toes to tickle at the sight ;
Meanwhile the hunger-starv'd appurtenance As greedy T when in the sounding mould Must bide the brunt, whatever ill mischance : He finds a shining potshard tip'd with gold; Grim Famine sits in their fore-piped face, Por never syren tempts the pleased eares,
All full of angles of unequal space, As these the eye of fainting passengers.
Like to the plane of many-sided squares, All is not so that seemes, for surely then
That wont be drawne out by geometars; Matrona should oot be a courtezan;
So sharp and meager that who should them see Smooth Chrysalus should not be rich with fraud, Would swear they lately came from Hungary. Nor honest R-be his own wife's bawd.
When their brasse pans and winter coverlid Look not asquint, nor stride across the way Have wip'd the maunger of the horse's bread, Like some demurring Alcide to delay;
Oh me! what odds there seemeth 'twixt their cheer But walk on cheerly, till thou have espy'd
And the swolne bezzle at an alehouse fire, St. Peter's finger at the church-yard side.
That tonnes in gallons to his bursten paunch, But wilt thou needs, when thou art warn'd so well, Whose slimy draughts his drought can nerer Go see who in so garish walls doth dwell ?
staunch? There findest thou some stately Dorick frame, For shame, ye gallants ! grow more hospitall, Or neat lonick worke ; ........
And turn your needlesse wardrobe to your hall. Like the vain bubble of Iberian pride,
As lavish Virro that keeps open doores, That over-croweth all the world beside.
Like Janus in the warres, ...... Which rear'd to raize the crazy monarch's fame, Except the twelve days, or the wake-day feast, Strives for a court and for a college name; What time he needs must be his cousin's guest. Yet nought within but lousy coules duth hold, Philene hath bid him, can he choose but come? Like a scabb'd cuckow in a cage of gold.
Who should pull Virro's sleeve to stay at home? So pride above doth shade the shame below; All yeare besides who meal-time can attend : A golden periwig on a black-moor's brow.
Come Trebius, welcome to the table's end. When Mævio's first page of his poesy,
What though he chires on purer manchet's crowne, Nail'd to an hundred postes for novelty,
While his kind client grindes on blacke and browne, With his big title an Italian mot,
A jolly rounding of a whole foot broad, Layes siege unto the backward buyer's groat; From off the mong-corne heap sball Trebius load. Which all within is drafty sluttish geere,
What though he quaffe pure amber in his bowle Fit for the oven, or the kitchen fire
Of March-brew'd wheat, yet slecks thy thirsting soul So this gay gate adds fuel to thy thought, With palish oat, frothing in Boston clay, That such proud piles were never rais'd for nought. Or in a shallow cruise, nor must that stay Beat the broad gates a goodly hollow sound Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd braine, With double echoes doth again rebound;
But call and crave, and bave thy cruise againe : But not a dog doth bark to welcome thee,
Else how should even tale be registred, Nor churlish porter canst thou chafing see: Or all thy draughts, on the chalk'd barrel's head? All dumb and silent, like the dead of night, And if he list revive his heartless graine Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite.
With some French grape, or pure Canariane; The marble parement bid with desert weed, When pleasing Bourdeaux falls unto his lot, With house-leek, thistle, dock, and hemlock-seed : Some sow'rish Rochelle cuts thy thirsting throate.
What though himselfe carreth his welcome friend (Whenas the neighbour-lands so couched layne
That my field might not fill my neighbour's payle, In busy questions all the dinner long?
More than a pilled stick can stand in stead, What though the scornful waiter lookes askile, To bar Cynedo from his neighbour's bed; And pouts and frowns, and curseth thee the while, More than the thread-bare client's poverty And takes his farewell with a jealous eye,
Debars th' attorney of his wonted fee? At every morsell he his last shall see?
If they were thriftlesse, mought not we amend, And if but one exceed the common size,
And with more care our dangered fields defend? Or make an hillock in thy cheeke arise,
Each man can guard what thing he deemeth deare, Or if perchance thou shouldest, ere thou wist, As fearful mercbants do their female heir, Hold thy knife upright in thy griped fist,
Which, were it not for promise of their wealth, Or sittest double on thy backward seat,
Need not be stalled up for fear of stealth ; Or with tbine elbow shad'st thy shared meat, Would rather stick upon the bell-man's cries, He laughs thee, in his fellow's eare, to scorne, Though profer'd for a branded Indian's price. And asks aloud, where Trebius was borne ? Then raise we muddy bulwarks on our banks, Though the third sewer takes thee quite away Beset around with treble quick-set ranks; Without a staffe, when thou would'st longer stay, Or if those walls be over weak a ward, What of all this? Is 't not enough to say,
The squared bricke may be a better guard.
Go to, my thrifty yeoman, and upreare
So be thou stake not up the common style;
So be thou hedge in nought but what's thine owne;
So be thon pay what tithes thy neighbours done ; KOINA OIASIN.
So be thoù let not lie in fallow'd plaine
That which was wont yield usury of graine. The satire should be like the porcupine,
But when I see thy pitched stakes do stand That shoots sharp quils out in each angry line, On thy incroached piece of common land, And wounds the blushing cheeke, and fiery eye, Whiles thou discommonest thy neighbour's kyne, Of him that hears, and readeth guiltily.
And warn’st that none feed on thy field save thine; Ye antique satires, how I blesse your dayes, Brag no more, Scrobius, of thy mudded bankes, That brook'd your bolder style, their own dis- Nor thy deep ditches, nor three quickset rankes. praise,
O happy dayes of old Ducalion, And well near wish, yet joy my wish is vaine, When one was landlord of the world alone! I had been then, or they been now againe! But now whose choler would not rise to yield For now our eares been of more brittle mold, A peasant halfe-stakes of his new-mown field, Than those dull earthen eares that were of old : Whiles yet he may not for the treble price Sith theirs, like anvils, bore the hammer's head, Buy out the remnant of his royalties? Our glasse can never touch unshivered.
Go on and thrive, my petty tyrant's pride, But from the ashes of my quiet stile
Scorne thou to live, if others live beside; Henceforth may rise some ragiog rough Lucile, And trace proud Castile, that aspires to be That may with Æschylus both find and leese In his old age a young fifth monarchy: The snaky tresses of th' Eumenides:
Or the red hat that cries the lucklesse mayne, Meanwhile, sufficeth me, the world may say For wealthy Thames to change his lowly Rhine. That I these vices loath'd another day, Which I hane done with as devout a cheere As he that rounds Poul's pillars in the yeare, Or bends his ham downe in the naked quire.
SATIRE IV. 'T was ever said, Frontine, and ever seene,
Possunt, quia posse videntur.
Villius, the wealthy farmer, left his heire
Twice twenty sterling pounds to spend by yeare: Who wots not yet how well this did beseeme The neighbours praisen Villio's hide-bound sonne, The learned master of the academe?
And say it was a goodly portion. Plato is dead, and dead is his device,
Not knowing how some merchants dow'r can rise, Which some thought witty, none thought ever wise, By Sunday's tale to fifty centuries ; Yet certes Mæcha is a Platonist
Or to weigh downe a leaden bride with gold, To all, they say, save whoso do not list;
Worth all that Matho bought, or Pontice sold. Because her husband, a far-trafick'd man,
But whiles ten pound goes to his wife's new gowne, Is a profess'd Peripatecian.
Nor little lesse can serve to suit his owne; And so our grandsires were in ages past,
Whiles one piece pays her idle waiting-man, That let their lands lye all so widely waste, Or buys an hoode, or silver-handled fanne, That nothing was in pale or hedge ypent
Or hires a Friezeland trotter, halfe yard deepe, Within some province, or whole shire's extent. To drag his tumbrell through the staring Cheape ; As Nature made the earth, so did it lie, .
Or whiles he rideth with two liveries, Save for the furrowes of their husbandry;
And 's treble rated at the subsidies;
One end a kennel keeps of thriftlesse hounds; Tattelius, the new-come traveller,
Trampling the bourse's marble twice a day,
Tells nothing but stark truths I dare well say: If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare Nor would he have them known for any thing, That forty pounds serve not the farmer's heire. Though all the vault of his loud murmur ring.
Not one man tells a lye of all the yeare,
For hills of gold would sweare the thing untrue.
Pansophus now, though all in the cold sweat,
Dares venture through the feared castle-gate,
Albe the faithful oracles have foresayne,
Till now he hopeth of some wiser wight.
The vale of Stand-gate, or the Suter's hill,
Or westerne plaine are free from feared ill.
Let him that hath nought, feare nought I areed :
But he that hath ought bye him, and God speed. LABEO reserves a long naile for the nonce,
Nor drunken Dennis doth, by breake of day, To wound my margent through ten leaves at once, Stumble into blind taverns by the way, Much worse than Aristarchus his blacke pile And reel me homeward at the ev'ning starte, That pierc'd old Homer's side ;.
Or ride more eas'ly in his neighbour's chayre. And makes such faces that me seems I see
Well might these checks have fitted former times, Some foul Megæra in the tragedy,
And shoulder'd angry Skelton's breathlesse rhymes. Threat'ning her twined snakes at Tantale's ghost; Ere Chrysalus had barr'd the common boxe, Or the grim visage of some frowning post
Which erst he pick'd to store his private stocks ; The crabtree porter of the Guild-hall gates; But now hath all with vantage paid againe, While he his frightful beetle elevates,
And locks and plates what doth behind reinaide ; His angry eyne look all so glaring bright, When erst our dry-soul'd sires so lavish were, Like th' hunted badger in a moonlesse night: To charge whole boots-full to their friends welfare; Or like a painted staring Saracen ;
Now shalt thou never see the salt beset
That 's all forestalled by his upper lip;
Somewhat it was that made his paunch so peare, Away, ye angry fires, and frosts of feare,
His girdle fell ten inches in a yeare. Give place unto his hopeful temper'd thought Or when old gouty bed-rid Euclio That yields to peace, ere ever peace he sought: To his officious factor fair could show Then let me now repent me of my rage
His name in margent of some old cast bill, For writing satires in so righteous age.
And say, Lo ! whom I named in my will, Whereas I should bave strok'd her tow'rdly head, Whiles he believes, and looking for the share And cry'd evæe in my satires' stead;
Tendeth his cumbrous charge with busy care Sith now not one of thousand does amisse,
For but a while ; for now he sure will die, Was never age I weene so pure as this.
By his strange qualme of liberality. As pure as old Labulla from the banes,
Great thanks he gives—but God him shield and As pure as through faire channels when it raines; As pure as is a black-moor's face by night, From ever gaining by his master's grave: As dung-clad skin of dying Heraclite.
Only live long, and he is well repaid, Seeke over all the world, and tell me where And wets his forced cheeks while thus he said; Thou find'st a proud man, or a flatterer;
Some strong-smellid onion shall stir bis eyes A theif, a drunkard, or a paricide,
Rather than no salt teares shall tben arise. A lecher, liar, or what vice beside ?
So looks be like a marble toward raine, Merchants are no whit covetous of late,
And wrings and snites, and weeps, and wipes again : Nor make no mart of time, gain of deceit.
Then turns his back and smiles, and looks askance, Patrons are honest now, o'er they of old,
Seas'ning again his sorrow'd countenance; Can now no benefice be bought or sold ?
Whiles yet he wearies Heav'o with daily cries, Give him a gelding, or some two yeares tithe, And backward death with devout sacrifice, For he all bribes and simony defy'th.
That they would now his tedious ghost bereav'n, Is not one pick-thank stirring in the court, And wishes well, that wish'd no worse than Heav'o. That seld was free till now, by all report?
When Zoylus was sicke, he knew not where, . But some one, like a claw-back parasite,
Save his wrought night-cap, and lawn pillowbear. Pick'd mothes from his master's cloke in sight, Kind fooles! they made him sick that made him Whiles be could pick out both his eyes for need,
fine; Mought they but stand him iu some better stead. Take those away, and there's his medicine, Nor now no more smell-feast Vitellio.
Or Gellia wore a velvet mastick-patch Smiles on his master for a meal or two,
Upon her temples when no tooth did ache; And loves him in his mraw, loaths in his heart, When beauty was her rheume I soon espy'd, Yet soothes, and yeas and nays on either part. Nor could her plaister cure her of ber pride.
These vices were, but now they ceas'd off long: | And bite my nails, and seratch my dullard head,
Abont one peevish syllable; which out sought Were not the angry world prejudicate.
I take up Thales joy, save for fore-thought If all the seven penitential
How it shall please each ale-knight's censuring eye, Or thousand white-wands might me ought availe; And hang'd my head for fear they deem awry: If Trent or Thames could scoure my foule offence While thread-bare Martiall turns his merry note And set me in my former innocence,
To beg of Rufus a cast winter-coate ;
While hungry Marot leapeth at a beane,
Go, Ariost, and gape for what may fall
From trencher of a flattering cardinall; For in that puisne world, our sires of long
And if thou gettest but a pedant's fee, Could hardly wag their too unweildy tongue Thy bed, thy board, and coarser livery, As pined crowes and parrots can do now,
O honour far beyond a brazen shrine, Wheu hoary age did bend their wrinkled brow : To sit with Tarleton on an ale-post's signe ! And now of late did many a learned man
Who had but lived in Augustus' dayes, Serve thirty yeares prenticeship with Priscian; 'T had been some honour to be crown'd with bages; But now can every novice speake with ease When Lucan stretched on his marble bed The far-fetch'd language of th' antipodes. [hight, To think of Cæsar, and great Pompey's deed: Would'st thou the tongues that erst were learned Or when Achelaus shav'd his mourning head, Though our wise age hath wip'd them of their right; Soon as he heard Stesichorus was dead. Would'st thou the courtly three in most request, At least, would some good body of the rest Or the two barbarous neighbours of the west ? Set a gold pen on their baye-wreathed crest : Bibinus selfe can have ten tongues in one,
Or would their face in stamped coin expresse, Though in all ten not one good tongue alone. As did the Mytelens their poetesse. And can deep skill lie smothering within,
Now as it is, beshrew him if he miglt, Whiles neither smoke nor flame discerned bin ? That would his browes with Cæsar's laurell dight. Shall it not be a wild-lig in a wall,
Though what ail'd me, I might not well as they Or fired brimstove in a minerall ?
Rake up some forworne tales that smother'd lay Do thou disdain, O ever-learned age!
In chimney corners smoak'd with winter fires, The tougue-ty'd silence of that Samian sage: To read and rock asleep our drowsy sires ? Forth, ye fine wits, and rush into the presse, No mao his threshold better knowes, than I And for the cloyed world your works addresse. Brute's first arrival, and first victory; Is not a goat, nor fly, nor seely ant,
St. George's sorrell, or his crosse of blood,
Arthur's round board, or Caledonian wood,
What were his knights did Salem's siege maintaine: Downe in some ditch without his excquies,
How the mad rival of faire Angelice Or epitaphs, or mournful elegies?
Was physick'd from the new-found paradise. Folly itself, and baldnesse may be prais'd,
High stories they, which with their swelling straine And sweet conceits from filthy objects rais’d. Have riven Frontoe's broad rehearsal plaine. What do not fine wits dare to undertake?
But so to fill up books, both backe and side, What dare not fine wits do for honour's sake? What needs it? Are there not enow beside ? But why doth Balbus his dead-doing quill
O age well thriven and well fortunate, Parch in bis rusty scabbard all the while;
When each man hath a Muse apropriate; His golden fleece o'ergrowne with mouldy hoare, And she, like to some servile eare-boar'd slave, As though he had his witty works forswore? Must play and sing when and what he 'd have! Belike of late now Balbus hath no need,
Would that were all small fault in number lies, Nor now belike his shrinking shoulders dread Were not the feare from whence it should arise. The catch-poll's fist - The presse may still remaine But can it be ought but a spurious seed And breathe, till Balbus be in debt againe.
That growes so rife in such unlikely speed ? Soon may that be! so I had silent beene,
Sith Pontian left his barren wife at home,
Returned, hears his blessing ask'd of three,
Though Labeo reaches right (who can deny?) In lawlesse rage upbraid each other's vice,
The true strains of heroick poesy ;
For he can tell how fury reft his sense,
To guide his bold and busy enterprize;
Or tilch whole pages at a clap for need (So solemnly kiss'd he his laurell tough)
From honest Petrarch, clad in English weed; If that bold satire unrevenged be
While big but oh's! each stanza can begin, For this so saucy and foule injury.
Whose trunk and taile sluttish and heartlesse been. So Labeo weens it my eternal sbame
He knowes the grace of that new elegance, To prove I never earn'd a poet's name.
Which sweet Philisides fetch'd of Jate from France, But would I be a poet if I might,
That well beseem'd his high-stil'd Arcady, To rub my browes three days and wake three nights, Though others marre it with much liberty,
In epithets to joine two wordes in one
Lord what art thou ? pure life, power, beauty, bliss Forsooth, for adjectives can't stand alone :
Where dwell'st thou ? up above in perfect light As a great poet could of Bacchus say,
What is thy time? eternity it is: That he was Semele - femori-gena.
What state ? attendance of each glorious spérit! Lastly he names the spirit of Astrophel ;
Thyself, thy place, thy dayes, thy state
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.
How shall I reach thee, Lord ? Oh, soar abore, Or marching wade in blood up to the knees,
Ambitious soul: but which way should I fie ? Her arma virum goes by two degrees,
Thou, Lord, art way and end: what wings have I ? The sheepe-cote first hath beene her nursery Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love : Where she hath worne her idle ivfancy,
Oh, let these wings, that way alone
IMMORTALL babe, who this dear day
Didst change thine Heaven for our clay,
And didst with flesh thy godhead vail,
Shine, happy star; ye angels sing
Glory on high to Heaven's King : From either going far, or going wrong ;
Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch,
See Heaven come down to Bethleem's cratch.
Worship, ye sages of the east,
The King of gods in meanness drest. And with them grind soft-simpring all the day,
O blessed maid, smile and adore
The God thy womb and armes have bore.
Star, angels, shepherds, and wise sages;
Thou virgin glory of all ages
Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth.
Leave, O my soul, this baser world below,
Lo, there the Godhead's radiant throne,
Lo, there thy Saviour dear, in glory dight,
That band that held the scornfull reed
THE CATHEDRAL OF EXCBTER.
Lord what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing! That back and side that ran with bloody streams
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying! Daunt angels' eyes with their majestick beames ; What is my flesh ? My soul's uneasie clothing! Those feet, once fastened to the cursed tree, What is my time? A minute ever flying : Trample on Death and Hell, in glorious glee. My time, my flesh, my life, and I;
Those lips, once drencht with gall, do make What are we, Lord, but vanity?
With their dread doom the world to quake. Where am I Lord ? downe in a vale of death : Behold those joyes thou never canst bebold;
What is my trade ? sin, my dear God offending; Those precious gates of pearl, those streets of gold, My sport sin too, my stay'a puffe of breath: Those streams of life, those trees of Paradise What end of sin : Hell's horrour never ending: , That never can be seen by mortal eyes:
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place And when thou seest this state divine,
Think that it is or shall be thine.