Act 5 — ACT V. (continued 2)

Ay, marry, sir, here’s perfect honesty, When Martius will forswear all villainy (All damn’d abuse of payment in the wars, All filching from his prince and soldiers), When once he can but so much bright dirt glean As may maintain one more Whitefriars quean, One drab more; faith, then farewell villainy, He’ll cleanse himself to Shoreditch purity. As for Stadius, I think he hath a soul; And if he were but free from sharp control 10 Of his sour host, and from his tailor’s bill, He would not thus abuse his rhyming skill; Jading our tirèd ears with fooleries, Greasing great slaves with oily flatteries. Good faith, I think he would not strive to suit The back of humorous Time (for base repute ’Mong dunghill peasants), botching up such ware As may be saleable in Sturbridge fair, If he were once but freed from specialty; But sooth, till then, bear with his balladry. 20 I ask’d lewd Gallus when he’ll cease to swear, And with whole-culverin, raging oaths to tear The vault of heaven—spitting in the eyes Of Nature’s nature loathsome blasphemies. To-morrow, he doth vow, he will forbear. Next day I meet him, but I hear him swear Worse than before. I put his vow in mind. He answers me “To-morrow;” but I find He swears next day far worse than e’er before, Putting me off with “morrow” evermore. 30 Thus, when I urge him, with his sophistry He thinks to salve his damnèd perjury. Silenus now is old, I wonder, I, He doth not hate his triple venery. Cold, writhled[473] eld, his life-sweat[474] almost spent, Methinks a unity were competent. But, O fair hopes! he whispers secretly, When it leaves him he’ll leave his lechery. When simp’ring Flaccus (that demurely goes Right neatly tripping on his new-black’d toes) 40 Hath made rich use of his religion, Of God himself, in pure devotion; When that the strange ideas in his head (Broachèd ’mongst curious sots, by shadows led) Have furnish’d him, by his hoar auditors, Of fair demesnes and goodly rich manors; Sooth, then, he will repent when’s treasury Shall force him to disclaim his heresy. What will not poor need force? But being sped, God for us all! the gurmond’s[475] paunch is fed; 50 His mind is changed. But when will he do good? To-morrow,—ay, to-morrow, by the rood! Yet Ruscus swears he’ll cease to broke a suit, By peasant means striving to get repute ’Mong puffy sponges, when the Fleet’s defrayed, His revel tire, and his laundress paid. There is a crew which I too plain could name, If so I might without th’ Aquinians’[476] blame, That lick the tail of greatness with their lips— Labouring with third-hand jests and apish skips, 60 Retailing others’ wit, long barrellèd, To glib some great man’s ears till paunch be fed— Glad if themselves, as sporting fools, be made To get the shelter of some high-grown shade. To-morrow yet these base tricks they’ll cast off, And cease for lucre be a jeering scoff. Ruscus will leave when once he can renew His wasted clothes, that are ashamed to view The world’s proud eyes; Drusus will cease to fawn When that his farm, that leaks in melting pawn, 70 Some lord-applauded jest hath once set free: All will to-morrow leave their roguery. When fox-furr’d Mecho (by damn’d usury, Cut-throat deceit, and his craft’s villainy) Hath raked together some four thousand pound, To make his smug girl bear a bumming sound In a young merchant’s ear, faith, then (may be) He’ll ponder if there be a Deity; Thinking, if to the parish poverty, At his wish’d death, be doled a halfpenny, 80 A work of supererogation, A good filth-cleansing strong purgation. Aulus will leave begging monopolies When that, ’mong troops of gaudy butterflies, He is but able jet it jollily In piebald suits of proud court bravery. To-morrow doth Luxurio promise me He will unline himself from bitchery; Marry, Alcides thirteenth act must lend A glorious period, and his lust-itch end, 90 When once he hath froth-foaming Ætna past, At one-and-thirty,[477] being always last. If not to-day (quoth that Nasonian), Much less to-morrow. “Yes,” saith Fabian, “For ingrain’d habits, dyed with often dips, Are not so soon discolourèd. Young slips, New set, are easily mov’d and pluck’d away; But elder roots clip faster in the clay.” I smile at thee, and at the Stagyrite,[478] Who holds the liking of the appetite, 100 Being fed with actions often put in ure,[479] Hatcheth the soul in quality impure Or pure; may be in virtue: but for vice, That comes by inspiration, with a trice. Young Furius, scarce fifteen years of age, But is, straightways, right fit for marriage— Unto the devil; for sure they would agree, Betwixt their souls there is such sympathy. O where’s your sweaty habit, when each ape, That can but spy the shadow of his shape, 110 That can no sooner ken what’s virtuous, But will avoid it, and be vicious! Without much do or far-fetch’d habiture, In earnest thus:—It is a sacred cure To salve the soul’s dread wounds; omnipotent That Nature is, that cures the impotent, Even in a moment. Sure, grace is infused By Divine favour, not by actions used, Which is as permanent as heaven’s bliss, To them that have it; then no habit is. 120 To-morrow, nay, to-day, it may be got, So please that gracious power cleanse thy spot. Vice, from privation of that sacred grace Which God withdraws, but puts not vice in place. Who says the sun is cause of ugly night? Yet when he veils our eyes from his fair sight, The gloomy curtain of the night is spread. Ye curious sots, vainly by Nature led, Where is your vice or virtuous habit now? For Sustine[480] pro nunc doth bend his brow, 130 And old crabb’d Scotus, on the Organon, Pay’th me with snaphance,[481] quick distinction. “Habits, that intellectual termèd be, Are got or else infused from Deity.” Dull Sorbonist, fly contradiction! Fie! thou oppugn’st the definition; If one should say, “Of things term’d rational, Some reason have, others mere sensual,” Would not some freshman, reading Porphyry, Hiss and deride such blockish foolery? 140 “Then vice nor virtue have from habit place; The one from want, the other sacred grace; Infused, displaced; not in our will or force, But as it please Jehovah have remorse.” I will, cries Zeno. O presumption! I can. Thou mayst, doggèd opinion Of thwarting cynics. To-day vicious; List to their precepts, next day virtuous. Peace, Seneca, thou belchest blasphemy! “To live from God, but to live happily” 150 (I hear thee boast) “from thy philosophy, And from thyself.” O ravening lunacy! Cynics, ye wound yourselves; for destiny, Inevitable fate, necessity, You hold, doth sway the acts spiritual, As well as parts of that we mortal call. Where’s then I will? Where’s that strong deity You do ascribe to your philosophy? Confounded Nature’s brats! can will and fate Have both their seat and office in your pate? 160 O hidden depth of that dread secrecy, Which I do trembling touch in poetry! To-day, to-day, implore obsequiously; Trust not to-morrow’s will, lest utterly Ye be attach’d with sad confusion, In your grace-tempting lewd presumption. But I forget. Why sweat I out my brain In deep designs to gay boys, lewd and vain? These notes were better sung ’mong better sort; But to my pamphlet, few, save fools, resort. 170

I cannot quote a mott[482] Italionate, Or brand my satires with some Spanish term; I cannot with swoll’n lines magnificate Mine own poor worth, or as immaculate Task others’ rhymes, as if no blot did stain, No blemish soil, my young satiric vein. Nor can I make my soul a merchandise, Seeking conceits to suit these artless times; Or deign for base reward to poetise, Soothing the world with oily flatteries. 10 Shall mercenary thoughts provoke me write— Shall I for lucre be a parasite? Shall I once pen for vulgar sorts applause, To please each hound, each dungy scavenger; To fit some oyster-wench’s yawning jaws With tricksey tales of speaking Cornish daws?[483] First let my brain (bright-hair’d Latona’s son) Be clean distract with all confusion. What though some John-à-Stile will basely toil, Only incited with the hope of gain: 20 Though roguey thoughts do force some jade-like moil; Yet no such filth my true-born muse will soil. O Epictetus, I do honour thee, To think how rich thou wert in poverty!

Come, pretty pleasing symphony of words, Ye well-match’d twins (whose like-tuned tongues affords Such musical delight), come willingly And dance lavoltas in my poesy. Come all as easy as spruce Curio will, In some court-hall, to show his cap’ring skill; As willingly come, meet and jump together As new-join’d loves, when they do clip each other; As willingly as wenches trip around About a May-pole after bagpipe’s sound; 10 Come, rhyming numbers, come and grace conceit, Adding a pleasing close, with your deceit Enticing ears. Let not my ruder hand Seem once to force you in my lines to stand; Be not so fearful (pretty souls) to meet As Flaccus is the sergeant’s face to greet; Be not so backward, loth to grace my sense, As Drusus is to have intelligence His dad’s alive; but come into my head As jocundly as (when his wife was dead) 20 Young Lælius to his home. Come, like-faced rhyme, In tuneful numbers keeping music’s time; But if you hang an arse, like Tubered, When Chremes dragg’d him from his brothel bed, Then hence, base ballad-stuff, my poetry Disclaims you quite; for know my liberty Scorns rhyming laws. Alas, poor idle sound! Since I first Phœbus knew I never found Thy interest in sacred poesy; Thou to invention add’st but surquedry, 30 A gaudy ornature, but hast no part In that soul-pleasing high infusèd art. Then if thou wilt clip kindly in my lines, Welcome, thou friendly aid of my designs: If not, no title of my senseless change To wrest some forcèd rhyme, but freely range. Ye scrupulous observers, go and learn Of Æsop’s dog; meat from a shade discern.

Hang thyself, Drusus: hast nor arms nor brain? So Sophi say, “The gods sell all for pain.” Not so. Had not that toiling Theban’s[484] steelèd back Dread poisoned shafts, lived he now, he should lack Spite of his farming ox-stalls. Themis’ self Would be cashier’d from one poor scrap of pelf. If that she were incarnate in our time, She might lusk,[485] scornèd in disdainèd slime, Shaded from honour by some envious mist 10 Of wat’ry fogs, that fill the ill-stuff’d list Of fair Desert, jealous even of blind dark, Lest it should spy, and at their lameness bark. “Honour’s shade thrusts honour’s substance from his place.” ’Tis strange, when shade the substance can disgrace. “Harsh lines!” cries Curus, whose ears ne’er rejoice But at the quavering of my lady’s voice. Rude limping lines fits this lewd halting age: Sweet-scenting Curus, pardon then my rage, When wisards[486] swear plain virtue never thrives, 20 None but Priapus by plain dealing wives. Then, subtile Hermes, are the destinies Enamour’d on thee! Then up, mount the skies, Advance, depose, do even what thou list, So long as fates do grace thy juggling fist. Tuscus, hast Beuclerc’s arms and strong sinews, Large reach, full-fed veins, ample revenues? Then make thy markets by thy proper arm; O brawny strength is an all-canning[487] charm! Thou dreadless Thracian![488] hast Hallirhothius slain? 30 What, is’t not possible thy cause maintain Before the dozen Areopagites? Come, Enagonian,[489] furnish him with sleights. Tut, Pluto’s wrath Proserpina can melt, So that thy sacrifice be freely felt. What! cannot Juno force in bed with Jove, Turn and return a sentence with her love?— Thou art too dusky.—Fie, thou shallow ass! Put on more eyes, and mark me as I pass. Well, plainly thus: “Sleight, force are mighty things, 40 From which much (if not most) earth’s glory springs. If virtue’s self were clad in human shape, Virtue without these might go beg and scrape. The naked truth is, a well-clothèd lie, A nimble quick pate mounts to dignity; By force or fraud, that matters not a jot, So massy wealth may fall unto thy lot.” I heard old Albius swear Flavus should have His eldest girl, for Flavus was a knave, A damn’d deep-reaching villain, and would mount 50 (He durst well warrant him) to great account; What, though he laid forth all his stock and store Upon some office, yet he’ll gain much more, Though purchased dear; tut, he will treble it In some few terms, by his extorting wit. When I, in simple meaning, went to sue For tongue-tied Damus, that would needs go woo, I prais’d him for his virtuous honest life. “By God,” cries Flora, “I’ll not be his wife! He’ll ne’er come on.” Now I swear solemnly, 60 When I go next I’ll praise his villainy: A better field to range in nowadays. If vice be virtue, I can all men praise. What, though pale Maurus paid huge simonies For his half-dozen gelded vicaries,[490] Yet, with good honest cut-throat usury, I fear he’ll mount to reverent[491] dignity. “O sleight, all-canning sleight, all-damning sleight, The only gally-ladder unto might.” Tuscus is trade-fall’n; yet great hope he’ll rise, 70 For now he makes no count of perjuries; Hath drawn false lights[492] from pitch-black loveries,[493] Glazed his braided[494] ware, cogs, swears, and lies; Now since he hath the grace, thus graceless be, His neighbours swear he’ll swell with treasury. Tut, who maintains such goods, ill-got, decay? No, they’ll stick by thy[495] soul, they’ll ne’er away. Luscus, my lord’s perfumer, had no sale Until he made his wife a brothel-stale. Absurd, the gods sell all for industry, 80 When what’s not got by hell-bred villainy! Codrus, my well-faced lady’s tail-bearer (He that sometimes play’th Flavia’s usherer), I heard one day complain to Lynceus How vigilant, how right obsequious, Modest in carriage, how true in trust, And yet (alas!) ne’er guerdon’d with a crust. But now I see he finds by his accounts That sole Priapus, by plain-dealing, mounts. How now? What, droops the new Pegasian inn? 90 I fear mine host is honest. Tut, begin To set up whorehouse; ne’er too late to thrive; By any means, at Porta Rich arrive; Go use some sleight, or live poor Irus’ life; Straight prostitute thy daughter or thy wife, And soon be wealthy; but be damn’d with it. Hath not rich Milo then deep-reaching wit? Fair age! When ’tis a high and hard thing t’ have repute Of a complete villain, perfect, absolute; 100 And roguing virtue brings a man defame, A packstaff[496] epithet, and scornèd name. Fie, how my wit flags! How heavily Methinks I vent dull sprightless poesy! What cold black frost congeals my numbèd brain! What envious power stops a satire’s vein! O now I know the juggling god of sleights, With Caduceus nimble Hermes fights, And mists my wit; offended that my rhymes Display his odious world-abusing crimes. 110 O be propitious, powerful god of arts! I sheathe my weapons, and do break my darts. Be then appeased; I’ll offer to thy shrine An hecatomb of many spotted kine. Myriads of beasts shall satisfy thy rage, Which do profane thee in this apish age. Infectious blood, ye gouty humours quake, Whilst my sharp razor doth incision make.

Curio, know’st me? Why, thou bottle-ale,[497] Thou barmy[498] froth! O stay me, lest I rail Beyond Nil ultra! to see this butterfly, This windy bubble, task my balladry With senseless censure. Curio, know’st my sprite? Yet deem’st that in sad[499] seriousness I write Such nasty stuff as is Pygmalion? Such maggot-tainted, lewd corruption! Ha, how he glavers[500] with his fawning snout, And swears he thought I meant but faintly flout 10 My fine smug rhyme. O barbarous dropsy-noul![501] Think’st thou that genius that attends my soul, And guides my fist to scourge magnificos, Will deign my mind be rank’d in Paphian shows? Think’st thou that I, which was create to whip Incarnate fiends, will once vouchsafe to trip A pavin’s[502] traverse, or will lisp “Sweet love,” Or pule “Aye me,” some female soul to move? Think’st thou that I in melting poesy Will pamper itching sensuality 20 (That in the body’s scum all fatally Entombs the soul’s most sacred faculty)? Hence, thou misjudging censor: know I wrot Those idle rhymes to note the odious spot And blemish that deforms the lineaments Of modern poesy’s habiliments. O that the beauties of invention, For want of judgment’s disposition, Should all be spoil’d![503] O that such treasury, Such strain of well-conceited poesy, 30 Should moulded be in such a shapeless form, That want of art should make such wit a scorn! Here’s one must invocate some loose-legg’d dame, Some brothel drab, to help him stanzas frame, Or else (alas!) his wits can have no vent, To broach conceit’s industrious intent. Another yet dares tremblingly come out; But first he must invoke good Colin Clout. Yon’s one hath yean’d a fearful prodigy, Some monstrous misshapen balladry; 40 His guts are in his brains, huge jobbernoul,[504] Right gurnet’s-head;[505] the rest without all soul. Another walks, is lazy, lies him down, Thinks, reads, at length some wonted sleep doth crown His new-fall’n lids, dreams; straight, ten pound to one, Out steps some fairy with quick motion, And tells him wonders of some flow’ry vale; Awakes, straight rubs his eyes, and prints his tale. Yon’s one whose strains have flown so high a pitch, That straight he flags and tumbles in a ditch. 50 His sprightly hot high-soaring poesy Is like that dreamèd of imagery, Whose head was gold, breast silver, brassy thigh, Lead legs, clay feet;[506] O fair-framed poesy! Here’s one, to get an undeserved repute Of deep deep learning, all in fustian suit Of ill passed, far-fetch’d words attiereth His period, that sense forsweareth. Another makes old Homer Spenser cite, Like my Pygmalion, where, with rare[507] delight, 60 He cries, “O Ovid!” This caus’d my idle quill, The world’s dull ears with such lewd stuff to fill, And gull with bumbast lines the witless sense Of these odd nags, whose pates’ circumference Is fill’d with froth. O these same buzzing gnats That sting my sleeping brows, these Nilus’ rats,[508] Half dung, that have their life from putrid slime— These that do praise my loose lascivious rhyme! For these same shades, I seriously protest, I slubbered up that chaos indigest, 70 To fish for fools that stalk in goodly shape; “What, though in velvet cloak, yet still an ape.” Capro reads, swears, scrubs, and swears again, “Now by my soul an admirable strain;” Strokes up his hair, cries, “Passing passing good;” O, there’s a line incends his lustful blood! Then Muto comes, with his new glass-set face, And with his late-kiss’d hand my book doth grace, Straight reads, then smiles, and lisps, “’Tis pretty good,” And praiseth that he never understood. 80 But room for Flaccus, he’ll my Satires read; O how I trembled straight with inward dread! But when I saw him read my fustian, And heard him swear I was a Pythian, Yet straight recall’d, and swears I did but quote Out of Xylinum[509] to that margent’s note, I could scarce hold and keep myself conceal’d, But had well-nigh myself and all reveal’d. Then straight comes Friscus, that neat gentleman, That new-discarded academian, 90 Who, for he could cry Ergo in the school, Straightway with his huge judgment dares control Whatsoe’er he views: “That’s pretty, pretty[510] good; That epithet hath not that sprightly blood Which should enforce it speak; that’s Persius’ vein; That’s Juvenal’s; here’s Horace’ crabbèd strain;” Though he ne’er read one line in Juvenal, Or, in his life, his lazy eye let fall On dusky Persius. O, indignity To my respectless free-bred poesy! 100 Hence, ye big-buzzing little-bodied gnats, Ye tattling echoes, huge-tongued pigmy brats: I mean to sleep: wake not my slumb’ring brain With your malignant, weak, detracting vein. What though the sacred issue of my soul I here expose to idiots’ control; What though I bare to lewd opinion, Lay ope to vulgar profanation, My very genius,—yet know, my poesy Doth scorn your utmost, rank’st indignity; 110 My pate was great with child, and here ’tis eased; Vex all the world, so that thyself be pleased.

A man,[511] a man, a kingdom for a man! Why, how now, currish, mad Athenian? Thou Cynic dog, see’st not the[512] streets do swarm With troops of men? No, no: for Circe’s charm Hath turn’d them all to swine. I never shall Think those same Samian[513] saws authentical: But rather, I dare swear, the souls of swine Do live in men. For that same radiant shine— That lustre wherewith Nature’s nature decked Our intellectual part—that gloss is soiled 10 With staining spots of vile impiety, And muddy dirt of sensuality. These are no men, but apparitions, Ignes fatui, glowworms, fictions,[514] Meteors, rats of Nilus, fantasies, Colosses, pictures, shades, resemblances. Ho, Lynceus! Seest thou yon gallant in the sumptuous clothes, How brisk, how spruce, how gorgeously he shows? Note his French herring-bones:[515] but note no more, 20 Unless thou spy his fair appendant whore, That lackies him. Mark nothing but his clothes, His new-stamp’d compliment, his cannon oaths; Mark those: for naught but such lewd viciousness E’er gracèd him, save Sodom beastliness. Is this a man? Nay, an incarnate devil, That struts in vice and glorieth in evil. A man, a man! Peace, Cynic, yon is one: A complete soul of all perfection. What, mean’st thou him that walks all open-breasted, 30 Drawn through the ear, with ribands,[516] plumy-crested; He that doth snort in fat-fed luxury, And gapes for some grinding monopoly; He that in effeminate invention, In beastly source of all pollution, In riot, lust, and fleshly seeming sweetness, Sleeps sound, secure, under the shade of greatness? Mean’st thou that senseless, sensual epicure— That sink of filth, that guzzel[517] most impure— What, he? Lynceus, on my word thus presume, 40 He’s nought but clothes, and scenting sweet perfume; His very soul, assure thee, Lynceus, Is not so big as is an atomus: Nay, he is spriteless, sense or soul hath none, Since last Medusa turn’d him to a stone. A man, a man! Lo, yonder I espy The shade of Nestor in sad gravity. Since old Silenus brake his ass’s back, He now is forc’d his paunch and guts to pack In a fair tumbrel.[518] Why, sour satirist, 50 Canst thou unman him? Here I dare insist And soothly say, he is a perfect soul, Eats nectar, drinks ambrosia, sans control; An inundation of felicity Fats him with honour and huge treasury. Canst thou not, Lynceus, cast thy searching eye, And spy his imminent[519] catastrophe? He’s but a sponge, and shortly needs must leese[520] His wrong-got juice, when greatness’ fist shall squeeze His liquor out. Would not some shallow[521] head, 60 That is with seeming shadows only fed, Swear yon same damask-coat, yon garded[522] man, Were some grave sober Cato Utican? When, let him but in judgment’s sight uncase, He’s naught but budge,[523] old gards, brown fox-fur face; He hath no soul the which the Stagyrite Term’d rational: for beastly appetite, Base dunghill thoughts, and sensual action, Hath made him lose that fair creation. And now no man, since Circe’s magic charm 70 Hath turn’d him to a maggot that doth swarm In tainted flesh, whose foul corruption Is his fair food: whose generation Another’s ruin. O Canaan’s dread curse, To live in people’s sins! Nay, far more worse, To muck rank hate! But, sirra Lynceus, Seest thou that troop that now effronteth us? They are naught but eels,[524] that never will appear Till that tempestuous winds or thunder tear Their slimy beds. But prithee stay a while; 80 Look, yon comes John-a-Noke and John-a-Stile; They are nought but slow-paced, dilatory pleas, Demure demurrers, still striving to appease Hot zealous love. The language that they speak Is the pure barbarous blacksaunt[525] of the Gete; Their only skill rests in collusions, Abatements, stoppels, inhibitions. Heavy-paced jades, dull-pated jobbernouls, Quick in delays, checking with vain controls Fair Justice’ course; vile necessary evils, 90 Smooth-seeming saints, yet damn’d incarnate devils. Far be it from my sharp satiric muse, Those grave and reverent[526] legists to abuse, That aid Astræa, that do further right; But these Megeras that inflame despite, That broach deep rancour, that study still To ruin right, that they their paunch may fill With Irus’ blood—these furies I do mean, These hedgehogs, that disturb Astrea’s scene. A man, a man! Peace, Cynic, yon’s a man; 100 Behold yon sprightly dread Mavortian; With him I stop thy currish barking chops.— What, mean’st thou him that in his swaggering slops Wallows unbracèd, all along the street; He that salutes each gallant he doth meet With “Farewell, sweet captain, kind heart, adieu;” He that last night, tumbling thou didst view From out the great man’s head,[527] and thinking still He had been sentinel of warlike Brill,[528] Cries out, “Que va la? zounds, que?” and out doth draw 110 His transform’d poniard, to a syringe straw, And stabs the drawer? What, that ringo-root![529] Mean’st thou that wasted leg, puff bumbast boot; What, he that’s drawn and quarterèd with lace; That Wesphalian gammon clove-stuck[530] face? Why, he is nought but huge blaspheming oaths, Swart snout, big looks, misshapen Switzers’[531] clothes; Weak meagre lust hath now consumèd quite, And wasted clean away his martial sprite; Enfeebling riot, all vices’ confluence, 120 Hath eaten out that sacred influence Which made him man. That divine part is soak’d away in sin, In sensual lust, and midnight bezelling,[532] Rank inundation of luxuriousness[533] Have tainted him with such gross beastliness, That now the seat of that celestial essence Is all possess’d with Naples’ pestilence.[534] Fat peace, and dissolute impiety, Have lullèd him in such security, 130 That now, let whirlwinds and confusion tear The centre of our state; let giants’ rear Hill upon hill; let western termagant Shake heaven’s vault: he, with his occupant,[535] Are cling’d so close, like dew-worms in the morn, That he’ll not stir till out his guts are torn With eating filth. Tubrio, snort on, snort on, Till thou art waked with sad confusion. Now rail no more at my sharp cynic sound, Thou brutish world, that in all vileness drown’d 140 Hast lost thy soul: for nought but shades I see— Resemblances of men inhabit thee. Yon tissue slop, yon holy-crossèd pane,[536] Is but a water-spaniel that will fawn, And kiss the water, whilst it pleasures him; But being once arrivèd at the brim, He shakes it off. Yon in the cap’ring cloak, a mimic ape, That only strives to seem another’s shape. Yon’s Æsop’s ass; yon sad civility 150 Is but an ox that with base drudgery Ears up the land, whilst some gilt ass doth chaw The golden wheat, he well apaid with straw. Yon’s but a muckhill overspread with snow, Which with that veil doth even as fairly show As the green meads, whose native outward fair[537] Breathes sweet perfumes into the neighbour air. Yon effeminate sanguine Ganymede Is but a beaver,[538] hunted for the bed. Peace, Cynic; see, what yonder doth approach; 160 A cart? a tumbrel? No, a badged[539] coach. What’s in’t? Some man. No, nor yet womankind, But a celestial angel, fair, refined. The devil as soon! Her mask so hinders me, I cannot see her beauty’s deity. Now that is off, she is so vizarded, So steep’d in lemon’s[540] juice, so surphulèd, I cannot see her face. Under one hood Two faces; but I never understood Or saw one face under two hoods till now: 170 ’Tis the right resemblance of old Janus’ brow. Her mask, her vizard, her loose-hanging gown (For her loose-lying body), her bright-spangled crown, Her long slit sleeve,[541] stiff busk, puff verdingal, Is all that makes her thus angelical. Alas! her soul struts round about her neck; Her seat of sense is her rebato[542] set; Her intellectual is a feignèd niceness, Nothing but clothes and simpering preciseness. Out on these puppets, painted images, 180 Haberdashers’ shops, torchlight maskeries, Perfuming-pans, Dutch ancients,[543] glow-worms bright, That soil our souls, and damp our reason’s light! Away, away, hence, coachman, go enshrine Thy new-glazed puppet in port Esquiline![544] Blush, Martia, fear not, or look pale, all’s one; Margara keeps thy set complexion. Sure I ne’er think those axioms to be true, That souls of men from that great soul ensue, And of his essence do participate 190 As ’twere by pipes; when so degenerate, So adverse is our nature’s motion To his immaculate condition, That such foul filth from such fair purity, Such sensual acts from such a Deity, Can ne’er proceed. But if that dream were so, Then sure the slime, that from our souls do flow, Have stopp’d those pipes by which it was convey’d, And now no human creatures, once disray’d Of that fair gem. 200 Beasts’ sense, plants’ growth, like being as a stone; But out, alas! our cognisance is gone.

In serious jest, and jesting seriousness, I strive to scourge polluting beastliness; I invocate no Delian deity, No sacred offspring of Mnemosyne; I pray in aid of no Castalian[545] muse, No nymph, no female angel, to infuse A sprightly wit to raise my flagging wings, And teach me tune these harsh discordant strings. I crave no sirens of our halcyon times, To grace the accents of my rough-hew’d rhymes; 10 But grim Reproof, stern hate of villainy, Inspire and guide a Satire’s poesy. Fair Detestation of foul odious sin, In which our swinish times lie wallowing, Be thou my conduct and my genius, My wits-inciting sweet-breath’d Zephyrus. O that a Satire’s hand had force to pluck Some floodgate up, to purge the world from muck! Would God I could turn Alpheus river in, To purge this Augean oxstall from foul sin! 20 Well, I will try; awake, Impurity, And view the veil drawn from thy villainy!

Curio, aye me! thy mistress’ monkey’s dead; Alas, alas, her pleasure’s burièd! Go, woman’s slave, perform his exequies, Condole his death in mournful elegies. Tut, rather pæans sing, hermaphrodite; For that sad death gives life to thy delight. Sweet-faced Corinna, deign the riband tie Of thy cork-shoe, or else thy slave will die: Some puling sonnet tolls his passing bell, Some sighing elegy must ring his knell, 10 Unless bright sunshine of thy grace revive His wambling stomach, certes he will dive Into the whirlpool of devouring death, And to some mermaid sacrifice his breath. Then oh, oh then, to thy eternal shame, And to the honour of sweet Curio’s name, This epitaph, upon the marble stone, Must fair be graved of that true-loving one:

“Here lieth he, he lieth here, That bounced and pity cried: 20 The door not oped, fell sick, alas, Alas, fell sick and died!”

What Myrmidon, or hard Dolopian, What savage-minded rude Cyclopian, But such a sweet pathetic Paphian Would force to laughter? Ho, Amphitrion, Thou art no cuckold. What, though Jove dallièd, During thy wars, in fair Alcmena’s bed, Yet Hercules, true born, that imbecility Of corrupt nature, all apparently 30 Appears in him. O foul indignity! I heard him vow himself a slave to Omphale, Puling “Aye me!” O valour’s obloquy! He that the inmost nooks of hell did know, Whose ne’er-crazed[546] prowess all did overthrow, Lies streaking[547] brawny limbs in weak’ning bed; Perfumed, smooth-kemb’d, new glazed, fair surphulèd. O that the boundless power of the soul Should be subjected to such base control! Big-limb’d Alcides, doff thy honour’s crown, 40 Go spin, huge slave, lest Omphale should frown. By my best hopes, I blush with grief and shame To broach the peasant baseness of our name. O, now my ruder hand begins to quake, To think what lofty cedars I must shake; But if the canker fret, the barks of oaks, Like humbler shrubs, shall equal bear the strokes Of my respectless rude satiric hand. Unless the Destin’s adamantine band Should tie my teeth, I cannot choose, but bite, 50 To view Mavortius metamorphos’d quite, To puling sighs, and into “Aye me’s” state, With voice distinct, all fine articulate, Lisping, “Fair saint, my woe compassionate; By heaven! thine eye is my soul-guiding fate.” The god of wounds had wont on Cyprian couch To streak himself, and with incensing touch To faint his force, only when wrath had end; But now, ’mong furious garboils,[548] he doth spend His feebled valour, in tilt and tourneying, 60 With wet turn’d kisses, melting dallying. A pox upon’t that Bacchis’[549] name should be The watchword given to the soldiery! Go, troop to field, mount thy obscurèd fame, Cry out St. George, invoke thy mistress’ name; Thy mistress and St. George, alarum cry! Weak force, weak aid, that sprouts from luxury! Thou tedious[550] workmanship of lust-stung Jove, Down from thy skies, enjoy our females’ love: Some fifty more Beotian girls will sue 70 To have thy love, so that thy back be true. O, now me thinks I hear swart Martius cry, Swooping[551] along in wars’ feign’d maskery; By Lais’ starry front he’ll forthwith dye In clutter’d[552] blood, his mistress’ livery; Her fancy’s colours waves upon his head. O, well-fenced Albion, mainly manly sped, When those that are soldadoes[553] in thy state Do bear the badge of base, effeminate, Even on their plumy crests; brutes sensual, 80 Having no spark of intellectual! Alack! what hope, when some rank nasty wench Is subject of their vows and confidence? Publius hates vainly to idolatrise[554] And laughs that Papists honour images; And yet (O madness!) these mine eyes did see Him melt in moving plaints, obsequiously Imploring favour; twining his kind arms, Using enchantments, exorcisms, charms; The oil of sonnets, wanton blandishment, 90 The force of tears, and seeming languishment, Unto the picture of a painted lass! I saw him court his mistress’ looking-glass, Worship a busk-point, which, in secresy, I fear was conscious of strange villainy; I saw him crouch, devote his livelihood, Swear, protest, vow peasant servitude Unto a painted puppet; to her eyes I heard him swear his sighs to sacrifice. But if he get her itch-allaying pin, 100 O sacred relic! straight he must begin To rave outright,—then thus: “Celestial bliss, Can Heaven grant so rich a grace as this? Touch it not (by the Lord! sir), ’tis divine! It once beheld her radiant eye’s bright shine! Her hair embraced it. O thrice-happy prick, That there was throned, and in her hair didst stick!” Kiss, bless, adore it, Publius, never lin; Some sacred virtue lurketh in the pin. O frantic, fond, pathetic passion! 110 Is’t possible such sensual action Should clip the wings of contemplation? O can it be the spirit’s function, The soul, not subject to dimension, Should be made slave to reprehension Of crafty nature’s paint? Fie! can our soul Be underling to such a vile control? Saturio wish’d himself his mistress’ busk, That he might sweetly lie, and softly lusk[555] Between her paps; then must he have an eye 120 At either end, that freely might descry Both hills and dales. But, out on Phrigio, That wish’d he were his mistress’ dog, to go And lick her milk-white fist! O pretty grace! That pretty Phrigio begs but Pretty’s place. Parthenophil,[556] thy wish I will omit, So beastly ’tis I may not utter it. But Punicus, of all I’ll bear with thee, That fain wouldst be thy mistress’ smug monkey. Here’s one would be a flea[557] (jest comical!); 130 Another, his sweet lady’s verdingal, To clip her tender breech; another, he Her silver-handled fan would gladly be; Here’s one would be his mistress’ necklace, fain To clip her fair, and kiss her azure vein. Fond fools, well wish’d, and pity but [’t] should be; For beastly shape to brutish souls agree. If Laura’s painted lip do deign a kiss To her enamour’d slave, “O Heaven’s bliss!” (Straight he exclaims) “not to be match’d with this!” Blaspheming dolt! go threescore sonnets write 141 Upon a picture’s kiss, O raving sprite! I am not sapless, old, or rheumatic, No Hipponax, misshapen stigmatic,[558] That I should thus inveigh ’gainst amorous sprite Of him whose soul doth turn hermaphrodite; But I do sadly grieve, and inly vex, To view the base dishonour of our sex. Tush! guiltless doves, when gods, to force foul rapes, Will turn themselves to any brutish shapes; 150 Base bastard powers, whom the world doth see Transform’d to swine for sensual luxury! The son of Saturn is become a bull, To crop the beauties of some female trull. Now, when he hath his first wife Metis[559] sped, And fairly choked,[560] lest foul[561] gods should be bred Of that fond mule; Themis, his second wife, Hath turn’d away, that his unbridled life Might have more scope; yet, last, his sister’s love Must satiate the lustful thoughts of Jove. 160 Now doth the lecher in a cuckold’s shape, Commit a monstrous and incestuous rape. Thrice sacred gods! and O thrice blessèd skies, Whose orbs include such virtuous deities! What should I say? Lust hath confounded all; The bright gloss of our intellectual Is foully soil’d. The wanton wallowing In fond delights, and amorous dallying, Hath dusk’d the fairest splendour of our soul; Nothing now left but carcass, loathsome, foul; 170 For sure, if that some sprite remainèd still, Could it be subject to lewd Lais’ will? Reason, by prudence in her function, Had wont to tutor all our action, Aiding, with precepts of philosophy, Our feeblèd natures’ imbecility; But now affection, will, concupiscence, Have got o’er reason chief pre-eminence. ’Tis so; else how should such vile baseness taint As force it be made slave to nature’s paint? 180 Methinks the spirit’s Pegase, Fantasy, Should hoise the soul from such base slavery; But now I see, and can right plainly show From whence such abject thoughts and actions grow. Our adverse body, being earthly, cold, Heavy, dull, mortal, would not long enfold A stranger inmate, that was backward still To all his dungy, brutish, sensual will: Now hereupon our intellectual, Compact of fire all celestial, 190 Invisible, immortal, and divine, Grew straight to scorn his landlord’s muddy slime; And therefore now is closely slunk away (Leaving his smoky house of mortal clay), Adorn’d with all his beauty’s lineaments And brightest gems of shining ornaments, His parts divine, sacred, spiritual, Attending on him; leaving the sensual Base hangers-on lusking at home in slime, Such as wont to stop port Esquiline.[562] 200 Now doth the body, led with senseless will (The which, in reason’s absence, ruleth still), Rave, talk idly, as ’twere some deity, Adoring[563] female painted puppetry; Playing at put-pin,[564] doting on some glass (Which, breath’d but on, his falsèd gloss doth pass); Toying with babies,[565] and with fond pastime, Some children’s sport, deflow’ring of chaste time; Employing all his wits in vain expense, Abusing all his organons of sense. 210 Return, return, sacred Synderesis! Inspire our trunks! Let not such mud as this Pollute us still. Awake our lethargy, Raise us from out our brain-sick foolery!

Grim-faced Reproof, sparkle with threatening eye! Bend thy sour brows in my tart poesy! Avaunt! ye curs, howl in some cloudy mist, Quake to behold a sharp-fang’d satirist! O how on tip-toes proudly mounts my muse! Stalking a loftier gait than satires use. Methinks some sacred rage warms all my veins, Making my sprite mount up to higher strains Than well beseems a rough-tongu’d satire’s part; But Art curbs Nature, Nature guideth[567] Art. 10 Come down, ye apes, or I will strip you quite, Baring your bald tails to the people’s sight! Ye mimic slaves, what, are you perch’d so high? Down, Jackanapes, from thy feign’d royalty! What! furr’d with beard—cast in a satin suit, Judicial Jack? How hast thou got repute Of a sound censure? O idiot times, When gaudy monkeys mow o’er spritely rhymes! O world of fools! when all men’s judgment’s set, And rests[568] upon some mumping marmoset! 20 Yon Athens’ ape (that can but simp’ringly Yaul “Auditores humanissimi!” Bound to some servile imitation, Can, with much sweat, patch an oration) Now up he comes, and with his crookèd eye Presumes to squint on some fair poesy; And all as thankless as ungrateful Thames, He slinks away, leaving but reeking steams Of dungy slime behind. All as ingrate He useth it as when I satiate 30 My spaniel’s paunch, who straight perfumes the room With his tail’s filth: so this uncivil groom, Ill-tutor’d pedant, Mortimer’s[569] numbers With muck-pit Esculine filth bescumbers.[570] Now the ape chatters, and is as malcontent As a bill-patch’d door, whose entrails out have sent And spewed their tenant. My soul adores judicial scholarship; But when to servile imitatorship Some spruce Athenian pen is prenticèd, 40 ’Tis worse than apish. Fie! be not flatterèd With seeming worth! Fond affectation Befits an ape, and mumping babion.[571] O what a tricksy, learnèd, nicking strain Is this applauded, senseless, modern vein![572] When late I heard it from sage Mutius’ lips, How ill, methought, such wanton jigging skips Beseem’d his graver speech. “Far fly thy fame, Most, most of me beloved! whose silent name One letter bounds. Thy true judicial style 50 I ever honour; and, if my love beguile Not much my hopes, then thy unvalued worth Shall mount fair place, when apes are turnèd forth.” I am too mild. Reach me my scourge again; O yon’s a pen speaks in a learned vein, Deep, past all sense. Lanthorn and candle-light![573] Here’s all invisible—all mental sprite! What hotch-potch gibberidge doth the poet bring? How strangely speaks, yet sweetly doth he sing? I once did know a tinkling pewterer, 60 That was the vilest stumbling stutterer That ever hack’d and hew’d our native tongue, Yet to the lute if you had heard him sung, Jesu! how sweet he breath’d! You can apply. O senseless prose, judicial poesy, How ill you’re link’d! This affectation, To speak beyond men’s apprehension, How apish ’tis, when all in fustian suit Is cloth’d a huge nothing, all for repute Of profound knowledge, when profoundness knows 70 There’s naught contain’d but only seeming shows! Old Jack of Paris-garden, canst thou get A fair rich suit, though foully run in debt? Look smug, smell sweet, take up commodities,[574] Keep whores, fee bawds, belch impious blasphemies, Wallow along in swaggering disguise, Snuff up smoke-whiffs, and each morn, ’fore she rise, Visit thy drab? Canst use a false-cut die With a clean grace and glib facility? Canst thunder cannon-oaths, like th’ rattling 80 Of a huge, double, full-charg’d culvering?[575] Then Jack, troop ’mong our gallants, kiss thy fist, And call them brothers; say a satirist Swears they are thine in near affinity, All cousin-germans, save in villainy; For (sadly, truth to say) what are they else But imitators of lewd beastliness? Far worse than apes; for mow or scratch your pate, It may be some odd ape will imitate; But let a youth that hath abused his time 90 In wrongèd travel, in that hotter clime, Swoop by old Jack, in clothes Italianate, And I’ll be hang’d if he will imitate His strange fantastic suit-shapes: Or let him bring o’er beastly luxuries, Some hell-devisèd lustful villanies, Even apes and beasts would blush with native shame, And think it foul dishonour to their name, Their beastly name, to imitate such sin As our lewd youths do boast and glory in. 100 Fie! whither do these monkeys carry me? Their very names do soil my poesy. Thou world of marmosets and mumping apes, Unmask, put off thy feignèd, borrowed shapes! Why looks neat Curus all so simp’ringly? Why babblest thou of deep divinity, And of that sacred testimonial, Living voluptuous like a bacchanal? Good hath thy tongue; but thou, rank Puritan, I’ll make an ape as good a Christian; 110 I’ll force him chatter, turning up his eye, Look sad, go grave; demure civility Shall seem to say, “Good brother, sister dear!” As for the rest, to snort in belly-cheer,[576] To bite, to gnaw, and boldly intermel With sacred things, in which thou dost excel, Unforced he’ll do. O take compassion Even on your souls! Make not Religion A bawd to lewdness. Civil Socrates, Clip not the youth of Alcibiades 120 With unchaste arms. Disguisèd Messaline, I’ll tear thy mask, and bare thee to the eyn Of hissing boys, if to the theatres I find thee once more come for lecherers, To satiate (nay, to tire) thee with the use Of weak’ning lust. Ye feigners, leave t’ abuse Our better thoughts with your hypocrisy; Or, by the ever-living verity! I’ll strip you nak’d, and whip you with my rhymes, Causing your shame to live to after-times. 130

From out the sadness of my discontent, Hating my wonted jocund merriment (Only to give dull time a swifter wing), Thus scorning scorn, of idiot fools I sing. I dread no bending of an angry brow, Or rage of fools that I shall purchase now; Who’ll scorn to sit in rank of foolery, When I’ll be master of the company? For prithee, Ned, I prithee, gentle lad, Is not he frantic, foolish, bedlam mad, 10 That wastes his sprite, that melts his very brain In deep designs, in wit’s dark gloomy strain? That scourgeth great slaves with a dreadless fist, Playing the rough part of a satirist, To be perused by all the dung-scum rabble Of thin-brain’d idiots, dull, incapable, For mimic apish scholars, pedants, gulls, Perfumed inamoratos, brothel-trulls? Whilst I (poor soul) abuse chaste virgin time, Deflow’ring her with unconceived rhyme. 20 “Tut, tut; a toy of an idle empty brain, Some scurril jests, light gewgaws, fruitless, vain,” Cries beard-grave Dromus; when, alas! God knows His toothless gums ne’er chaw but outward shows. Poor budge-face,[578] bowcase sleeve: but let him pass; “Once fur and beard shall privilege an ass.” And tell me, Ned, what might that gallant be, Who, to obtain intemperate luxury, Cuckolds his elder brother, gets an heir, By which his hope is turnèd to despair? 30 In faith (good Ned), he damn’d himself with cost; For well thou know’st full goodly land was lost. I am too private. Yet methinks an ass Rhymes well with viderit utilitas; Even full as well, I boldly dare aver, As any of that stinking scavenger Which from his dunghill be dedaubèd on The latter page of old Pygmalion. O that this brother of hypocrisy (Applauded by his pure fraternity) 40 Should thus be puffèd, and so proud insist As play on me the epigrammatist! “Opinion mounts this froth unto the skies, Whom judgment’s reason justly vilifies.” For (shame to the poet) read, Ned, behold How wittily a master’s hood can scold!

I ask’d Physicians what their counsel was For a mad dog, or for a mankind ass? They told me, though there were confections’ store Of poppy-seed and sovereign hellebore, 50 The dog was best cured by cutting and kinsing,[579] The ass must be kindly whipped for winsing. Now then, S. K., I little pass. Whether thou be a mad dog or a mankind ass.

Smart[580] jerk of wit! Did ever such a strain Rise from an apish schoolboy’s childish brain? Dost thou not blush, good Ned, that such a scent Should rise from thence, where thou hadst nutriment? “Shame to Opinion, that perfumes his dung, And streweth flowers rotten bones among! 60 Juggling Opinion, thou enchanting witch! Paint not a rotten post[581] with colours rich.” But now this juggler, with the world’s consent, Hath half his[582] soul; the other, compliment; Mad world the whilst. But I forget me, I, I am seducèd with this poesy, And, madder than a bedlam, spend sweet time In bitter numbers, in this idle rhyme. Out on this humour! From a sickly bed, And from a moody mind distemperèd, 70 I vomit forth my love, now turn’d to hate, Scorning the honour of a poet’s state. Nor shall the kennel rout of muddy brains Ravish my muse’s heir, or hear my strains, Once more. No nitty[583] pedant shall correct Enigmas to his shallow intellect Enchantment, Ned, have ravishèd my sense In a poetic vain circumference. Yet thus I hope (God shield I now should lie), Many more fools, and most more wise than I. 80

Sleep, grim Reproof; my jocund muse doth sing In other keys, to nimbler fingering. Dull-sprighted Melancholy, leave my brain— To hell,[584] Cimmerian night! in lively vein I strive to paint, then hence all dark intent And sullen frowns! Come, sporting Merriment, Cheek-dimpling Laughter, crown my very soul With jouisance, whilst mirthful jests control The gouty humours of these pride-swoll’n days, Which I do long until my pen displays. 10 O, I am great with Mirth! some midwif’ry, Or I shall break my sides at vanity. Room for a capering mouth, whose lips ne’er stir But in discoursing of the graceful slur.[585] Who ever heard spruce skipping Curio E’er prate of ought but of the whirl on toe, The turn-above-ground, Robrus’ sprawling kicks, Fabius’ caper, Harry’s tossing tricks? Did ever any ear e’er hear him speak Unless his tongue of cross-points did entreat? 20 His teeth do caper whilst he eats his meat, His heels do caper whilst he takes his seat; His very soul, his intellectual Is nothing but a mincing capreal.[586] He dreams of toe-turns; each gallant he doth meet He fronts him with a traverse in the street. Praise but Orchestra,[587] and the skipping art, You shall command him, faith you have his heart Even cap’ring in your fist. A hall, a hall![588] Room for the spheres, the orbs celestial 30 Will dance Kempe’s[589] jig: they’ll revel with neat jumps; A worthy poet hath put on their pumps. O wit’s quick traverse, but sance ceo’s [?] slow; Good faith ’tis hard for nimble Curio. “Ye gracious orbs, keep the old measuring; All’s spoil’d if once ye fall to capering.” Luscus, what’s play’d to-day? Faith now I know I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow Naught but pure Juliet and Romeo. Say who acts best? Drusus or Roscio? 40 Now I have him, that ne’er of ought did speak But when of plays or players he did treat— Hath made a common-place[590] book out of plays, And speaks in print: at least what e’er he says Is warranted by Curtain plaudities. If e’er you heard him courting Lesbia’s eyes, Say (courteous sir), speaks he not movingly, From out some new pathetic tragedy? He writes, he rails, he jests, he courts (what not?), And all from out his huge long-scraped stock 50 Of well-penn’d plays. Oh come not within distance! Martius speaks, Who ne’er discourseth but of fencing feats, Of counter times,[591] finctures, sly passatas, Stramazones, resolute stoccatas, Of the quick change with wiping mandritta, The carricada, with the embrocata. “Oh, by Jesu, sir!” methinks I hear him cry, “The honourable fencing mystery Who doth not honour?” Then falls he in again, 60 Jading our ears, and somewhat must be sain Of blades and rapier-hilts, of surest guard, Of Vincentio,[592] and the Burgonian’s ward.[593] This bombast foil-button I once did see, By chance, in Livia’s modest company; When, after the god-saving ceremony, For want of talk-stuff, falls to foinery; Out goes his rapier, and to Livia He shows the ward by puncta reversa, The incarnata. Nay, by the blessed light! 70 Before he goes, he’ll teach her how to fight And hold her weapon. Oh I laugh amain, To see the madness of this Martius’ vein! But room for Tuscus, that jest-mounging youth Who ne’er did ope his apish gerning mouth But to retail and broke another’s wit Discourse of what you will, he straight can fit Your present talk, with “Sir, I’ll tell a jest” (Of some sweet lady, or grand lord at least). Then on he goes, and ne’er his tongue shall lie 80 Till his engrossèd jests are all drawn dry; But then as dumb as Maurus, when at play Hath lost his crowns, and pawn’d his trim array. He doth nought but retail jests: break but one, Out flies his table-book; let him alone, He’ll have it i’faith. Lad, hast an epigram, Wilt have it put into the chaps of fame? Give Tuscus copies; sooth, as his own wit (His proper issue) he will father it. O that this echo, that doth seek, spet, write 90 Nought but the excrements of others sprite, This ill-stuff’d trunk of jests (whose very soul Is but a heap of gibes) should once enroll His name ’mong creatures termed rational! Whose chief repute, whose sense, whose soul and all Are fed with offal scraps, that sometimes fall From liberal wits in their large festival. Come aloft, Jack! room for a vaulting skip, Room for Torquatus, that ne’er oped his lip But in prate of pommado reversa,[594] 100 Of the nimble, tumbling Angelica. Now, on my soul, his very intellect Is nought but a curvetting sommerset. “Hush, hush,” cries honest Philo, “peace, desist! Dost thou not tremble, sour satirist, Now that[595] judicial Musus readeth thee? He’ll whip each line, he’ll scourge thy balladry, Good faith he will.” Philo, I prithee stay Whilst I the humour of this dog display. He’s nought but censure; wilt thou credit me, 110 He never writ one line in poesy, But once at Athens in a theme did frame A paradox in praise of virtue’s name; Which still he hugs and lulls as tenderly As cuckold Tisus his wife’s bastardy? Well, here’s a challenge: I flatly say he lies That heard him ought but censure poesies; ’Tis his discourse, first having knit the brow, Stroke up his fore-top, champèd every row, Belcheth his slavering censure on each book 120 That dare presume even on Medusa look. I have no artist’s skill in symphonies, Yet when some pleasing diapason flies From out the belly of a sweet-touch’d lute, My ears dare[596] say ’tis good: or when they suit Some harsher sevens for variety, My native skill discerns it presently. What then? Will any sottish dolt repute, Or ever think me Orpheus absolute? Shall all the world of fidlers follow me, 130 Relying on my voice in musickry? Musus, here’s Rhodes; let’s see thy boasted leap, Or else avaunt, lewd cur, presume not speak, Or with thy venom-sputtering chaps to bark Gainst well-penn’d poems, in the tongue-tied dark. O for a humour, look, who yon doth go, The meagre lecher, lewd Luxurio! ’Tis he that hath the sole monopoly, By patent, of the suburb lechery; No new edition of drabs comes out, 140 But seen and allow’d by Luxurio’s snout. Did ever any man e’er hear him talk, But of Pick-hatch,[597] or of some Shoreditch balk, Aretine’s filth, or of his wand’ring whore;[598] Of some Cinædian, or of Tacedore; Of Ruscus’ nasty, loathsome brothel rhyme, That stinks like A-jax[599] froth, or muck-pit slime? The news he tells you is of some new flesh, Lately broke up, span new, hot piping fresh. The courtesy he shows you is some morn 150 To give you Venus ’fore her[600] smock be on. His eyes, his tongue, his soul, his all, is lust, Which vengeance and confusion follow must. Out on this salt humour, letcher’s dropsy, Fie! it doth soil my chaster poesy! O spruce! How now, Piso, Aurelius’ ape, What strange disguise, what new deformèd shape, Doth hold thy thoughts in contemplation? Faith say, what fashion art thou thinking on? A stitch’d taffeta cloak, a pair of slops 160 Of Spanish leather? O, who heard his chops E’er chew of ought but of some strange disguise? This fashion-monger, each morn ’fore he rise, Contemplates suit-shapes, and once from out his bed, He hath them straight full lively portrayèd. And then he chucks, and is as proud of this As Taphus when he got his neighbour’s bliss. All fashions, since the first year of this queen, May in his study fairly drawn be seen; And all that shall be to his day of doom; 170 You may peruse within that little room; For not a fashion once dare show his face, But from neat Piso first must take his grace: The long fool’s coat, the huge slop, the lugg’d[601] boot, From mimic Piso all do claim their root. O that the boundless power of the soul Should be coop’d up in fashioning some roll! But O, Suffenus! (that doth hug, embrace His proper self, admires his own sweet face; Praiseth his own fair limbs’ proportion, 180 Kisseth his shade, recounteth all alone His own good parts) who envies him? Not I, For well he may, without all rivalry. Fie! whither’s fled my sprite’s alacrity? How dull I vent this humorous poesy! In faith I am sad, I am possess’d with ruth, To see the vainness of fair Albion’s youth; To see their richest time even wholly spent In that which is but gentry’s ornament; Which, being meanly done, becomes them well; 190 But when with dear time’s loss they do excell, How ill they do things well! To dance and sing, To vault, to fence, and fairly trot[602] a ring With good grace, meanly done, O what repute They do beget! But being absolute, It argues too much time, too much regard Employ’d in that which might be better spar’d Than substance should be lost. If one should sue For Lesbia’s love, having two days to woo, And not one more, and should employ those twain 200 The favour of her waiting-wench to gain, Were he not mad? Your apprehension, Your wits are quick in application. Gallants, Methinks your souls should grudge and inly scorn To be made slaves[603] to humours that are born In slime of filthy sensuality. That part not subject to mortality (Boundless, discursive apprehension Giving it wings to act his function), 210 Methinks should murmur when you stop his course, And soil his beauties in some beastly source Of brutish pleasures; but it is so poor, So weak, so hunger-bitten, evermore Kept from his food, meagre for want of meat, Scorn’d and rejected, thrust from out his seat, Upbraid[604] by capons’ grease, consumèd quite By eating stews, that waste the better sprite, Snibb’d[605] by his baser parts, that now poor soul (Thus peasanted to each lewd thought’s control) 220 Hath lost all heart, bearing all injuries, The utmost spite and rank’st indignities, With forcèd willingness; taking great joy, If you will deign his faculties employ But in the mean’st ingenious quality. (How proud he’ll be of any dignity!) Put it to music, dancing, fencing-school, Lord, how I laugh to hear the pretty fool, How it will prate! His tongue shall never lie, But still discourse of his spruce quality, 230 Egging his master to proceed from this, And get the substance of celestial bliss. His lord straight calls his parliament of sense; But still the sensual have pre-eminence. The poor soul’s better part so feeble is, So cold and dead is his Synderesis, “That shadows, by odd chance, sometimes are got; But O the substance is respected not!” Here ends my rage. Though angry brow was bent, Yet I have sung in sporting merriment. 240

Thou mighty gulf, insatiate cormorant! Deride me not, though I seem petulant To fall into thy chops. Let others pray For ever their fair poems flourish may; But as for me, hungry Oblivion, Devour me quick, accept my orison, My earnest prayers, which do importune thee, With gloomy shade of thy still empery, To veil both me and my rude poesy. Far worthier lines, in silence of thy state, 10 Do sleep securely, free from love or hate; From which this living ne’er can be exempt, But whilst it breathes will hate and fury tempt: Then close his eyes with thy all-dimming hand, Which not right glorious actions can withstand. Peace, hateful tongues, I now in silence pace, Unless some hound do wake me from my place, I with this sharp, yet well-meant poesy, Will sleep secure, right free from injury Of canker’d hate, or rankest villainy. 20

Woman, Lady, Princess, Nymph, or Goddess, For more you are not, and you seem no less; Stay, and attempt not passage through this port, Here the pale Lord of Sadness keep[s] his court, Rough-visag’d Saturn, on whose bloodless cheeks, Dull Melancholy sits, who straightly seeks To seize on all that enter through this gate. Grant gracious listening, and I shall relate The means, the manner, and of all the sense, Whilst your fair eye enforceth eloquence. There was a time (and since that time the sun Hath not yet through nine signs of heaven run) When the high Sylvan, that commands these woods, And his bright Nymph, fairer than Queen of Floods, With most impatient longings hoped to view Her face to whom their hearts’ dear’st zeal was due. Youth’s joys to love, sweet light unto the blind, Beauty to virgins, or what wit can find Most dearly wished, was not so much desired As she to them; O my dull soul is fired To tell their longings, but it is a piece That would o’erload the famous tongues of Greece. Yet long they hop’d, till Rumour struck Hope dead, And showed their wishes were but flatterèd; For scarce her chariot cut the easy earth, And journeyed on, when Winter with cold breath Crosseth her way, her borrowed hair doth shine With glittering icicles all crystalline; Her brows were periwigg’d with softer snow, Her russet mantle, fringed with ice below, Sat[610] stiffly on her back; she thus came forth, Ushered with tempest of the frosty North; And seeing her, she thought she sure had seen The sweet-breath’d Flora, the bright Summer’s Queen. So full of cheerful grace she did appear, That Winter feared her face recalled the year, And forced untimely springs to seize her right, Whereat with anger and malicious spite She vows revenge; straight with tempestuous wings, From Taurus, Alps, and Scythian rocks she flings Their covering off, and here their thick fur spread, That patient earth was almost smotherèd. Up Boreas mounts, and doth so strongly blow Athwart her way huge drifts of blinding snow, That mountain-like, at length heaps rose so high, Man’s sight might doubt whether Heaven or Earth were sky. Hereat she turnèd back, and left her way (Necessity all mortals must obey); Which was no sooner voiced and hither flown, It sads me but to think what grief was shown; Which to augment (mishap ne’er single falls), The God of Sadness and of Funerals, Of heavy pensiveness and discontent, Cold and dull Saturn hither straight was sent. Myself, Merimna, who still wait upon Pale Melancholy and Desolation, Usher’d him in, when straight we strongly seize All this sad house, and vowed no means should ease These heavy bands which pensive Saturn tied, Till with wish’d grace this house was beautified. Pace then no further, for vouchsafe to know, Till her approach here can no comfort grow; ’Tis only one can their sad bondage break, Whose worth I may admire, not dare to speak. She’s so complete, that her much honoured state Gives Fortune Virtue, makes Virtue fortunate; As one in whom three rare mix’d virtues sit Seen seldom joinèd, Fortune, Beauty, Wit; To this choice Lady and to her dear state All hearts do open, as alone this gate; She only drives away dull Saturn hence, She whom to praise I need her eloquence!

Peace! stay, it is, it is, it is even she! Hail happy honours of Nobility! Did never Saturn see, or ne’er see such? What should I style you? what choice phrase may touch, Or hopes in words such wondrous grace to suit, Whose worth doth want an equal attribute. Let never mortal wondering silence break, Since to express you Gods themselves must speak. Sweet glories of your sex, know that your eyes Makes mild the roughest planet of the skies. Even we, the Lord that sits on ebon thrones, Circled with sighs and discontented groans, Are forced at your fair presence to relent, At your approach all Saturn’s force is spent. Now breaks my bands, now sadness leaves their towers, Now all are turn’d to Flora’s smiling bowers; Then now give way, now is my bondage due Only to those who safely envy you. Hence, solitary Beldam, sink to-night, I give up all to joy, and to delight. And now pass on, all-happy-making dame! O could you but imagine what a flame Of many joys now in their bosoms shine Who count it their dear’st honour to be thine, You would aver, to number[611] them who seeks Must sure invent some new arithmetics, For who to cast their reckoning takes in hand Had need for counters take the ocean-sand. Their service is your right, your love their due Who only love themselves for loving you. Their palace waits you with so hearty gate Men cannot utter nor Gods scarce relate.

Madam, See what a change the spirit of your eyes Hath wrought in us. Hence dull Saturn flies, And we that were the ghost of woe and earth Are all transform’d unto the soul of mirth. O we are full of joy, no breast more light But those who owe you theirs by nature’s right; From whom vouchsafe this present,—’tis a work Wherein strange miracles and wonders lurk. For, know, that Lady whose ambition towers Only to this, to be term’d worthy yours; Whose forehead I could crown with clearest rays, But that her praise is she abhors much praise; Not long since thought she saw in slumb’ring trances The Queen of Fairies and of moonlight dances Come tripping in; and with a fairy kiss She chastely touch’d her and straight gave her this With this strange charge:—“This piece alone was made For her in whom no graces e’er shall fade; For her whose worth is such I dare aver It fears not satire nor the flatterer; For her who gave you first most gracing name, Who loveth goodness for itself, not fame; For her whom modest virtue doth enfold[612] so That she had rather be much graced than told so; For her for whom, had you the whole world’s breast And of it all gave her sole interest, You’d judge it slight.” This said, hence straight she flew, And left it her who only vows it you. Then whilst our breast with secret welcomes ring, Vouchsafe acceptance of this offering.