Phrygio, fear not, thou art no lying drab.
What though dagger-hack'd mouths of his blade swears
It slew as many as figures of years
Aquafortis eat in't, or as many more
As methodist[430] Musus kill'd with hellebore
In autumn[431] last; yet he bears that male lie[432]
With as smooth calm as Mecho rivalry.
How ill his shape with inward form doth fage,[433]
Like Aphrogenia's ill-yoked marriage! 10
Fond physiognomer, complexion
Guides not the inward disposition,
Inclines I yield; thou sayst law; Julia, }
Or Cato's often-curst Scatinia, }
Can take no hold on simp'ring Lesbia. }
True, not on her eye; yet alum oft doth blast
The sprouting bud that fain would longer last.
Chary Casca, right pure, or Rhodanus,
Yet each night drinks in glassy Priapus.[434]
Yon pine is fair, yet foully doth it ill 20
To his own sprouts; mark, his rank drops distill
Foul Naples' canker[435] in their tender rind.
Woe worth, when trees drop in their proper kind!
Mistagogus, what means this prodigy?
When Hiadolgo speaks 'gainst usury,
When Verres rails 'gainst thieves, Milo doth hate
Murder, Clodius cuckolds, Marius the gate
Of squinting Janus shuts? Run beyond bound
Of _Nil ultra_, and hang me when one's found
Will be himself. Had nature turn'd our eyes 30
Into our proper selves, these curious spies
Would be ashamed: Flavia would blush to flout
When Oppia calls Lucina help her out,
If she did think Lynceus did know her ill,
How nature art, how art doth nature spill.
God pardon me! I often did aver,
_Quod gratis grate_, the astronomer
An honest man; but I'll do so no more.
His face deceived me; but now, since his whore
And sister are all one, his honesty 40
Shall be as bare as his anatomy,
To which he bound his wife. O, packstaff[436] rhymes!
Why not, when court of stars shall see these crimes?
Rods are in piss--ay, for thee, empirick,
That twenty grains of opium will not stick
To minister to babes. Here's bloody days,
When with plain herbs Mutius more men slays
Than ere third Edward's sword! Sooth, in our age,
Mad Coribantes need not to enrage
The people's minds. You, Ophiogeni[437] 50
Of Hellespont, with wrangling villainy
The swoll'n world's inly stung, then deign a touch,
If that your fingers can effect so much.
Thou sweet Arabian Panchaia,
Perfume this nasty age: smug Lesbia
Hath stinking lungs, although a simp'ring grace,
A muddy inside, though a surphuled[438] face.
O for some deep-searching Corycean,
To ferret out yon lewd Cinædian![439]
How now, Brutus, what shape best pleaseth thee? 60
All Protean forms, thy wife in venery,
At thy enforcement takes? Well, go thy way,
She may transform thee, ere thy dying day.
Hush, Gracchus hears, that hath retail'd more lies,
Broachèd more slanders, done more villainies,
Than Fabius' perpetual golden coat
(Which might have _Semper idem_ for a mott)
Hath been at feasts, and led the measuring[440]
At court, and in each marriage revelling;
Writ Palæphatus'[441] comment on those dreams 70
That Hylus takes, 'midst dung-pit reeking steams
Of Athos' hot-house. Gramercy, modest smile,
Chremes asleep! Paphia, sport the while.
Lucia, new set thy ruff; tut, thou art pure,
Canst thou not lisp "good brother," look demure?
Fie, Gallus, what, a sceptic Pyrrhonist,
When chaste Dictynna breaks the zonelike twist?
Tut, hang up hieroglyphics. I'll not feign,
Wresting my humour from his native strain.
[430] A regular physician, opposed to an empiric.
[431] Imitated from Juvenal, x. 221, "Quot Themison aegros
autumno occiderit uno."
[432] "_Male_ lie"--great, strong lie: perhaps in imitation of
Gr. arsin.
[433] Fadge.
[434] From Juvenal--"_Vitreo_ bibit ille _Priapo_," Sat. ii. 95.
The _vitreus Priapus_ was a drinking-cup fashioned in the shape
of a Priapus.
[435] "Naples' canker"--the pox.
[436] "Cf. Hall, Prol. B. iii. 'Satyres ... packstaff
plain.'"--_Grosart._
[437] "There is a certain kind of people to whom it is naturally
given, either by touching or sucking, to cure the wounding of
venomous serpents; called Psylli (a people of Libya) and Marsi,
people of Italy, bordering upon the Samnites, and Aequiculania,
and _those that were called by the ancient writers Ophiogenes,
which dwelt about Hellespont, as both Pliny, Aelianus, and Aeneas
Silvius do witness_."--Topsel's _Hist. of Serpents_, ed. 1658, p.
624.
[438] Washed with Cosmetics.
[439] Gr. kinaidos.
[440] The _measures_--a stately dance.
[441] The author of a treatise (Peri Apiston) on mythology.
SATIRE II.
_Difficile est Satiram non scribere._--JUVE.
I cannot hold, I cannot, I, endure
To view a big-womb'd foggy cloud immure
The radiant tresses of the quick'ning sun:
Let custards quake,[442] my rage must freely run.
Preach not the Stoic's patience to me;
I hate no man, but men's impiety.
My soul is vex'd; what power will resist,
Or dares to stop a sharp-fang'd satirist?
Who'll cool my rage? who'll stay my itching fist?
But I will plague and torture whom I list. 10
If that the threefold walls of Babylon
Should hedge my tongue, yet I should rail upon
This fusty world, that now dare put in ure[443]
To make JEHOVA but a coverture
To shade rank filth. Loose conscience is free
From all conscience, what else hath liberty?
As't please the Thracian Boreas to blow,
So turns our airy conscience to and fro.
What icy Saturnist, what northern pate,
But such gross lewdness would exasperate? 20
I think the blind doth see the flame-god rise
From sister's couch, each morning to the skies,
Glowing with lust. Walk but in dusky night
With Lynceus' eyes, and to thy piercing sight
Disguisèd gods will show, in peasants' shape,
Prest[444] to commit some execrable rape.
Here Jove's lust-pander, Maia's juggling son,
In clown's disguise, doth after milkmaids run;
And, 'fore he'll lose his brutish lechery,
The trulls shall taste sweet nectar's surquedry. 30
There Juno's brat forsakes Neries' (?) bed
And like a swaggerer, lust-firèd,
Attended only with his smock-sworn page,
Pert Gallus, slyly slips along, to wage
Tilting encounters with some spurious seed
Of marrow pies and yawning oysters' breed.
O damn'd!
Who would not shake a satire's knotty rod,
When to defile the sacred seat of God
Is but accounted gentlemen's disport? 40
To snort in filth, each hour to resort
To brothel-pits; alas! a venial crime,
Nay, royal, to be last in thirtieth slime!
Ay me! hard world for satirists begin
To set up shop, when no small petty sin
Is left unpurged! Once to be pursy fat,
Had wont because that life did macerate.
Marry, the jealous queen of air doth frown,
That Ganymede is up, and Hebe down.
Once Albion lived in such a cruel age 50
That[445] men did hold by servile villenage:
Poor brats were slaves of bondmen that were born,
And marted, sold: but that rude law is torn
And disannull'd, as too too[446] inhumane,
That lords o'er peasants should such service strain.
But now (sad change!) the kennel sink of slaves,
Peasant great lords, and servile service craves.
Bond-slave sons had wont be bought and sold;
But now heroës' heirs (if they have not told
A discreet number[447] 'fore their dad did die) 60
Are made much of: how much from merchandie?
Tail'd, and retail'd, till to the pedlar's pack
The fourth-hand ward-ware comes; alack, alack![448]
Would truth did know I lied: but truth and I
Do know that sense is born to misery.
Oh would to God this were their worst mischance,
Were not their souls sold to dark ignorance!
Fair godness is foul ill, if mischief's wit
Be not repress'd from lewd corrupting it.
O what dry brain melts not sharp mustard rhyme, 70
To purge the snottery of our slimy time!
Hence, idle "_Cave_," vengeance pricks me on,
When mart is made of fair religion.
Reform'd bald Trebus swore, in Romish quire,
He sold God's essence for a poor denier.[449]
The Egyptians adorèd onions,
To garlic yielding all devotions.
O happy garlic, but thrice happy you,
Whose scenting gods in your large gardens grew!
Democritus, rise from thy putrid slime, 80
Sport at the madness of that hotter clime,
Deride their frenzy, that for policy
Adore wheat dough as real deity.
Almighty men, that can their Maker make,
And force his sacred body to forsake
The cherubins, to be gnawn actually,
Dividing _individuum_ really;
Making a score of gods with one poor word.
Ay, so I thought, in that you could afford
So cheap a pennyworth. O ample field, 90
In which a satire may just weapon wield
But I am vex'd, when swarms of Julians
Are still manured by lewd precisians,
Who, scorning Church-rites, take the symbol up
As slovenly as careless courtiers slup
Their mutton gruel! Fie! who can withhold,
But must of force make his mild muse a scold,
When that he grievèd sees, with red vex'd eyes,
That Athens' ancient large immunities
Are eyesores to the Fates! Poor cells forlorn! 100
Is't not enough you are made an abject scorn
To jeering apes, but must the shadow too
Of ancient substance be thus wrung from you!
O split my heart, lest it do break with rage,
To see th' immodest looseness of our age!
Immodest looseness? fie, too gentle word,
When every sign can brothelry afford:
When lust doth sparkle from our females' eyes,
And modesty is roosted in the skies!
Tell me, Galliottæ, what means this sign, 110
When impropriate gentles will turn Capuchine?
Sooner be damn'd! O, stuff satirical!
When rapine feeds our pomp, pomp ripes our fall;
When the guest trembles at his host's swart look;
The son doth fear his stepdame, that hath took
His mother's place for lust; the twin-born brother
Maligns his mate, that first came from his mother;
When to be huge, is to be deadly sick;
When virtuous peasants will not spare to lick
The devil's tail for poor promotion; 120
When for neglect, slubber'd Devotion
Is wan with grief; when Rufus yawns for death
Of him that gave him undeservèd breath;
When Hermus makes a worthy question,
Whether of right,[450] as paraphernalion,
A silver piss-pot[451] fits his lady dame,
Or it's too good--a pewter best became;
When Agrippina poisons Claudius' son,
That all the world to her own brat might run;
When the husband gapes that his stale wife would die
That he might once be in by courtesy; 131
The big-paunch'd wife longs for her loath'd mate's death,
That she might have more jointures here on earth;
When tenure for short years (by many a one)
Is thought right good be[452] turn'd forth Littleton,
All to be heady, or freehold at least,
When 'tis all one, for long life be a beast,
A slave, as have a short-term'd tenancy;
When dead's the strength of England's yeomanry;
When inundation of luxuriousness 140
Fats all the world with such gross beastliness:--
Who can abstain? What modest brain can hold,
But he must make his shame-faced muse a scold?
[442] Ridiculed in _The Poetaster_, v. i.; but we have the
expression _quaking custard_ in the prologue to _Volpone_.
[443] Use.
[444] _i.e._, intent on committing.
[445] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "Than."
[446] See note 1, vol. ii. p. 328.
[447] _i.e._, if they have not attained their majority.
[448] Dekker, on the other hand, tells us in _The Seven Deadly
Sins of London_, 1606, that orphans were nowhere more carefully
guarded than in London. "For what city in the world," he writes,
"does more dry up the tears of the widow and gives more warmth to
the fatherless than this ancient and reverend grandame of cities?
Where hath the orphan (that is to receive great portions) less
cause to mourn the loss of parents? He finds four and twenty
grave senators to be his father instead of one; the city itself
to be his mother; her officers to be his servants, who see that
he want nothing; her laws to suffer none to do him wrong; and
though he be never so simple in wit or so tender in years, she
looks as warily to that wealth which is left him as to the apple
of her own eye."
[449] A small French coin.
[450] Old eds. "Whether of _Wright_, as _Paraphonalion_."
[451] It would appear from old inventories that these articles
were occasionally made of the precious metals.
[452] The text is evidently corrupt.
SATIRE III.
_Redde, age, quæ deinceps risisti._
It's good be wary, whilst the sun shines clear
(Quoth that old chuff that may dispend by year
Three thousand pound), whilst he of good pretence
Commits himself to Fleet, to save expense.
No country's Christmas--rather tarry here,
The Fleet is cheap, the country hall too dear.
But, Codrus, hark! the world expects to see
Thy bastard heir rot there in misery.
What! will Luxurio keep so great a hall
That he will prove a bastard in his fall? 10
No; "Come[453] on five! St. George, by Heaven, at all!"
Makes his catastrophe right tragical!
At all? till nothing's left! Come on, till all comes off,
Ay, hair and all! Luxurio, left a scoff
To leprous filths! O stay, thou impious slave,
Tear not the lead from off thy father's grave
To stop base brokeage!--sell not thy father's sheet--
His leaden sheet, that strangers' eyes may greet
Both putrefaction of thy greedy sire
And thy abhorrèd viperous desire! 20
But wilt thou needs, shall thy dad's lacky brat
Wear thy sire's half-rot finger in his hat?
Nay, then, Luxurio, waste in obloquy,
And I shall sport to hear thee faintly cry,
"A die, a drab, and filthy broking knaves,
Are the world's wide mouths, all-devouring graves."
Yet Samus keeps a right good house, I hear--
No, it keeps him, and free'th him from chill fear
Of shaking fits. How, then, shall his smug wench,
How shall her bawd (fit time) assist her quench 30
Her sanguine heat? Lynceus, canst thou scent?
She hath her monkey and her instrument
Smooth fram'd at Vitrio. O grievous misery!
Luscus hath left his[454] female luxury;
Ay, it left him! No, his old cynic dad
Hath forc'd him clean forsake his Pickhatch[455] drab.
Alack, alack! what peace of lustful flesh
Hath Luscus left, his Priape to redress?
Grieve not, good soul, he hath his Ganymede,
His perfumed she-goat, smooth-kemb'd and high fed. 40
At Hogson[456] now his monstrous love he feasts,
For there he keeps a bawdy-house of beasts.
Paphus, let Luscus have his courtezan,
Or we shall have a monster of a man.
Tut! Paphus now detains him from that bower,
And clasps him close within his brick-built tower.
Diogenes,[457] thou art damn'd for thy lewd wit,
For Luscus now hath skill to practise it.
Faith, what cares he for fair Cinædian boys,
Velvet-caped[458] goats, Dutch mares? Tut! common toys!
Detain them all on this condition, 51
He may but use his cynic friction.
O now, ye male stews, I can give pretence
For your luxurious incontinence.
Hence, hence, ye falsèd seeming patriots,
Return not with pretence of salving spots,
When here ye soil us with impurity,
And monstrous filth of Doway seminary.
What, though Iberia yield you liberty,
To snort in sauce of Sodom villainy? 60
What, though the blooms of young nobility,
Committed to your Rhodon's custody,
Ye, Nero-like, abuse? yet ne'er approach
Your new St. Omer's[459] lewdness here to broach;
Tainting our towns and hopeful academes
With your lust-baiting, most abhorrèd means.
Valladolid, our Athens, 'gins to taste
Of thy rank filth. Camphire and lettuce chaste[460]
Are clean cashier'd; now Sophi ringoes eat,
Candied potatoes are Athenians' meat. 70
Hence, holy thistle, come sweet marrow-pie,
Enflame our backs to itching luxury.
A crab's[461] baked guts, a lobster's butter'd thigh,
I hear them swear is blood for venery.
Had I some snout-fair[462] brats, they should endure
The new-found Castilion calenture
Before some pedant tutor, in his bed,
Should use my frie like Phrygian Ganymede.
Nay, then, chaste cells, when greasy Aretine,
For his rank fico,[463] is surnamed divine; 80
Nay, then, come all ye venial scapes to me,
I dare well warrant you'll absolvèd be.
Rufus, I'll term thee but intemperate--
I will not once thy vice exaggerate--
Though that each hour thou lewdly swaggerest,
And at the quarter-day pay'st interest
For the forbearance of thy chalkèd score;
Though that thou keep'st a tally with thy whore:
Since Nero keeps his mother Agrippine,
And no strange lust can satiate[464] Messaline. 90
Tullus, go scotfree; though thou often bragg'st
That, for a false French crown thou vaulting hadst;
Though that thou know'st, for thy incontinence,
Thy drab repaid thee true French pestilence.
But tush! his boast I bear, when Tegeran
Brags that he foists his rotten courtezan
Upon his heir, that must have all his lands,
And them hath join'd in Hymen's sacred bands.
I'll wink at Robrus, that for vicinage
Enters common on his next neighbour's stage; 100
When Jove maintains his sister and his whore,
And she incestuous, jealous evermore
Lest that Europa on the bull should ride;
Woe worth, when beasts for filth are deified!
Alack, poor rogues! what censor interdicts
The venial scapes of him that purses picks?
When some sly golden-slopp'd Castilio
Can cut a manor's strings at primero?
Or with a pawn shall give a lordship mate,
In statute-staple[465] chaining fast his state? 110
What academic starved satirist
Would gnaw reez'd[466] bacon, or, with ink-black fist,
Would toss each muck-heap for some outcast scraps
Of half-dung bones, to stop his yawning chaps?
Or, with a hungry, hollow, half-pined jaw
Would once a thrice-turn'd bone-pick'd subject gnaw,
When swarms of mountebanks and banditti,
Damn'd Briareans, sinks of villainy,
Factors for lewdness, brokers for the devil,
Infect our souls with all-polluting evil? 120
Shall Lucia scorn her husband's lukewarm bed
(Because her pleasure, being hurrièd
In jolting coach, with glassy instrument,
Doth far exceed the Paphian blandishment),
Whilst I (like to some mute Pythagoran)
Halter my hate, and cease to curse and ban
Such brutish filth? Shall Matho raise his fame
By printing pamphlets in another's name,
And in them praise himself, his wit, his might,
All to be deem'd his country's lanthorn-light? 130
Whilst my tongue's tied with bonds of blushing shame,
For fear of broaching my concealèd name?
Shall Balbus, the demure Athenian,
Dream of the death of next vicarian,
Cast his nativity, mark his complexion,
Weigh well his body's weak condition,
That, with gilt sleight, he may be sure to get
The planet's place when his dim shine shall set?
Shall Curio streak[467] his limbs on his day's couch,
In summer bower, and with bare groping touch 140
Incense his lust, consuming all the year
In Cyprian dalliance, and in Belgic cheer?
Shall Faunus spend a hundred gallions
Of goat's pure milk to lave his stallions,
As much rose-juice? O bath! O royal, rich,
To scour Faunus and his salt-proud bitch.
And when all's cleans'd, shall the slave's inside stink
Worse than the new cast slime of Thames ebb'd brink,
Whilst I securely let him over-slip,
Ne'er yerking him with my satiric whip? 150
Shall Crispus with hypocrisy beguile,
Holding a candle to some fiend a while--
Now Jew, then Turk, then seeming Christian,
Then Atheist, Papist, and straight Puritan;
Now nothing, anything, even what you list,
So that some gilt[468] may grease his greedy fist?
Shall Damas use his third-hand ward as ill
As any jade that tuggeth in the mill?
What, shall law, nature, virtue be rejected,
Shall these world-arteries be soul-infected 160
With corrupt blood, whilst I shall Martia task,
Or some young Villius all in choler ask
How he can keep a lazy waiting-man,
And buy a hood, and silver-handled fan,
With forty pound? Or snarl at Lollius' son,
That with industrious pains hath harder won
His true-got worship and his gentry's name
Than any swineherd's brat that lousy came
To luskish[469] Athens and, with farming pots,
Compiling beds, and scouring greasy spots, 170
By chance (when he can, like taught parrot, cry
"Dearly belov'd," with simpering gravity)
Hath got the farm of some gelt[470] vicary,
And now, on cock-horse, gallops jollily;
Tickling, with some stol'n stuff, his senseless cure,
Belching lewd terms 'gainst all sound literature?
Shall I with shadows fight, task bitterly
Rome's filth, scraping base channel roguery,
Whilst such huge giants shall affright our eyes
With execrable, damn'd inpieties? 180
Shall I find trading Mecho never loath
Frankly to take a damning perjured oath?
Shall Furia broke her sister's modesty,
And prostitute her soul to brothelry?
Shall Cossus make his well-faced wife a stale,[471]
To yield his braided[472] ware a quicker sale?
Shall cock-horse, fat-paunch'd Milo stain whole stocks
Of well-born souls with his adultering spots?
Shall broking panders suck nobility,
Soiling fair stems with foul impurity? 190
Nay, shall a trencher-slave extenuate
Some Lucrece rape, and straight magnificate
Lewd Jovian lust, whilst my satiric vein
Shall muzzled be, not daring out to strain
His tearing paw? No, gloomy Juvenal,
Though to thy fortunes I disastrous fall.
[453] "Come on five," "at all,"--old terms in dice-playing.
[454] Ed. 1599 "her."
[455] A low part of Clerkenwell.
[456] Hoxton,--in Elizabethan times a favourite resort for
pleasure-seekers. See particularly the opening of _The Passionate
Morrice_ (pt. ii. of _Tell-Trothes New Yeares Gift_), 1593.
[457] There is an allusion to a scandalous story told of Diogenes
the Cynic. See Plutarch's _De Stoicorum Repugnantiis_, cap. xxi.,
and Diogenes Laertius' _Philosophorum Vitæ_, vi. 2, 46.
[458] So I understand the "Velvet-cap't" of the old eds.
[459] Old eds. "S. Homers."
[460] So Hall in _Virgidem_., iv. 4:--
"Virginius vow'd to keep his maidenhead,
And eats _chaste lettuce_ and drinks poppy head,
And smells on camphire fasting."
[461] See vol. i. p. 239.
[462] Hall has this word in _Virgidem._, iv. 1.
[463] The name of a disease (Gr. sukon, Lat. _ficus_).--Aretine
was styled _Il divino_.
[464] Juvenal, _Sat._ vi. 130.
[465] See Cowell's _Interpreter_.
[466] Rusty, rancid. Hall has the expression "reez'd bacon" in
_Virgidem_., iv. 2.
[467] Stretch. So Hall in _Virgidem._ vi. 1. 207: "When Lucan
_streakèd_ on his marble bed, &c."
[468] "Gilt" (or gelt)--money.--Old eds. "guilt."
[469] Clownish.--"Maudolé. Misshapen, ill-framed, ill-favoured,
_luskish_, without proportion."--_Cotgrave._ Athens is evidently
Cambridge; and Marston is again glancing at Hall.
[470] It seems to have been too common a practice for the patron
of a living to pocket the best part of the incumbent's income--to
"geld" the vicarage. Cf. _Jack Drum's Entertainment_:--
"Sir, it were good you got a benefice,
Some eunuch'd vicarage or some fellowship"
(Simpsons's _School of Shakspere_, ii. 172); Hall's _Virgidem._,
iv. 2, 105-6:--
"plod at a patron's tail
To get a _gelded chapel's_ cheaper sale."
[471] See note, vol. ii. p. 60.
[472] Faded.
SATIRE IV.
_Cras._
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
[473] Writhed, crooked.
[474] Old eds. "_liues-wet_."
[475] "Gourmand. A glutton, _gormand_, bellie-god,
greedy-gut."--_Cotgrave._
[476] Juvenal was a native of Aquinum: hence Aquinians =
satirists.
[477] There was a game at cards called "one-and-thirty."
[478] heni di logo ek ton homoion energeion ai hexeis ginontai.
Arist. _Eth. Nicom._ ii. 1, 7.
[479] Use.
[480] _I.e._, maintain the thesis for the occasion.
[481] See note, p. 269. [Transcriber's note: Footnote 364].
PROEMIUM IN LIBRUM SECUNDUM.
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!
[482] Motto.
[483] "Cornish daws"--jackdaws.
_Ad rhythmum._
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 Phoebus 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.
SATIRE V.
_Totum in toto._
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.
[484] Hercules.
[485] Lie in idleness.
[486] _i.e._, wise men.
[487] _i.e._, all-powerful.
[488] Ares.--See Apollodorus' _Bibl._, iii. 14.
[489] A term (coined from Gr. enagonios) for a rhetorician.
[490] See note, p. 324. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [470]]
[491] Frequently used by Marston in the sense of _reverend_.
[492] It was a common device with dishonest tradesmen to darken
their shops in order to palm off inferior goods on their
customers. Middleton, i. 247.
[493] Loovers,--openings in the roof to let in light.
[494] Faded.
[495] Ed. 1599 "the."
[496] Fitting a pedlar.--See note 1, p. 310.
[Transcriber's Note: Footnote [436]]
SATIRE VI.
_Hem, nosti'n?_
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.
[497] So Doll Tearsheet to Pistol:--"Away, you _bottle-ale_
rascal, you basket-hilt juggler you."--2 _Henry IV._, ii. 4.
[498] See note, p. 305. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [427]]
[499] "Sad seriousness"--sober earnestness.
[500] See note, p. 263. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [348]]
[501] "Dropsy-noul"--grouthead.
[502] Old eds. "Paunis."--Pavin was the name of an old dance.
[503] So. ed. 1599.--Ed. 1598 "soyl'd."
[504] See note 2, p. 301. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [417]]
[505] A term of contempt for a stupid empty-headed person.
[506] See the second chapter of _The Book of Daniel_.
[507] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "rage."
[508] Rats were supposed to be bred from the slime of the Nile
when the river had shrunk.
[509] For the "margent's note," see p. 288. [Transcriber's Note:
Footnote [402]] Flaccus is represented as misunderstanding the
meaning of "Huc usque xyl[)i]num" ("bombast up to this point")
and as supposing that Marston in his marginal note was
acknowledging his indebtedness to a work entitled _Xyl[=i]num_.
[510] In ed. 1599 the word "pretty" is not repeated.
SATIRE VII.
_A Cynic Satire._
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.
[511] See note 2, vol. ii. p. 349.
[512] Omitted in ed. 1598.
[513] Samos--the birthplace of Pythagoras.
[514] "Fictions ... rats of Nilus."--Cf. Shirley's _School of
Compliment_, ii. 1:--"Sirrah clothes, _rat of Nilus,
fiction_, monster, golden calf."
[515] The name of a particular kind of stitch.
[516] See note, vol. ii. p. 391.
[517] See note 1, p. 308. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [429]]
[518] Dung-cart.
[519] Ed. 1599, "eminent."
[520] Lose.
[521] Omitted in ed. 1599.
[522] _i.e._, whose garments are ornamented with _gards_ or
fringes.
[523] Lamb's fur.
[524] Thunder is supposed to rouse eels from the mud. So
Shakespeare--"Thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels." I
suppose that Mr. Browning was giving us a piece of Italian
folk-lore when he wrote (in _Old Pictures in Florence_):--
"The morn _when first it thunders in March_,
The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say."
[525] A corruption of _black sanctus_, which seems to have been a
burlesque hymn set to a harsh tune, "in ridicule of the _Sanctus_
or Holy, Holy, Holy, of the Romish Missal" (Nares); hence used to
express any discordant noise,--as the rude speech of the
Scythians.
[526] So ed. 1598; and I have kept the form "reverent" (though
ed. 1599 reads "reverend"), as it was constantly used for
"reverend."
[527] "The great man's head"--evidently the name of a tavern.
Quy. the Saracen's Head?
[528] One of the cautionary towns pledged to the English crown by
the States of Holland.
[529] Sink of lechery.
[530] His face, I suppose, is stuck with plaster, to lead people
to imagine that he has been scarred in the wars.
[531] Switzers--mercenary soldiers.
[532] Tippling.
[533] Lust.
[534] The pox.
[535] See note 2, p. 300. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [414]]
[536] See note 2, vol. ii. p. 337.
[537] Fairness.
[538] "Rugs or covers were made of 'beever skins,' which Batman
calls 'very precious.'"--_Grosart._
[539] _i.e._, exhibiting armorial bearings.
[540] In Guilpin's _Skialetheia_, 1598, there is a long list
of cosmetics. Juice of lemons is mentioned:--
"They [the gallants] were plain asses if they did not know
Quicksilver, _juice of lemons_, borax too,
Alum, oil tartar, whites of eggs, and galls.
Are made the bawds to morphew, scurfs, and scalls."
[541] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "sleeves."
[542] See note 2, vol. 1. p. 31.
[543] Ancient was the name for the (1) standard, (2) the
standard-bearer. Here it has the first meaning; but I cannot find
that Dutch standards were particularly tawdry.
[544] "Port Esquiline"--the jakes.
PROEMIUM IN LIBRUM TERTIUM.
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!
[545] Ed. 1598 "Castalia."
SATIRE VIII.
_Inamorato, Curio._
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!
[546] Broken, cracked, impaired.
[547] Stretching.
[548] "Garboil"--tumult, commotion.
[549] The name of a Terentian _meretrix_.
[550] Jupiter made the night of thrice its ordinary length when
he begot Hercules.
[551] Old eds. "Souping."
[552] Clotted.
[553] Soldiers (_Span._).
[554] Old eds. "idolatries."
[555] See note 1, p. 335. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [485]]
[556] An allusion to the closing lines of Barnabe Barnes'
sixty-third sonnet.
[557] Donne has some verses _On a Flea on his Mistress' Bosom_,
beginning:--
"Madam, that flea which crept between your breast
I envied that there he should make his rest."
Whether these verses of Donne had been written (and circulated in
MS.) so early, I do not know; but the conceit was certainly out
of the common.
[558] A deformed person; literally, one who has been branded with
a hot iron. The very words "_misshapen stigmatic_" occur in
3 _Henry VI._, ii. 2. (The Greek satirist Hipponax was an
ill-looking fellow.)
[559] Old eds. "Metim."
[560] When Jupiter discovered that he had got Metis with child,
he swallowed her; for it had been foretold that he would be
dethroned if Metis had a son.--Apollod. _Bibl._ i. 6.
[561] Old eds. "foole."
[562] See note 4, p. 351. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [544]]
[563] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "adorning."--The confusion between
"adore" and "adorn" is common.
[564] Commonly called "push-pin," a childish game described by
Strutt.
[565] Children's toys,--particularly dolls.
SATIRE IX.
_Here's_[566] _a Toy to mock an Ape indeed._
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
[566] An old proverbial saying.
[567] Ed. 1598 "guildeth."
[568] Ed. 1599 "rest."
[569] The allusion is to Drayton's _Mortimeriados_ originally
published in 1596 (and republished in 1603, with many
alterations, under the title of the _Baron's Wars_).
[570] Befouls. The word is ridiculed in _The Poetaster_.
[571] Baboon.--Old eds. "Babilon."
[572] "Non lædere, sed ludere: non lanea, sed linea: non ictus,
sed nictus potius."--Marginal note in old eds.
[573] See note, vol. i. p. 35.
[574] Get goods on credit.
[575] A piece of ordnance.
[576] Gluttony.--The word is not uncommon.
SATIRE X.[577]
_Satira Nova._
_Stultorum plena sunt omnia._
TO HIS VERY FRIEND, MASTER E. G.
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!
_An_ EPIGRAM _which the_ Author Vergidemiarum _caused to be pasted
to the latter page of every_ Pygmalion _that came to the
Stationers of Cambridge_.
_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
VALE.
[577] This satire was added in ed. 1599.--I suspect that "Master
E. G." was Edward Guilpin, author of _Skialetheia_, 1598, a
collection of epigrams.
[578] See note 6, p. 346. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [523]]
[579] "Mark the witty allusion to my name."--Marginal note in old
ed. (See Introduction to vol. i.)
[580] The heading of the page in old ed. is changed from
"_Stultorum plena sunt omnia_" to "_Medice cura
tripsum_."
[581] An allusion to the posts that stood at the doors of
sheriffs. These posts were repainted when new sheriffs came into
office.--Middleton, v. 149.
[582] _i.e._, the world's.
[583] Lousy.
SATIRE XI.
_Humours._
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
[584] _i.e._ "Melancholy, get you to hell!"
[585] Seemingly a term for some sliding dance-movement.
[586] "Intellectual ... mincing capreal."--These words are
ridiculed by Ben Jonson in _Every Man out of his Humour_,
iii. 1. See Introduction, vol. i.
[587] Sir John Davies' excellent poem.
[588] "A hall, a hall!"--The cry raised when an open space was
wanted for the dancers.
[589] There is no allusion to Will Kempe's famous dance from
London to Norwich, as that feat was performed in 1600. _Kempe's
jig_ was the name of a popular dance; and there was a ballad
that bore the same title.
[590] So in the Induction to the _Malcontent_:--"I am one
that hath seen this play often: I have most of the jests here in
my table-book."--Dekker, in the _Gull's-Horn Book_, advises
a gallant to "hoard up the finest play-scraps you can get, upon
which your lean wit may most savourly feed for want of other
stuff, when the Arcadian and Euphuized gentlewomen have their
tongues sharpened to set upon you!"
[591] The italicised words are technical terms in fencing. I
cannot find the term _finctures_, but it doubtless has the
meaning _feints_(otherwise called _falses_).
[592] The reference is to Vincentio Saviolo, a famous Italian
master of fence, author of _Vincentio Saviolo his Practise in
two Bookes. The first intreating of the use of the Rapier and
Dagger. The Second of Honor and Honorable Quarrels_, 1595,
4to.
[593] In _Every Man in his Humour_ Cob speaks of Bobadil as
a "_Burgullian_ fencer"; and Dekker in the Preface to
_Satiromastix_ says that "Horace [Jonson] questionless made
himself believe that his _Burgonian_ wit might desperately
challenge all comers, and that none durst take up the foils
against him." In each case the allusion is to the Bastard of
Burgundy who was overthrown at Smithfield in 1467 by Anthony
Woodville. There is doubtless the same allusion in the present
passage.
[594] The _pommado_ was the vaulting on a horse (without
touching the stirrups) and the _pommado reversa_ was the
vaulting off again.
[595] Omitted in ed. 1598.
[596] Ed. 1598 "dares."
[597] Pick-hatch (in Clerkenwell) and Shoreditch were the
head-quarters of whores.
[598] _Puttana Errante_ is the title of a poem (by Lorenzo
Veniero) falsely ascribed to Aretino. The same title was
sometimes given to _Dialoghi di Rosana e Ginevra_. See
Preface to vol. i. of _Les Ragionamenti ou Dialogues du divin
Pietro Aretino_, Paris, 1882.
[599] (1) Ajax; (2) A jakes.--The joke is of constant occurrence.
[600] Ed. 1599 "his."
[601] _i.e._, with long ears, or tags.
[602] "Trot a ring."--See note 1, vol. i. p. 111.
[603] Ed. 1598 "slave."
[604] "Remors de l'estromac, _The upbraiding of the
stomacke_."--_Cotgrave._
[605] Snubbed.
TO EVERLASTING OBLIVION.[606]
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
[606] Compare "The Author's Charge to his Satires" prefixed to
Hall's _Virgedemiarum, The three last Books_.
TO HIM THAT HATH PERUSED ME.
Gentle or ungentle hand that holdest me, let not thine eye be cast
upon privateness, for I protest I glance not on it. If thou hast
perused me, what lesser favour canst thou grant than not to abuse me
with unjust application? Yet, I fear me, I shall be much, much
injuried[607] by two sorts of readers: the one being ignorant, not
knowing the nature of a satire (which is, under feigned private names
to note general vices), will needs wrest each feigned name to a
private unfeigned person: the other, too subtile, bearing a private
malice to some greater personage than he dare, in his own person, seem
to malign, will strive, by a forced application of my general
reproofs, to broach his private hatred,--than the which I know not a
greater injury can be offered to a satirist. I durst presume, knew
they how guiltless and how free I were from prying into privateness,
they would blush to think how much they wrong themselves in seeking to
injure me. Let this protestation satisfy our curious searchers; so may
I obtain my best hopes, as I am free from endeavouring to blast any
private man's good name. If any one (forced with his own guilt) will
turn it home and say, "'Tis I," I cannot hinder him; neither do I
injure him. For other faults of poesy, I crave no[608] pardon, in that
I scorn all penance the bitterest censurer can impose upon me. Thus
(wishing each man to leave inquiring whom I am, and learn to know
himself) I take a solemn congee of this fusty world.
THERIOMASTIX.
[607] The verb _injury_ is frequently found.
[608] Ed. 1598 "me."
ENTERTAINMENT
OF
ALICE, DOWAGER-COUNTESS OF
DERBY.
_The noble Lorde & Lady of Huntingdons Entertainement of theire
right Noble Mother Alice: Countesse Dowager of Darby the first
night of her honors arrivall att the house of Ashby._
The MS. of this Entertainment is preserved at Bridgewater House.
Extracts were printed in Halliwell's _Marston_, vol. iii.; but the
Entertainment was first printed in full by Dr. Grosart. I have not
seen the MS.: it seemed unnecessary to go over the ground again, for
Dr. Grosart's transcript was evidently made with great care.[609] "The
MS.," he observes, "fills fifteen leaves. The first leaf, which
contains the address to the dowager-duchess of Derby, and leaves
fourteen and fifteen, which contain the 'Epilogue' (never before
printed), are in Marston's own handwriting. The rest of the MS. is in
two hands.... Throughout the MS. there are several corrections made in
a darker ink, and apparently by Marston himself. On leaf two is a
small blank space and the following words by Marston: 'as this lame
figure demonstrates'--a sketch being evidently intended. But, spite of
the author's supervision, various mistakes of the scribe are left."
[609] At the close of his Introduction to Hall's _Satires_,
Dr. Grosart corrects a few errors that had crept into his
transcript of Marston's Entertainment. These corrections I have
silently adopted.
TO THE
RIGHT NOBLE LADY ALICE,
COUNTESS-DOWAGER OF DERBY.
MADAM,
If my slight Muse may suit your noble merit,
My hopes are crown'd, and I shall cheer my spirit;
But if my weak quill droops or seems unfit,
'Tis not your want of worth, but mine of wit.
The servant of your honour'd virtues,
JOHN MARSTON.
When her Ladyship approached the Park corner, a full noise of cornets
winded; and when she entered into the Park, treble cornets reported
one to another, as giving warning of her Honour's nearer approach;
when presently her eye was saluted with an antique gate, which
suddenly was erected in this form. Upon the gate did hang many silver
scrolls with this word in them, _Tantum uni_. Upon the battlements
over the gate three gilt shields in diamond-figure, impaled on the top
with three coronets purfled with gold, and severally inscribed with
silver words; in the first shield, _Venisti tandem_; in the second,
_Nostra sera_; in the third, _Et sola voluptas_. Over these, upon a
half sphere, stood embossed an antique figure gilt; the slight
tower[s] to this gate, which were only raised for show, were set out
with battlements, shields, and coronets suitable to the rest. When the
Countess came near the gate an old enchantress in crimson velvet, with
pale face, black hair, and disliking countenance, affronted her
Ladyship, and thus rudely saluted her:--
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!
This speech thus ended, presently Saturn issued from forth the port,
and curiously beholding the Countess, spake thus:--
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.
Then passed the whole troop to the house, until the Countess had
mounted the stairs to the great chamber; on the top of which, Merimna,
having changed her habit all to white, met her, and, whilst a consort
softly played, spake thus:--
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.
Thus with a song Merimna presented her[613] honour with a very curious
and rich waistcoat; which done, the Countess passed on to her chamber.
_The Masque presented by four knights and four gentlemen at the
right noble Earl of Huntingdon's house of Ashby in honour of his
Lady's most worthy mother's arrival, Alice Countess Dowager of
Derby._
The form was thus:--
At the approach of the countesses into the great chamber the hoboys
played until the room was marshalled; which once ordered, a
traverse[614] slided away; presently a cloud was seen move up and down
almost to the top of the great chamber, upon which Cynthia was
discovered riding; her habit was blue satin, fairly embroidered with
stars and clouds: who looking down and earnestly surveying the ladies,
spake thus:--
_Cynth._ Are not we Cynthia? and shall earth display
Brighter than us and force untimely day?
What daring flames beam such illustrious light,
Enforcing darkness from the claim of night?
Up, Ariadne, thy clear beauty rouse,
Thou Northern Crown to lusty Bacchus' spouse,
Let's mix our glories to outblaze your flame;
To be outshone is Heaven's and great hearts' shame.
Look down; know'st them? See how their fronts rebate
Splendour like Jove and beauty worth our state!
Hath our bright brother, the fair Lord of days,
Into their eyes shed his us-dark'ning rays?
Or hath some daring spirit forgot Jove's ire
And to grace them stol'n his celestial fire?
We are not Phoebe, this is not Heaven's story;
Place gives not worth, but worth gives place his glory.
In the midst of this speech Ariadne rose from the bottom of the room,
mounted upon a cloud which waved up until it came near Cynthia, where
resting Ariadne spake thus:--
_Ariad._ Can our chaste queen, searching Apollo's sister,
Not know those stars that in yon valley glister?
Is virtue strange to heaven? Can Cynthia
Not know the goodly-form'd Pasithea?
She who loves greatness to be greatly good,
Knowing fair'st worth from virtue springs, not blood;
Whose graceful just proportion is held such
That what may be judge[d] beauty must have touch
And proof from hers: yet this her least of grace
(Which is the most in most)--her beauty's but the case
Of fairest mind: when Fortune gave her eyes,
Her worth made Fortune judge she once had eyes.
But see a piece that would strike envy blind,
Whose face would Furies tame, make monsters kind.
He gave her mighty praise and yet no other
But that in mind and form she's like her mother:
Up, raisèd passion, and with pæans follow
Grace of the Muses, daughter of Apollo!
O precious selahs' praise thy worth is under;
He that would limn thy grace must only wonder.
Then views not Cynthia sweet Sophrosyne,
Long honour of most rare virginity,
But now much happy in her noble choice?
In well-link'd nuptials all the gods rejoice.
Next learn'd Eulogia, bright in gracious rays,
Whose merit faster springeth than my praise;
For whoso strives to give her worth fair due,
Shall find his praise straight old, her merit new.
_Cynth._ But, look, whose eyes are those that shine more clear
Than lightning thrown from shield of Jupiter?
See, see, how quick fire leaps from forth her eyes
Which burn all hearts and warm the very skies.
Is't not bright Euthera?
_Ariad._ The very same,
But her mind's splendour hath a nobler flame.
But let the gods Eurythia behold,
And let them envy her, face nobly bold,
Proportion all proportion, with a mind
But like itself, no epithet can find.
_Cynth._ Let's visit them and slide from our abode:
Who loves not virtue leaves to be a god.
Sound, spheres, spread your harmonious breath,
When mortals shine in worth gods grace the earth.
The clouds descend: while soft music soundeth, Cynthia and Ariadne
dismount from their clouds, and, pacing up to the ladies, Cynthia,
perceiving Ariadne wanting her crown of stars, speaks thus:--
_Cynth._ But where is Ariadne's wreath of stars,
Her eight pure fires that stud with golden bars
Her shining brows? hath sweet-tongued Mercury
Advanced his sons to station of the sky
And throned them in thy wreath? [or] dost thou leave
Thy splendour off and trust of gods deceive?
_Ariad._ Queen of chaste dew, they will not be confined
Or fix themselves where Mercury assign'd,
But every night upon a forest-side,
On which an eagle percheth, they abide,
And honour her with their most raisèd light,
Chaste sports, just praises, and all soft delight,
Vowing their beams to make her presence heaven:
Thus is the glory of my front bereaven.
_Cynth._ Tell them they err, and say that we, the Queen
Of night's pale lamps, have now the substance seen
Whose shadow they adore. Go, bring those eight
At mighty Cynthia's summons hither straight.
Let us behold, that mount whilst we salute,
Their faces, 'fore whom no dullness can be mute.
Presently Ariadne sings this short call:--
Music and gentle night,
Beauty, youth's chief delight,
Pleasures all full invite
Your due attendance to this glorious room;
Then, if you have or wit or virtue, come,
Oh, come! oh, come!
Suddenly, upon this song, the cornets were winded, and the traverse
that was drawn before the masquers sank down. The whole show presently
appeareth, which presented itself in this figure: the whole body of it
seemed to be the side of a steeply ascending wood, on the top of
which, in a fair oak, sat a golden eagle, under whose wings sat, in
eight several thrones, the eight masquers, with visards like stars,
their helms like Mercury's, with the addition of fair plumes of
carnation and white, their antique doublets and other furniture
suitable to those colours, the place full of shields, lights, and
pages all in blue satin robes, embroidered with stars. The masquers,
thus discovered, sat still until Ariadne pronounced this invocation,
at which they descended:--
_Ariad._ Mercurian issue, sons of son of Jove,
By the Cyllenian rod, and by the love
Devotely chaste you vow Pasithea,
Descend: first thou more bright of these
That givest my crown her name, clear Dolopes,
Whose brave descent lets not thy fair heart fall
As born of parents most heroical,
Who vows himself, his life, his sword and fortune
To her whose constant goodness doth importune
More than he is: descend! Next him, Auctolius,
Of nimble spirit slide to honour us;
Faithfull'st Evander; clear-soul'd Erythus;
The hopeful Prilis and sweet Polybus;
And thou, true son of quick-brain'd Mercury,
Dear-loved Myrtillus, with that bright soul mix'd,
Experienced Lares, that at last is fix'd
After much danger in securer sphere.
Here all with wishèd easiness appear,
And O, if ever you were worth the grace
Of viewing majesty in mortal's face,
If e'er to perfect worth you vow'd heart's duty,
Show spirit worth your virtues and their beauty.
The violins upon this played a new measure, to which the masquers
danced; and ceasing, Cynthia spake:--
Stay a little, and now breathe ye,
Whilst these ladies grace bequeath ye;
Then mix fair hands, and gently ease ye,
Cynthia charms hence what may displease ye.
From ladies that are rudely coy,
Barring their loves from modest joy,
From ignorant silence, and proud looks,
From those that answer out of books,
From those that hate our chaste delight,
I bless the fortune of each starry Knight.
From gallants who still court with oaths,
From those whose only grace is clothes,
From bumbast stockings, vile leg-makers,
From beards and great tobacco-takers,
I bless the fortune of each starry dame.
Sing, that my charm may be more strong;
The gods are bound by verse and song.
_The Song_
Audacious night makes bold the lip,
Now all court chaster pleasure,
Whilst to Apollo's harp you trip,
And tread the gracing measure.
_Cynth._ Now meet, now break, then feign a warlike sally;
So Cynthia sports, and so the gods may dally.
Judicious wit, now raise thy brain,
Now heat thy nimbler spirit,
Show what delicious faces strain;
Much passion shows much merit.
_Cynth._ Now meet, now break, then feign a warlike sally;
So Cynthia sports, and so the gods may dally.
Lascivious youth not dare to speak
The language of loose city;
He that Diana's bonds doth break
Is held most rudely witty.
_Cynth._ Now meet, now break, then feign a warlike sally;
So Cynthia sports, and so the gods may dally.
Disgracious dullness yet much mars
The shape of courtly talking;
He that can silent touch such stars
His soul lies in his walking.
_Cynth._ Now meet, now break, then feign a warlike sally;
So Cynthia sports, and so the gods may dally.
During this song, the masquers presented their shields, and took forth
their ladies to dance. After they had danced many measures, galliards,
corantos, and levaltos, the night being much spent, whilst the
masquers prepared themselves for their departing measure, Cynthia
spake thus:--
_Cynth._ Now pleasing rest; for, see the night
(Wherein pale Cynthia claims her right)
Is almost spent; the morning grows,
The rose and violet she strows
Upon the high celestial floor,
'Gainst Phoebus rise from paramour.
The Fairies, that my shades pursue,
And bathe their feet in my cold dew,
Now leave their ringlets and be quiet,
Lest my brother's eye should spy it.
Then now let every gracious star
Avoid at sound of Phoebus' car;
Into your proper place retire,
With bosoms full of beauty's fire;
Hence must slide the Queen of Floods,
For day begins to gild the woods.
Then whilst we sing, though you depart,
I'll swear that here you leave your heart.
The eclogue which a despairing shepherd spake to a nymph at my Lady's
departure:--
Stay, fair Beliza, and, whilst Heaven throws
On the crack'd earth
His burning breath,
O hear thy Dorus' woes,
Whose cause and cure only Beliza knows.
See now the god of flames in full pomp rides,
And now each lass
On flowery grass
By the cool fountain sides
With quiet bosom and soft ease abides.