Book iv

. of _Virgidem_:-- "Ventrous Fortunio his farm hath sold And gads to _Guiane_ land to fish for gold."

[398] Marston is ridiculing Hall's _Defiance to Envy_, prefixed to _Virgidem_.:-- "Or would we loose her plumy pinion, Manacled long with bonds of modest fear, Soon might she have those kestrels proud outgone Whose flighty wings are dew'd with weeter [_sic_] air; And hopen now to _shoulder from above The eagle from the stairs of friendly Jove_.

"Or list she rather in late triumph rear Eternal trophies to some conqueror Whose dead deserts slept in his sepulchre, And never saw nor life nor light before, To lead sad Pluto captive with my song To grace the triumphs he obscured so long, &c."

[399] It is not improbable that Hall published an early volume of pastorals which is now unknown. See Corser's _Collectanea_, vii. 134. In _Virgidem_. vi. 1. ll. 175-184 ("Shall the controller of proud Nemesis, &c."), Hall replies to Marston's raillery.

[400] Edward Guilpin in his sixth Satire (_Skialetheia_, 1598, sig. E. V.) alludes to Marston's _Reactio_:-- "The double-volum'd satire praised is And liked of divers for his rods in piss, Yet other some who would her credit crack, Have clapp'd Reactio's action on her back."

The expression "rods in piss" is used in reference to Sat. i. l. 44. of the _Scourge of Villainy_. "Double-volum'd satire" seems to refer to Hall's two collections of Satires; but the passage is obscure.

SATIRE V.

_Parva magna, magna nulla._

Ambitious Gorgons, wide-mouth'd Lamians,[401] Shape-changing Proteans, damn'd Briarians, Is Minos dead, is Rhadamanth asleep, That ye thus dare unto Jove's palace creep? What, hath Rhamnusia spent her knotted whip, That ye dare strive on Hebe's cup to sip? Yet know Apollo's quiver is not spent, But can abate your daring hardiment. Python is slain, yet his accursèd race Dare look divine Astrea in the face; 10 Chaos return, and with confusion Involve the world with strange disunion; For Pluto sits in that adorèd chair Which doth belong unto Minerva's heir. O hecatombe! O catastrophe![402] From Midas' pomp to Irus' beggary! Prometheus, who celestial fire Did steal from heaven, therewith to inspire Our earthly bodies with a senseful mind, Whereby we might the depth of nature find, 20 Is ding'd[403] to hell, and vulture eats his heart, Which did such deep philosophy impart To mortal men; when thieving Mercury, That even in his new-born infancy Stole fair Apollo's quiver and Jove's mace, And would have filch'd the lightning from his place, But that he fear'd he should have burnt his wing And sing'd his downy feathers' new-come spring; He that in ghastly shade of night doth lead Our souls unto the empire of the dead; 30 When he that better doth deserve a rope Is a fair planet in our horoscope, And now hath Caduceus in his hand, Of life and death that hath the sole command. Thus petty thefts are paid and soundly whipt, But greater crimes are slightly overslipt; Nay, he's a god that can do villany With a good grace and glib facility. The harmless hunter, with a ventrous eye, When unawares he did Diana spy 40 Nak'd in the fountain, he became straightway Unto his greedy hounds a wishèd prey, His own delights taking away his breath, And all ungrateful forced his fatal death (And ever since hounds eat their masters clean, For so Diana curst them in the stream). When strong-back'd Hercules, in one poor night, With great, great ease, and wond[e]rous delight, In strength of lust and Venus' surquedry, Robb'd fifty wenches of virginity-- 50 Far more than lusty Laurence[404]--yet, poor soul, He with Actæon drinks of Nemis'[405] bowl: When Hercules' lewd act is registered, And for his fruitful labour deified, And had a place in heaven him assigned, When he the world unto the world resigned. Thus little scapes are deeply punishèd, But mighty villains are for gods adored. Jove brought his sister to a nuptial bed, And hath an Hebe and a Ganymede, 60 A Leda, and a thousand more beside His chaste Alcmena and his sister-bride, Who 'fore his face was odiously defil'd, And by Ixion grossly got with child: This thunderer, that right vertuously Thrust forth his father from his empery, Is now the great monarcho of the earth, Whose awful nod, whose all-commanding breath, Shakes Europe's ground-work; and his title makes[406] As dread a noise as when a cannon shakes 70 The subtile air. Thus hell-bred villany Is still rewarded with high dignity, When Sisyphus, that did but once reveal That this incestuous villain had to deal In isle Phliunte with Ægina fair,[407] Is damn'd to hell, in endless black despair Ever to rear his tumbling stone upright Upon the steepy mountain's lofty height; His stone will never now get greenish moss, Since he hath thus incurred so great a loss 80 As Jove's high favour. But it needs must be Whilst Jove doth rule and sway the empery. And poor Astrea's fled into an isle, And lives a poor and banishèd exile, And there penn'd up, sighs in her sad lament, Wearing away in pining languishment. If that Silenus' ass do chance to bray, And so the satyrs' lewdness doth bewray, Let him for ever be a sacrifice; Prick, spur, beat, load, for ever tyrannise 90 Over the fool. But let some Cerberus Keep back the wife of sweet-tongued Orpheus, Gnato[408] applauds the hound. Let that same child Of night and sleep (which hath the world defiled With odious railing) bark 'gainst all the work Of all the gods, and find some error lurk In all the graces; let his laver[409] lip Speak in reproach of Nature's workmanship; Let him upbraid fair Venus, if he list, For her short heel; let him with rage insist 100 To snarl at Vulcan's man, because he was Not made with windows of transparent glass, That all might see the passions of his mind; Let his all-blasting tongue great errors find In Pallas' house, because if next should burn, It could not from the sudden peril turn; Let him upbraid great Jove with luxury, Condemn the heaven's queen of jealousy: Yet this same Stygian Momus must be praised, And to some godhead at the least be raised. 110 But if poor Orpheus sing melodiously, And strive with music's sweetest symphony To praise the gods, and unadvisedly Do but o'er-slip one drunken deity, Forthwith the bouzing Bacchus out doth send His furious Bacchides, to be revenged; And straight they tear the sweet musician, And leave him to the dogs' division. Hebrus, bear witness of their cruelty, For thou didst view poor Orpheus' tragedy. 120 Thus slight neglects are deepest villany, But blasting mouths deserve a deity. Since Gallus slept, when he was set to watch Lest Sol or Vulcan should Mavortius catch In using Venus; since the boy did nap, Whereby bright Phoebus did great Mars intrap, Poor Gallus now (whilom to Mars so dear) Is turnèd to a crowing chaunticlere; And ever since, 'fore that the sun doth shine (Lest Phoebus should with his all-piercing eyne 130 Descry some Vulcan), he doth crow full shrill, That all the air with echoes he doth fill; Whilst Mars, though all the gods do see his sin, And know in what lewd vice he liveth in, Yet is adored still, and magnified, And with all honours duly worshipped. _Euge!_ Small faults to mountains straight are raised; Slight scapes are whipt, but damnèd deeds are praised. Fie, fie! I am deceived all this while, A mist of errors doth my sense beguile; 140 I have been long of all my wits bereaven; Heaven for hell taking, taking hell for heaven; Virtue for vice, and vice for virtue still; Sour for sweet, and good for passing ill. If not, would vice and odious villany Be still rewarded with high dignity? Would damned Jovians be of all men praised, And with high honours unto heaven raised? 'Tis so, 'tis so; riot and luxury Are virtuous, meritorious chastity: 150 That which I thought to be damn'd hell-born pride, Is humble modesty, and nought beside; That which I deemèd Bacchus' surquedry, Is grave and staid, civil sobriety. O then, thrice holy age, thrice sacred men, 'Mong whom no vice a satire can discern, Since lust is turnèd into chastity, And riot unto sad sobriety, Nothing but goodness reigneth in our age, And virtues all are join'd in marriage! 160 Here is no dwelling for impiety, No habitation for base villany; Here are no subject for reproof's sharp vein; Then hence, rude satire, make away amain, And seek a seat where more impurity Doth lie and lurk in still security! Now doth my satire stagger in a doubt, Whether to cease or else to write it out. The subject is too sharp for my dull quill; Some son of Maia, show thy riper skill; 170 For I'll go turn my tub against the sun, And wistly mark how higher planets run, Contemplating their hidden motion. Then on some Latmos with Endymion, I'll slumber out my time in discontent, And never wake to be malevolent, A beadle to the world's impurity. But ever sleep in still security. If this displease the world's wrong-judging sight, It glads my soul, and in some better sprite 180 I'll write again. But if that this do please, Hence, hence, satiric Muse, take endless ease, Hush now, ye band-dogs, bark no more at me, But let me slide away in secrecy.

EPICTETUS.[410]

[401] In Topsel's _Hist. of Four-footed Beasts_ (ed. 1658, pp. 352-5) there is an interesting chapter "of the Lamia."

[402] "_Huc usque Xylinum._"--Marginal note in old ed. The meaning is "Bombast--balderdash--up to this point." Marston lets the reader know that the high-sounding lines at the beginning of this satire are to be taken in jest. See more on p. 342. (_Lat._ xylinum, Gr. xulinon = cotton, bombast.)

[403] Dashed.

[404] Dyce, in a note on a passage of _The Captain_, iv. 3 (_Beaumont and Fletcher_, iii. 295), quotes from _A Brown Dozen of Drunkards_, 1648, sig. C:--"This late Lusty Lawrence, that Lancashire Lad, who had seventeen bastards in one year, if we believe his Ballad," &c.

[405] Seemingly a contraction (_metri causa_) of "Nemesis."

[406] "_Rex hominumque deorumque._"--Marginal note in old ed.

[407] One legend makes Asopus, father of Aegina, to have been the river that watered the Phliasian territory in Argolis. See Heyne's note on Apollodorus' _Bibl._, iii. 12. 5.

[408] Gnatho,--used by Plautus and Terence as a proper name for a parasite (Gr. gnathon).

[409] "Laver lip" = hanging lip. Cf. Hall's Satires, ii. 2:--"A _lave-ear'd_ ass with gold may trappèd be;" and again in iv. 1--"His ears hang _laving_ like a new-lugg'd swine."

[410] I fail to understand why Epictetus' name should stand here. The conclusion of this satire is more in 'Ercles' vein than in Epictetus'.--At the end of old ed. is a list of "Faults escaped."

THE SCOURGE OF VILLAINY.

_The Scovrge of Villanie. Three bookes of Satyres._ _Persevs._ _v v v Nec scompros_ [_sic_] _metuentia carmina nec thus._

_At London, Printed by I. R. and are to be sold by Iohn Buzbie, in Paules Church-yard, at the signe of the Crane, 1598._ 8vo.

_The Scovrge of Villanie. Corrected, with the addition of newe Satyres. Three Bookes of Satyres._

_Persivs._ _v v v Nec scombros metuentia carmina nec thus._

_At London, Printed by I. R. Anno Dom. 1599._ 8vo.

The letters "_v v v_" indicate that the dactyl at the beginning of the line has been dropped.

_To_[411] _his most esteemed and best beloved Self dat dedicatque._

[411] This dedication is not found in ed. 1598.

_To_ Detraction _I present my_ Poesy.

Foul canker of fair virtuous action, Vile blaster of the freshest blooms on earth, Envy's abhorrèd child, Detraction, I here expose, to thy all-tainting breath, The issue of my brain: snarl, rail, bark, bite, Know that my spirit scorns Detraction's spite.

Know that the Genius, which attendeth on And guides my powers intellectual, Holds in all vile repute Detraction; My soul an essence metaphysical, 10 That in the basest sort scorns critics' rage Because he knows his sacred parentage.

My spirit is not puft[412] up with fat fume Of slimy ale, nor Bacchus' heating grape. My mind disdains the dungy muddy scum Of abject thoughts and Envy's raging hate. True judgment slight regards Opinion, A spritely wit disdains Detraction.

A partial praise shall never elevate My settled censure of my own esteem; 20 A canker'd verdict of malignant hate Shall ne'er provoke me worse myself to deem. Spite of despite and rancour's villainy, I am myself, so is my poesy.

[412] Ed. 1598 "huft."

_In Lectores prorsus indignos._

Fie, Satire, fie! shall each mechanic slave, Each dunghill peasant, free perusal have Of thy well-labour'd lines?--each[413] satin suit, Each quaint fashion-monger, whose sole repute Rests in his trim gay clothes, lie slavering, Tainting thy lines with his lewd censuring? Shall each odd puisne[414] of the lawyer's inn, Each barmy-froth, that last day did begin To read his little, or his ne'er a whit, Or shall some greater ancient, of less wit 10 (That never turn'd but brown tobacco leaves, Whose senses some damn'd occupant[415] bereaves), Lie gnawing on thy vacant time's expense, Tearing thy rhymes, quite altering the sense? Or shall perfum'd Castilio censure thee, Shall he o'erview thy sharp-fang'd poesy (Who ne'er read further than his mistress' lips), Ne'er practised ought but some spruce cap'ring skips, Ne'er in his life did other language use, But "Sweet lady, fair mistress, kind heart, dear cuz"-- Shall this phantasma, this Coloss peruse, 21 And blast, with stinking breath, my budding muse? Fie! wilt thou make thy wit a courtezan For every broken handcraft's artisan? Shall brainless cittern-heads,[416] each jobbernoul,[417] Pocket the very genius of thy soul? Ay, Phylo, ay, I'll keep an open hall, A common and a sumptuous festival; Welcome all eyes, all ears, all tongues to me, Gnaw peasants on my scraps of poesy; 30 Castilios, Cyprians, court-boys, Spanish blocks,[418] Ribanded[419] ears, Granado netherstocks,[420] Fiddlers, scriveners, pedlars, tinkering knaves, Base blue-coats,[421] tapsters, broad-cloth-minded slaves-- Welcome, i'faith; but may you ne'er depart Till I have made your gallèd hides to smart. Your gallèd hides? avaunt, base muddy scum, Think you a satire's dreadful sounding drum Will brace itself, and deign to terrify Such abject peasants' basest roguery? 40 No, no, pass on, ye vain fantastic troop Of puffy youths; know I do scorn to stoop To rip your lives. Then hence, lewd nags, away, Go read each post,[422] view what is play'd to-day, Then to Priapus' gardens.[423] You, Castilio, I pray thee let my lines in freedom go, Let me alone, the madams call for thee, Longing to laugh at thy wit's poverty. Sirra livery cloak, you lazy slipper-slave, Thou fawning drudge, what, wouldst thou satires have? 50 Base mind, away, thy master calls, be gone. Sweet Gnato, let my poesy alone: Go buy some ballad of the Fairy King, And of the beggar wench[424] some roguy thing, Which thou mayst chant unto the chamber-maid To some vile tune, when that thy master's laid. But will you needs stay? am I forced to bear The blasting breath of each lewd censurer? Must naught but clothes, and images of men, But spriteless trunks, be judges of thy pen? 60 Nay then, come all; I prostitute my muse, For all the swarms of idiots to abuse. Read all, view all; even with my full consent, So you will know that which I never meant; So you will ne'er conceive, and yet dispraise That which you ne'er conceived, and laughter raise Where I but strive in honest seriousness To scourge some soul-polluting beastliness. So you will rail, and find huge errors lurk In every corner of my cynic work. 70 Proface,[425] read on, for your extrem'st dislikes Will add a pinion to my praise's flights. O how I bristle up my plumes of pride, O how I think my satire's dignifi'd, When I once hear some quaint Castilio, Some supple-mouth'd slave, some lewd Tubrio, Some spruce pedant, or some span-new-come fry Of inns-o'-court, striving to vilify My dark reproofs! Then do but rail at me, No greater honour craves my poesy. 80

1. But, ye diviner wits, celestial souls, Whose free-born minds no kennel-thought controlls, Ye sacred spirits, Maia's eldest sons--

2. Ye substance of the shadows of our age, In whom all graces link in marriage, To you how cheerfully my poem runs!

3. True-judging eyes, quick-sighted censurers, Heaven's best beauties, wisdom's treasurers, O how my love embraceth your great worth!

4. Ye idols of my soul, ye blessed spirits, 90 How shall I give true honour to your merits, Which I can better think than here paint forth!

You sacred spirits, Maia's eldest sons, To you how cheerfully my poem runs! O how my love embraceth your great worth, Which I can better think than here paint forth! O rare!

[413] Ed. 1598 "shal each."

[414] A newly-entered student at the inns-of-court. Cf. Middleton, iv. 37:--"Now I, not intending to understand her, but like a puny at the inns of Venery, &c."

[415] See Dyce's _Shakesp. Gloss._, _s._ OCCUPY.

[416] In allusion to the grotesque figures carved on the tops of citterns. See Nares' _Glossary_.

[417] "A jobbernoll. Teste de boeuf, michon, grosse teste."--_Cotgrave._

[418] Spanish hats, fashionable at this time. "From Spain what bringeth our traveller? A skull-crown'd hat of the fashion of an old deep porrenger," &c.--Nashe's _Unfortunate Traveller_.

[419] See note, vol. ii. p. 391.

[420] So in the _Debate between Pride and Lowliness_:--"The nether-stocks of pure Granada silk." See Fairholt's _History of Costume_, 1860, p. 211.

[421] Serving-men.

[422] It was the custom to paste on a pillar near the theatre the title of the play that was to be acted.

[423] In the suburbs--particularly near the Curtain Theatre--were many gardens, "either paled or walled round very high, with their arbours and bowers" (Stubbes), to which libertines resorted. See Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps' chapter on "The Theatre and Curtain" in _Outlines of the Life of Shakespeare_.

[424] An allusion to a jest (common in the fugitive poetry of the time) about a beggar-wench, with a child at her back, who refused the advances of a knight (on the ground that the child would be injured in the amorous encounter), unless he would allow the child to be strapped to his own back.

[425] "Proface"--an exclamation of welcome from the host to his guests at a feast. See Nares' _Glossary_.

_To those that seem judicial Perusers._

Know, I hate to affect too much obscurity and harshness, because they profit no sense. To note vices, so that no man can understand them, is as fond as the French execution in picture. Yet there are some (too many) that think nothing good that is so courteous as to come within their reach. Terming all satires bastard which are not palpable dark, and so rough writ that the hearing of them read would set a man's teeth on edge; for whose unseasoned palate I wrote the first Satire, in some places too obscure, in all places misliking me. Yet when by some scurvy chance it shall come into the late perfumed fist of judicial Torquatus[426] (that, like some rotten stick in a troubled water, hath got a great deal of barmy[427] froth to stick to his sides), I know he will vouchsafe it some of his new-minted epithets (as _real_, _intrinsicate_, _Delphic_), when in my conscience he understands not the least part of it. But from thence proceeds his judgment. Persius is crabby, because ancient, and his jerks (being

## particularly given to private customs of his time) dusky. Juvenal

(upon the like occasion) seems to our judgment gloomy. Yet both of them go a good seemly pace, not stumbling, shuffling. Chaucer is hard even to our understandings: who knows not the reason? how much more those old satires which express themselves in terms that breathed not long even in their days. But had we then lived, the understanding of them had been nothing hard. I will not deny there is a seemly decorum to be observed, and a peculiar kind of speech for a satire's lips, which I can willinglier conceive than dare to prescribe; yet let me have the substance rough, not the shadow. I cannot, nay, I will not delude your sight with mists; yet I dare defend my plainness against the verjuice-face of the crabbed'st satirist that ever stuttered. He that thinks worse of my rhymes than myself, I scorn him, for he cannot: he that thinks better, is a fool. So favour me, Good Opinion, as I am far from being a Suffenus.[428] If thou perusest me with an unpartial eye, read on: if otherwise, know I neither value thee nor thy censure.

W. KINSAYDER.

[426] A hit at Ben Jonson.--See Introduction to vol. i.

[427] Ridiculed by Ben Jonson in the _Poetaster_.

[428] The poet ridiculed by Catullus.

THE

SCOURGE OF VILLAINY.

PROEMIUM IN LIBRUM PRIMUM.

I bear the scourge of just Rhamnusia, Lashing the lewdness of Britannia. Let others sing as their good genius moves, Of deep designs, or else of clipping loves: Fair fall them all, that with wit's industry Do clothe good subjects in true poesy; But as for me, my vexèd thoughtful soul Takes pleasure in displeasing sharp control. Thou nursing mother of fair Wisdom's lore, Ingenuous Melancholy, I implore 10 Thy grave assistance: take thy gloomy seat, Enthrone thee in my blood; let me entreat, Stay his quick jocund skips, and force him run A sad-paced course, until my whips be done. Daphne, unclip thine arms from my sad brow; Black cypress crown me, whilst I up do plow The hidden entrails of rank villainy, Tearing the veil from damn'd impiety. Quake, guzzel dogs,[429] that live on putrid slime, Skud from the lashes of my yerking rhyme. 20

[429] "In other words, dogs of the gutter or drain. A small gutter is still called a guzzle in some of the provinces."--_Halliwell._

SATIRE I.

_Fronti nulla fides._

Marry, God forefend! Martius swears he'll stab: 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