Part 26

The self-same knowledge lies in this dead scene, Vail’d[504] to the tragic cypress of lament; Behold that man, which hath a master been, That king, which would have climb’d above content; Behold their slaves, by them upon the earth, Have now as high a seat, as great a birth.

The ground hath made all even which were odd, 12 Those equal which had inequality; Yet all alike were fashionèd by God, In body’s form, but not in heart’s degree: One difference had, in sceptre, crown, and throne, Yet crown’d, rul’d, plac’d in care, in grief, in moan.

For it was care to wear a crown of grief, And it was grief to wear a crown of care; The king death’s subject, death his empire’s thief, Which makes unequal state and equal fare; More dead than were alive, and more to die Than would be buried with a mortal eye.

O well-fed earth with ill-digesting food! 13 O well-ill food! because both flesh and sin; Sin made it sick, which never did it good; Sin made it well, her well doth worse begin: The earth, more hungry than was Tantal’s jaws, Had flesh and blood held in her earthen paws.

Now could belief some quiet harbour find, When all her foes were mantled in the ground, Before their sin-enchantments made it blind, Their magic arts, their necromantic sound: Now truth hath got some place to speak and hear, And whatsoe’er she speaks she doth not fear.

When Phœbe’s axletree was limn’d with pale, 14, 15 Pale, which becometh night, night which is black, Hemm’d round about with gloomy-shining veil, Borne up by clouds, mounted on silence’ back; And when night’s horses, in the running wain, O’ertook the middest of their journey’s pain;

Thy word, O Lord! descended from thy throne, 16 The royal mansion of thy power’s command, As a fierce man of war in time of moan, Standing in midst of the destroyèd land, And brought thy precept, as a burning steven,[505] Reaching from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.

Now was the night far spent, and morning’s wings 17 Flew th[o]rough sleepy thoughts, and made them dream, Hieing apace to welcome sunny springs, And give her time of day to Phœbus’ beam: No sooner had she flown unto the east, But dreamy passage did disturb their rest:

And then like sleepy-waking hearts and eyes, Turn’d up the fainting closures of their faces, Which between day and night in slumber lies, Keeping their waky and their sleepy places; And, lo, a fearing dream and dreaming fear Made every eye let fall a sleepy tear!

A tear half-wet from they themselves half-liv’d, 18 Poor dry-wet tear to moist a wet-dry face; A white-red face, whose red-white colour striv’d To make anatomy of either place; Two champions, both resolv’d in face’s field, And both had half, yet either scorn’d to yield.

They which were wont to mount above the ground 19 Have[506] leaden, quick-glued sinews, forc’d to lie, One here, one there, in prison, yet unbound, Heart-striving life and death to live and die; Nor were they ignorant of fate’s decree, In being told before what they should be.

There falsest visions shew’d the truest cause; 20 False, because fantasies, true, because haps; For dreams, though kindled by sleep-idle pause, Sometime true indices of danger’s claps, As well doth prove in these sin-sleeping lines, That dreams are falsest shews and truest signs.

By this time death had longer pilgrimage, And was encagèd in more living breasts; Now every ship had fleeting anchorage, Both good and bad were punish’d with unrests: But yet God’s heavy plague endur’d not long, For anger quench’d herself with her self wrong.

Not so; for heat can never cool with heat, 21 Nor cold can warm a cold, nor ice thaw ice; Anger is fire, and fire is anger’s meat, Then how can anger cool her hot device? The sun doth thaw the ice with melting harm, Ice cannot cool the sun which makes it warm.

It was celestial fire, terrestrial cold; It was celestial cold, terrestrial fire; A true and holy prayer, which is bold To cool the heat of anger’s hot desire, Pronouncèd by a servant of thy word, To ease the miseries which wraths afford.

Weapons and wit are double links of force; 22 If one unknit, they both have weaker strength; The longer be the chain, the longer course, If measur’d by duplicity of length: If weapons fail, wit is the better part; Wit failing, weapons have the weaker heart.

Prayer is weak in strength, yet strong in wit, And can do more than strength, in being wise; Thy word, O Lord, is wisdom, and in it Doth lie more force than forces can surprise! Man did not overcome his foes with arms, But with thy word, which conquers greater harms.

That word it was with which the world was fram’d, 23 The heavens made, mortality ordain’d; That word it was with which all men were nam’d, In which one word there are all words contain’d; The breath of God, the life of mortal state, The enemy to vice, the foe to hate.

When death press’d down the sin-dead living souls, And draw’d the curtain of their seeing day, This word was virtue’s shield and death’s controls, Which shielded those which never went astray; For when the dead did die and end in sin, The living had assurance to begin.

Are all these deeds accomplish’d in one word? 24 O sovereign word, chief of all words and deeds! O salve of safety! wisdom’s strongest sword, Both food and hunger, which both starves and feeds; Food unto life, because of living power, Hunger to those whom death and sins devour.

For they which liv’d were those which virtue lov’d, And those which virtue lov’d did love to live; Thrice happy these whom no destruction mov’d, She present there which love and life did give: They bore the mottoes of eternal fame On diapasons of their father’s name.

Here death did change his pale to purple hue, 25 Blushing, against the nature of his face, To see such bright aspècts, such splendent view, Such heavenly paradise of earthly grace, And hid with life’s quick force his ebon dart Within the crannies of his meagre heart.

Descending to the place from whence he came, With rich-stor’d chariot of fresh-bleeding wounds, Sore-grievèd bodies from a soul’s sick name, Sore-grievèd souls in bodies’ sin-sick sounds; Death was afraid to stay where life should be; For they are foes, and cannot well agree.

CHAP. XIX.

Avaunt, destroyer, with thy hungry jaws, 1 Thy thirsty heart, thy longing ashy bones! The righteous live, they be not in thy laws, Nor subjects to thy deep-oppressing moans: Let it suffice that we have seen thy show, And tasted but the shadow of thy woe.

Yet stay, and bring thy empty car again, 2 More ashy vessels do attend thy pace; More passengers expect thy coming wain, More groaning pilgrims long to see thy face: Wrath now attends the passage of misdeeds, And thou shalt still be stor’d with souls that bleeds.

Some lie half-dead, while others dig their graves 3 With weak-forc’d tears, to moist a long-dry ground; But tears on tears in time will make whole waves To bury sin with overwhelming sound; Their eyes for mattocks serve, their tears for spades, And they themselves are sextons by their trades.

What is their fee? lament; their payment? woe; Their labour? wail; their practice? misery: And can their conscience serve to labour so? Yes, yes, because it helpeth villany: Though eyes did stand in tears and tears in eyes, They did another foolishness devise.

So that what prayer did, sin did undo; 4 And what the eyes did win, the heart did lose; Whom virtue reconcil’d, vice did forego; Whom virtue did forego, that vice did choose: O had their hearts been just, eyes had been winners! Their eyes were just, but hearts new sin’s beginners.

They digg’d true graves with eyes, but not with hearts; 5 Repentance in their face, vice in their thought; Their delving eyes did take the sexton’s parts; The heart undid the labour which eyes wrought: A new strange death was portion for their toil, While virtue sate as judge to end the broil.

Had tongue been join’d with eyes, tongue had not stray’d; 6 Had eyes been join’d to heart, heart then had seen; But O, in wanting eyesight, it betray’d The dungeon of misdeeds, where it had been! So, many living in this orb of woe, Have heav’d-up eyes, but yet their hearts are low.

This change of sin did make a change of feature, A new strange death, a misery untold, A new reform of every old-new creature, New-serving offices which time made old: New-living virtue from an old-dead sin, Which ends in ill what doth in good begin.

When death did reap the harvest of despite, 7 The wicked ears of sin, and mischief’s seed, Filling the mansion of eternal night With heavy, leaden clods of sinful breed, Life sow’d the plants of immortality, To welcome old-made new felicity.

The clouds, the gloomy curtains of the air, Drawn and redrawn with the four wingèd winds, Made all of borrow’d vapours, darksome fair, Did overshade their tents, which virtue finds; The Red Sea’s deep was made a dry-trod way, Without impediment, or stop, or stay.

The thirsty winds, with overtoiling puffs, 8 Did drink the ruddy ocean’s water dry, Tearing the zone’s hot-cold, whole-raggèd ruffs With ruffling conflicts in the field of sky; So that dry earth did take wet water’s place, With sandy mantle and hard-grounded face.

That way which never was a way before, 9 Is now a trodden path which was untrod, Through which the people went as on a shore, Defended by the stretch’d-out arm of God; Praising his wondrous works, his mighty hand, Making the land of sea, the sea of land.

That breast where anger slept is mercy’s bed, 10 That breast where mercy wakes is anger’s cave; When mercy lives, then Nemesis is dead, And one for either’s corse makes other’s grave: Hate furrows up a grave to bury love, And love doth press down hate, it cannot move.

This breast is God, which ever wakes in both; Anger is his revenge, mercy his love: He sent them flies instead of cattle’s growth, And multitudes of frogs for fishes strove; Here was his anger shewn; and his remorse,[507] When he did make dry land of water-course.

The sequel proves what actor is the chief; 11 All things beginning know,[508] but none their end; The sequel unto mirth is weeping grief, As do[509] mishaps with happiness contend; For both are agents in this orb of weeping, And one doth wake when other falls a-sleeping.

Yet should man’s eyes pay tribute every hour With tributary tears to sorrow’s shrine, He would all drown himself with his own shower, And never find the leaf of mercy’s line: They in God’s anger wail’d, in his love joy’d; Their love brought lust ere love had lust destroy’d.

The sun of joy dried up their tear-wet eyes, 12 And sate as lord upon their sobbing heart; For when one comfort lives, one sorrow dies, Or ends in mirth what it begun in smart: What greater grief than hunger-starvèd mood? What greater mirth than satisfying food?

Quails from the fishy bosom of the sea Came to their comforts which were living-starv’d; But punishments fell in the sinners’ way, Sent down by thunderbolts which they deserv’d: Sin-fed these sinners were, hate-cherishèd; According unto both they perishèd.

Sin-fed, because their food was seed of sins, 13 And bred new sin with old-digested meat; Hate-cherishèd in being hatred’s twins, And sucking cruelty from tiger’s teat: Was it not sin to err and go astray? Was it not hate to stop a stranger’s way?

Was it not sin to see, and not to know? Was it not sin to know, and not receive? Was it not hate to be a stranger’s foe, And make them captives which did them relieve? Yes, it was greatest sin first for to leave them, And it was greatest hate last to deceive them.

O hungry cannibals! which know no fill, 14 But still do starving feed, and feeding starve, How could you so deceive? how could you spill[510] Their loving selves which did yourselves preserve? Why did you suck your pelican to death, Which fed you too, too well with his own breath?

O, say that cruelty can have no law, And then you speak with a mild-cruel tongue; Or say that avarice lodg’d in your jaw, And then you do yourselves but little wrong: Say what you will, for what you say is spite ’Gainst ill-come strangers, which did merit right.

You lay in ambush,—O deceitful snares, 15 Enticing baits, beguiling sentinels!— You added grief to grief and cares to cares, Tears unto weeping eyes where tears did dwell: O multitudes of sin, legions of vice, Which thaw[511] with sorrow sorrow’s frozen ice!

A banquet was prepar’d, the fare deceit, The dishes poison, and the cup despite, The table mischief, and the cloth a bait, Like spinner’s web t’ entrap the strange fly’s flight; Pleasure was strew’d upon the top of pain, Which, once digested, spread through every vein.

O ill conductors of misguided feet, 16 Into a way of death, a path of guile! Poor pilgrims, which their own destruction meet In habitations of an unknown isle: O, had they left that broad, deceiving way, They had been right, and never gone astray!

But mark the punishment which did ensue Upon those ill-misleading villanies; They blinded were themselves with their self view, And fell into their own-made miseries; Seeking the entrance of their dwelling-places With blinded eyes and dark misguided faces.

Lo, here was snares ensnar’d and guiles beguil’d, 17 Deceit deceiv’d and mischief was misled, Eyes blinded sight and thoughts the hearts defil’d, Life living in aspècts was dying dead; Eyes thought for to mislead, and were misled, Feet went to make mistreads, and did mistread.

At this proud fall the elements were glad, And did embrace each other with a kiss, All things were joyful which before were sad; The pilgrims in their way, and could not miss: As when the sound of music doth resound With changing tune, so did the changèd ground.

The birds forsook the air, the sheep the fold; 18 The eagle pitchèd low, the swallow high; The nightingale did sleep, and uncontroll’d Forsook the prickle of her nature’s eye; The seely[512] worm was friends with all her foes, And suck’d the dew-tears from the weeping rose.

The sparrow tun’d the lark’s sweet melody, The lark in silence sung a dirge of dole, The linnet help’d the lark in malady; The swans forsook the quire of billow-roll; The dry-land fowl did make the sea their nest, The wet-sea fish did make the land their rest.

The swans, the quiristers which did complain 19 In inward feeling of an outward loss, And fill’d the quire of waves with laving pain, Yet dancing in their wail with surge’s toss, Forsook her[513] cradle-billow-mountain bed, And hies her unto land, there to be fed:

Her sea-fare now is land-fare of content; Old change is changèd new, yet all is change; The fishes are her food, and they are sent Unto dry land, to creep, to feed, to range: Now coolest water cannot quench the fire, But makes it proud in hottest hot desire.

The evening of a day is morn to night, 20 The evening of a night is morn to day; The one is Phœbe’s clime which is pale-bright, The other Phœbus’ in more light array; She makes the mountains limp in chill-cold snow, He melts their eyes and makes them weep for woe.

His beams, ambassadors of his hot will Through the transparent element of air, Do[514] only his warm ambassage fulfil, And melt[515] the icy jaw of Phœbe’s hair; Yet those, though fiery flames, could not thaw cold, Nor break the frosty glue of winter’s mould.

Here nature slew herself, or, at the least, 21 Did tame the passage of her hot aspècts; All things have nature to be worst or best, And must incline to that which she affects; But nature miss’d herself in this same part, For she was weak, and had not nature’s heart.

’Twas God which made her weak and makes her strong, Resisting vice, assisting righteousness, Assisting and resisting right and wrong, Making this epilogue in equalness; ’Twas God, his people’s aid, their wisdom’s friend, In whom I did begin, with whom I end.

_A Jove surgit opus; de Jove finit opus._

MICRO-CYNICON,

SIX SNARLING SATIRES.

_Micro-cynicon. Sixe Snarling Satyres._

{ _Insatiat_ _Cron_. } { _Prodigall_ _Zodon_. } { _Insolent_ _Superbia_. } { _Cheating_ _Droone_. } { _Ingling_ _Pyander_. } { _Wise_ _Innocent_. }

_Adsis pulcher homo canis hic tibi pulcher emendo. Imprinted at London by Thomas Creede, for Thomas Bushell, and are to be sold at his shop at the North doore of Paules Church._ 1599. 8vo.

“In 1599,” says Warton, “appeared ‘MICRO-CYNICON sixe snarling satyres by T. M. Gentleman,’ perhaps Thomas Middleton.” _Hist. of English Poetry_, vol. iv. p. 70, ed. 4to.

On account of the concluding couplet of the “Defiance to Envy,”—

“I, but the author’s mouth, bid thee avaunt! He more defies thy hate, thy hunt, thy haunt,”—

and because that “Defiance” is followed by what bears expressly the title of “The Author’s Prologue,” Mr. J. P. Collier suspects that T. M. was only the author’s friend: see _The Poetical Decameron_, where these satires are noticed at considerable length, vol. i. p. 282, sqq.

That T. M. and the author of _Micro-cynicon_ were the same person, I have very little doubt; but that he was Thomas Middleton, I feel by no means confident.

HIS DEFIANCE[516] TO ENVY.

Envy, which mak’st thyself in common guise, To haunt deservers, and to hunt deserts; Hard-soft, cold-hot, well-evil, foolish-wise, Miscontrarieties, agreeing parts; Avaunt, I say! I’ll anger thee enough, And fold thy fiery eyes in thy smazky[517] snuff.

Defiance, resolution, and neglects, True trine of bars against thy false assault, Defies, resolves defiance, and rejects Thy interest to claim the smallest fault: Thou lawless landlady, poor prodigal, Sour solace, credit’s crack, fear’s festival!

More angry satire-days[518] I’ll muster up Than thou canst challenge letters in thy name; My nigrum[519] true-born ink no more shall sup Thy stainèd blemish, character’d in blame: My pen’s two nebs shall turn unto a fork, Chasing old Envy from so young a work: I, but the author’s mouth, bid thee avaunt! He more defies thy hate, thy hunt, thy haunt.

T. M. _Gent._

THE AUTHOR’S PROLOGUE.

FIRST BOOK.

Dismounted from the high-aspiring hills Which the all-empty airy kingdom fills, Leaving the scorchèd mountains threatening heaven, From whence fell fiery rage my soul hath driven, Passing the down-steep valleys all in hast,[520] Have tript it through the woods; and now, at last, Am veilèd with a stony sanctuary, To save my ire-stuft soul, lest it miscarry, From threatening storms, o’erturning verity, That shames to see truth’s refin’d purity; Those open plains, those high sky-kissing mounts, Where huffing winds cast up their airy accounts, Were too, too open, shelter yielding none, So that the blasts did tyrannize upon The naked carcass of my heavy soul, And with their fury all my all control. But now, environ’d with a brazen tower, I little dread their stormy-raging power; Witness this black defying embassy, That wanders them beforne[521] in majesty, Undaunted of their bugbear threatening words, Whose proud-aspiring vaunts time past records. Now, windy parasites, or the slaves of wine, That wind from all things save the truth divine, Wind, turn, and toss into the depth of spite, Your devilish venom cannot me affright; It is a cordial of a candy taste, I’ll drink it up, and then let ’t run at waste; Whose druggy lees, mix’d with the liquid flood Of muddy fell defiance, as it stood, I’ll belch into your throats all open wide, Whose gaping swallow nothing runs beside; And if it venom, take it as you list; He spites himself that spites a satirist.

MICRO-CYNICON.

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THE FIRST BOOK.

SATIRE I.—INSATIATE CRON.

=Cur eget[522] indignus quisquam, te divite?=