Part 27

Time was when down-declining toothless age Was of a holy and divine presage, Divining prudent and foretelling truth, In sacred points instructing wandering youth; But, O detraction of our latter days! How much from verity this age estrays, Ranging the briery deserts of black sin, Seeking a dismal cave to revel in! This latter age, or member of that time Of whom my snarling Muse now thundereth rhyme, Wander’d the brakes, until a hidden cell He found at length, and still therein doth dwell: The house of gain insatiate it is, Which this hoar-agèd peasant deems his bliss. O that desire might hunt amongst that fur! It should go hard but he would loose a cur To rouse the fox, hid in a bramble-bush, Who frighteth conscience with a wry-mouth’d push.[523] But what need I to wish or would it thus, When I may find him starting at the Burse,[524] Where he infecteth other pregnant wits, Making them co-heirs to his damnèd fits. There may you see this writhen-facèd mass Of rotten mouldering clay, that prating ass, That riddles wonders, mere compact[525] of lies, Of heaven, of hell, of earth, and of the skies, Of heaven thus he reasons; heaven there’s none, Unless it be within his mansion: O, there is heaven! why? because there’s gold, That from the late to this last age controll’d The massy sceptre of earth’s heavenly round, Exiling forth her silver-pavèd bound The leaders, brethren, brazen counterfeits, That in this golden age contempt begets: Vaunt then I, mortal[526] I, I only king, And golden god of this eternal being. Of hell Cimmerian thus Avarus reasons; Though hell be hot, yet it observeth seasons, Having within his kingdom residence, O’er which his godhead hath pre-eminence: An obscure angel of his heaven it is, Wherein’s contain’d that hell-devouring bliss; Into this hell sometimes an angel falls, Whose white aspèct black forlorn souls appalls; And that is when a saint believing gold, Old in that heaven, young in being old, Falls headlong down into that pit of woe, Fit for such damnèd creature’s overthrow: To make this public that obscurèd lies, And more apparent vulgar secrecies; To make this plain, harsh unto common wits, Simplicity in common judgment sits. This downcast angel, or declining saint, Is greedy Cron, when Cron makes his compt;[527] For his poor creditors faln to decay, Being bankerouts,[528] take heels and run away: Then frantic Cron, gall’d to the very heart, In some by-corner plays a devil’s part, Repining at the loss of so much pelf, And in a humour goes and hangs himself; So of a saint a devil Cron is made, The devil lov’d Cron, and Cron the devil’s trade. Thus may you see such angels often fall, Making a working-day a festival. Now to the third point of his deity, And that’s the earth, thus reasons credulity; Credulous Cron, Cron credulous in all, Swears that his kingdom is in general; As he is regent of this heaven and hell, So of the earth all others he’ll expel; The skies at his dispose, the earth his own, And if Cron please, all must be overthrown. Cron, Cron, advise thee, Cron with the copper nose, And be not rul’d so much by false suppose, Lest Cron’s professing holiness turn evil, And of a false god prove a perfect devil. I prithee, Cron, find out some other talk, Make not the Burse[529] a place for spirits to walk; For doubtless, if thy damnèd lies take place, Destruction follows: farewell, sacred grace! Th’ Exchange for goodly[530] merchants is appointed; Why not for me, says Cron, and mine anointed? Can merchants thrive, and not the usurer nigh? Can merchants live without my company? No, Cron helps all, and Cron hath help from none; What others have is Cron’s, and Cron’s his own: And Cron will hold his own, or ’t shall go hard, The devil will help him for a small reward. The devil’s help, O ’tis a mighty thing! If he but say the word, Cron is a king. O then the devil is greater yet than he! I thought as much, the devil would master be. And reason too, saith Cron; for what care I, So I may live as god, and never die? Yea, golden Cron, death will make thee away, And each dog, Cron, must have a dying day; And with this resolution I bequeath thee To God or to the devil, and so I leave thee.

SATIRE II.—PRODIGAL ZODON.

Who knows not Zodon? Zodon! what is he? The true-born child of insatiety. If true-born, when? if born at all, say where? Where conscience begg’d in worst time of the year: His name young Prodigal, son to greedy Gain, Let blood by folly in a contrary vein; For scraping Cron, seeing he needs must die, Bequeathèd all to prodigality: The will once prov’d, and he possess’d of all, Who then so gallant as young Prodigal? Mounted aloft on flattering fortune’s wings, Where like a nightingale secure he sings, Floating on seas of scarce prosperity, Ingirt with pleasure’s sweet tranquillity: Suit upon suit, satin too, too base; Velvet laid on with gold or silver lace A mean man doth become; but he[531] must ride In cloth of finèd gold, and by his side Two footmen at the least, with choice of steeds, Attirèd, when he[532] rides, in gorgeous weeds: Zodon must have his chariot gilded o’er; And when he triumphs, four bare before In pure white satin to usher out his way, To make him glorious on his progress-day: Vail[533] bonnet he that doth not, passing by, Admiring on that sun-enriching sky, Two days encag’d at least in strongest hold: Storm he that list, he scorns to be controll’d. What! is it lawful that a mounted beggar May uncontrollèd thus bear sway and swagger? A base-born issue of a baser sire, Bred in a cottage, wandering in the mire, With nailèd shoes, and whipstaff in his hand, Who with a hey and ree the beasts command; And being seven years practis’d in that trade, At seven years’ end by Tom a journey’s made Unto the city of fair Troynovant;[534] Where, through extremity of need and want, He’s forc’d to trot with fardle at his back From house to house, demanding if they lack A poor young man that’s willing to take pain And mickle labour, though for little gain. Well, some kind Troyan, thinking he hath grace, Keeps him himself, or gets some other place. The world now, God be thank’d, is well amended; Want, that erewhile did want, is now befriended; And scraping Cron hath got a world of wealth: Now what of that? Cron’s dead; where’s all his pelf? Bequeathèd to young Prodigal; that’s well: His god hath left him, and he’s fled to hell. See, golden souls, the end of ill-got gain, Read and mark well, to do the like refrain. This youthful gallant, like the prince of pleasure, Floating on golden seas of earthly treasure, Treasure ill got by ministering of wrong, Made a fair show, but endur’d not long; Ill got, worse spent, gotten by deceit; Spent on lascivious wantons, which await And hourly expect such prodigality, Lust-breathing lechers given to venery: No day expir’d but Zodon hath his trull, He hath his tit, and she likewise her gull; Gull he, trull she: O ’tis a gallant age! Men may have hackneys of good carriage; Provided that there rain a golden shower, Then come whos’ will at the appointed hour: Hour me no hours, hours break no square; Where gold doth rain, be sure to find them there. Well, Zodon hath his pleasure, he hath gold; Young in his golden age, in sin too old. Now he wants gold, all his treasures done, He’s banishèd the stews, pity finds none; Rich yesterday in wealth, this day as poor, To-morrow like to beg from door to door. See, youthful spendthrifts, all your bravery[535] Even in a moment turn’d to misery!

SATIRE III.—INSOLENT SUPERBIA.

List, ye profane, fair-painted images, Predestinated by the Destinies, At your first being, to fall eternally Into Cimmerian black obscurity; Ill-favour’d idols, pride-anatomy, Foul-colour’d puppets, balls of infamy, Whom zealous souls do racket to and fro; Sometimes aloft ye fly, other whiles below, Banded into the air’s loose continent, Where hard upbearing winds hold parliament; For such is the force of down-declining sin, Where our short-feather’d peacocks wallow in, That when sweet motions urge them to aspire, They are so bathèd o’er by sweet desire In th’ odoriferous fountain of sweet pleasure, Wherein delight hath all embalm’d her treasure,— I mean, where sin, the mistress of disgrace, Hath residence and her abiding place; And sin, though it be foul, yet fair in this, In being painted with a show of bliss; For what more happy creature to the eye Than is Superbia in her bravery? Yet who more foul, disrobèd of attire? Pearl’d with the botch as children burnt with fire; That for their outward cloak upon the skin, Worser enormities abound within: Look they to that; truth tells them their amiss, And in this glass all-telling truth it is. When welcome spring had clad the hills in green, And pretty whistling birds were heard and seen, Superbia abroad ’gan take her walk, With other peacocks for to find her talk: Kyron, that in a bush lay closely couch’d, Heard all their chat, and how it was avouch’d. Sister, says one, and softly pack’d away, In what fair company did you dine to-day? ’Mongst gallant dames,—and then she wipes her lips, Placing both hands upon her whalebone hips, Puft up with a round-circling farthingale: That done, she ’gins go forward with her tale:— Sitting at table carv’d of walnut-tree, All coverèd with damask’d napery, Garnish’d with salts[536] of pure beaten gold, Whose silver-plated edge, of rarest mould, Mov’d admiration in my searching eye, To see the goldsmith’s rich artificy: The butler’s placing of his manchets[537] white, The plated cupboard,[538] for our more delight, Whose golden beauty, glancing from on high, Illuminated other chambers nigh: The slowly pacing of the servingmen, Which were appointed to attend us then, Holding in either hand a silver dish Of costly cates of far-fetch’d dainty fish, Until they do approach the table nigh, Where the appointed carver carefully Dischargeth them of their full-freighted hands, Which instantly upon the table stands: The music sweet, which all that while did sound, Ravish the hearers, and their sense confound. This done, the master of that sumptuous feast, In order ’gins to place his welcome guest: Beauty, first seated in a throne of state, Unmatchable, disdaining other mate, Shone like the sun, whereon mine eyes still gaz’d, Feeding on her perfections that amaz’d; But O, her silver-framèd coronet, With low-down dangling spangles all beset, Her sumptuous periwig, her curious curls, Her high-pric’d necklace of entrailèd pearls, Her precious jewels wondrous to behold, Her basest jem fram’d of the purest gold! O, I could kill myself for very spite, That my dim stars give not so clear a light! Heart-burning ire new kindled bids despair, Since beauty lives in her, and I want fair:[539] O had I died in youth, or not been born, Rather than live in hate, and die forlorn! And die I will,—therewith she drew a knife To kill herself, but Kyron sav’d her life. See here, proud puppets, high-aspiring evils, Scarce any good, most of you worse than devils, Excellent in ill, ill in advising well, Well in that’s worst, worse than the worst in hell: Hell is stark blind, so blind most women be, Blind, and yet not blind when they should not see. Fine madam Tiptoes, in her velvet gown, That quotes[540] her paces in charàcters down, Valuing each step that she had made that day Worth twenty shillings in her best array; And why, forsooth, some little dirty spot Hath fell upon her gown or petticoat; Perhaps that nothing much, or something little, Nothing in many’s view, in her’s a mickle, Doth thereon surfeit, and some day or two She’s passing sick, and knows not what to do: The poor handmaid, seeing her mistress wed To frantic sickness, wishes she were dead; Or that her devilish tyrannising fits May mend, and she enjoy her former wits; For whilst that health thus counterfeits not well, Poor here-at-hand lives in the depth of hell. Where is this baggage? where’s this girl? what, ho! Quoth she, was ever woman troubled so? What, huswife Nan! and then she ’gins to brawl; Then in comes Nan,—Sooth, mistress, did you call? Out on thee, quean! now, by the living God,— And then she strikes, and on the wench lays load; Poor silly maid, with finger in the eye, Sighing and sobbing, takes all patiently. Nimble affection, stung to the very heart To see her fellow-mate sustain such smart, Flies to the Burse-gate[541] for a match[542] or two, And salves th’ amiss, there is no more to do: Quick-footed kindness, quick as itself thought, With that well-pleasing news but lately bought By love’s assiduate care and industry, Into the chamber runs immediately, Where she unlades the freight of sweet content. The haggler pleas’d doth rise incontinent; Then thought of sickness is not thought upon, Care hath no being in her mansion; But former peacock-pride, grand insolence, Even in the highest thought hath residence: But it on tiptoe stands; well, what of that? It is more prompt to fall and ruinate; And fall it will, when death’s shrill, clamorous bell Shall summon you unto the depth of hell. Repent, proud princocks,[543] cease for to aspire, Or die to live with pride in burning fire.

SATIRE IV.—CHEATING DROONE.

There is a cheater by profession That takes more shapes than the chameleon; Sometimes he jets[544] it in a black furr’d gown, And that is when he harbours in the town; Sometimes a cloak to mantle hoary age, Ill-favour’d, like an ape in spiteful rage; And then he walks in Paul’s[545] a turn or two, To see by cheating what his wit can do: Perhaps he’ll tell a gentleman a tale Will cost him twenty angels[546] in the sale; But if he know his purse well lin’d within, And by that means he cannot finger him, He’ll proffer him such far-fet[547] courtesy, That shortly in a tavern neighbouring by He hath encag’d the silly gentleman, To whom he proffers service all he can: Sir, I perceive you are of gentle blood, Therefore I will our cates be new and good; For well I wot the country yieldeth plenty, And as they divers be, so are they dainty; May it please you, then, a while to rest you merry, Some cates I will make choice of, and not tarry. The silly cony[548] blithe and merrily Doth for his kindness thank him heartily; Then hies the cheater very hastily, And with some peasant, where he is in fee, Juggles, that dinner being almost ended, He in a matter of weight may then be friended. The peasant, for an angel then in hand, Will do whate’er his worship shall command, And yields, that when a reckoning they call in, To make reply there’s one to speak with him. The plot is laid; now comes the cheater back, And calls in haste for such things as they lack; The table freighted with all dainty cates, Having well fed, they fall to pleasant chates,[549] Discoursing of the mickle difference ’Twixt perfect truth and painted eloquence, Plain troth, that harbours in the country swain: The cony stands defendant; the cheater’s vein Is to uphold an eloquent smooth tongue, To be truth’s orator, righting every wrong. Before the cause concluded took effect, In comes a crew of fiddling knaves abject, The very refuse of that rabble rout, Half shoes upon their feet torn round about, Save little Dick, the dapper singing knave, He had a threadbare coat to make him brave,[550] God knows, scarce worth a tester[551] if it were Valued at most, of seven it was too dear. Well, take it as they list, Shakerag came in, Making no doubt but they would like of him, And[552] ’twere but for his person, a pretty lad, Well qualified, having a singing trade. Well, so it was, the cheater must be merry, And he a song must have, call’d Hey-down-derry: So Dick begins to sing, the fiddler[s] play; The melancholy cony replies, nay, nay, No more of this; the other[553] bids play on,— ’Tis good our spirits should something work upon: Tut, gentle sir, be pleasant, man, quoth he, Yours be the pleasure, mine the charge shall be; This do I for the love of gentlemen: Hereafter happily if we meet agen,[554] I shall of you expect like courtesy, Finding fit time and opportunity. Or else I were ungrateful, quoth the cony; It shall go hard but we will find some money; For some we have, that some well us’d gets more, And so in time we shall increase our store. Meantime, said he, employ it to good use, For time ill spent doth purchase time’s abuse. With that, more wine he calls for, and intends That either of them carouse to all their friends; The cony nods the head, yet says not nay, Because the other would the charge defray. The end tries all; and here begins the jest, My gentleman betook him to his rest; Wine took possession of his drowsy head, And cheating Droone hath brought the fool to bed. The fiddlers were discharg’d, and all things whist,[555] Then pilfering Droone ’gan use him as he list: Ten pound he finds; the reckoning he doth pay, And with the residue passeth sheer away. Anon the cony wakes; his coin being gone, He exclaims against dissimulation; But ’twas too late, the cheater had his prey:— Be wise, young heads, care for an after-day!

SATIRE V.—INGLING[556] PYANDER.

Age hath his infant youth, old trees their sprigs, O’erspreading branches their inferior twigs: Old beldam hath a daughter or a son, True born or illegitimate, all’s one; Issue she hath. The father? Ask you me? The house wide open stands, her lodging’s free: Admit myself for recreation Sometimes did enter her possession, It argues not that I have been the man That first kept revels in that mantian;[557] No, no, the haggling commonplace is old, The tenement hath oft been bought and sold: ’Tis rotten now, earth to earth, dust to dust, Sodom’s on fire, and consume it must; And wanting second reparations, Pluto hath seiz’d the poor reversions. But that hereafter worlds may truly know What hemlocks and what rue there erst did grow, As it is Sathan’s usual policy, He left an issue of like quality; The still memorial, if I aim aright, Is a pale chequer’d black hermaphrodite. Sometimes he jets[558] it like a gentleman, Other whiles much like a wanton courtesan; But, truth to tell, a man or woman whether, I cannot say she’s excellent at either; But if report may certify a truth, She’s neither of either, but a cheating youth. Yet Troynovant,[559] that all-admirèd town, Where thousands still do travel up and down, Of beauty’s counterfeits[560] affords not one, So like a lovely smiling paragon, As is Pyander in a nymph’s attire, Whose rolling eye sets gazers’ hearts on fire, Whose cherry lip, black brow, and smiles procure Lust-burning buzzards to the tempting lure. What, shall I cloak sin with a coward fear, And suffer not Pyander’s sin appear? I will, I will. Your reason? Why, I’ll tell, Because time was I lov’d Pyander well; True love indeed will hate love’s black defame, So loathes my soul to seek Pyander’s shame. O, but I feel the worm of conscience sting, And summons me upon my soul to bring Sinful Pyander into open view, There to receive the shame that will ensue! O, this sad passion of my heavy soul Torments my heart and senses do[th] control! Shame thou, Pyander, for I can but shame, The means of my amiss by thy means came; And shall I then procure eternal blame, By secret cloaking of Pyander’s shame, And he not blush? By heaven, I will not! I’ll not burn in hell For false Pyander, though I lov’d him well; No, no, the world shall know thy villany, Lest they be cheated with like roguery. Walking the city, as my wonted use, There was I subject to this foul abuse: Troubled with many thoughts, pacing along, It was my chance to shoulder in a throng; Thrust to the channel I was, but crowding her, I spied Pyander in a nymph’s attire: No nymph more fair than did Pyander seem, Had not Pyander then Pyander been; No lady with a fairer face more grac’d, But that Pyander’s self himself defac’d; Never was boy so pleasing to the heart As was Pyander for a woman’s part; Never did woman foster such another As was Pyander, but Pyander’s mother. Fool that I was in my affection! More happy I, had it been a vision; So far entangled was my soul by love, That force perforce I must Pyander prove: The issue of which proof did testify Ingling Pyander’s damnèd villany. I lov’d indeed, and, to my mickle cost, I lov’d Pyander, so my labour lost: Fair words I had, for store of coin I gave, But not enjoy’d the fruit I thought to have. O, so I was besotted with her words, His words, that no part of a she affords! For had he been a she, injurious boy, I had not been so subject to annoy. A plague upon such filthy gullery! The world was ne’er so drunk with mockery. Rash-headed cavaliers, learn to be wise; And if you needs will do, do with advice; Tie not affection to each wanton smile, Lest doting fancy truest love beguile; Trust not a painted puppet, as I’ve done, Who far more doted than Pygmalion: The streets are full of juggling[561] parasites With the true shape of virgins’ counterfeits:[562] But if of force you must a hackney hire, Be curious in your choice, the best will tire; The best is bad, therefore hire none at all; Better to go on foot than ride and fall.

SATIRE VI.—WISE INNOCENT.[563]