Part 30
And because I take pity on thee, waiting so long as thou usest to do, ere thou canst land one fare at the Counter, watching sometimes ten hours together in an ale-house, ever and anon peeping forth and sampling thy nose with the red lattice;[677] let him whosoever that falls into thy clutches at night pay well for thy standing all day: and, cousin Richard, when thou hast caught him in the mousetrap of thy liberty with the cheese of thy office, the wire of thy hard fist being clapt down upon his shoulders, and the back of his estate almost broken to pieces, then call thy cluster of fellow-vermins together, and sit in triumph with thy prisoner at the upper end of a tavern-table, where, under the colour of shewing him favour (as you term it) in waiting for bail, thou and thy counter-leech may swallow down six gallons of Charnico,[678] and then begin to chafe that he makes you stay so long before Peter Bail[679] comes. And here it will not be amiss if you call in more wine-suckers, and damn as many gallons again, for you know your prisoner’s ransom will pay for all; this is, if the party be flush now, and would not have his credit coppered with a scurvy counter.[680]
Another kind of rest you have, which is called shoepenny—that is, when you will be paid for every stride you take; and if the channel be dangerous and rough, you will not step over under a noble:[681] a very excellent lurch to get up the price of your legs between Paul’s-chain and Ludgate.
But that which likes[682] me beyond measure is the villanous nature of that arrest which I may fitly term by the name of cog-shoulder, when you clap a’ both sides like old Rowse[683] in Cornwall, and receive double fee both from the creditor and the debtor, swearing by the post of your office to shoulder-clap the party the first time he lights upon the lime-twigs of your liberty; when for a little usurer’s oil you allow him day by day free passage to walk by the wicked precinct of your noses, and yet you will pimple your souls with oaths, till you make them as well-favoured as your faces, and swear he never came within the verge of your eyelids. Nay, more, if the creditor were present to see him arrested on the one side, and the party you wot on over the way at the other side, you have such quaint shifts, pretty hinderances, and most lawyer-like delays, ere you will set forward, that in the meantime he may make himself away in some by-alley, or rush into the bowels of some tavern or drinking-school; or if neither, you will find talk with some shark-shift by the way, and give him the marks of the party, who will presently start before you, give the debtor intelligence, and so a rotten fig for the catchpoll! A most witty, smooth, and damnable conveyance![684] Many such cunning devices breed in the reins of your offices beside. I leave to speak of your unmerciful dragging a gentleman through Fleet-street, to the utter confusion of his white feather, and the lamentable spattering of his pearl-colour silk stockings, especially when some six of your black dogs of Newgate[685] are upon him at once. Therefore, sweet cousin Richard (for you are the nearest kinsman I have), I give and bequeath to you no more than you have already; for you are so well gorged and stuffed with that, that one spoonful of villany more would overlay your stomach quite, and, I fear me, make you kick up all the rest.
_Item_, I give and bequeath to you, Benedick Bottomless, most deep cutpurse, all the benefit of pageant-days, great market-days, ballat-places,[686] but especially the sixpenny rooms in play-houses, to cut, dive, or nim, with as much speed, art, and dexterity, as may be handled by honest rogues of thy quality. Nay, you shall not stick, Benedick, to give a shave of your office at Paul’s-cross in the sermon-time: but thou holdest it a thing thou mayest do by law, to cut a purse in Westminster Hall; true, Benedick, if thou be sure the law be on that side thou cuttest it on.
_Item_, I give and bequeath to you, old Bias, alias Humfrey Hollowbank, true cheating bowler and lurcher, the one half of all false bets, cunning hooks, subtle ties, and cross-lays,[687] that are ventured upon the landing of your bowl, and the safe arriving at the haven of the mistress,[688] if it chance to pass all the dangerous rocks and rubs of the alley, and be not choked in the sand, like a merchant’s ship before it comes half-way home, which is none of your fault (you’ll say and swear), although in your own turned conscience you know that you threw it above three yards short out of hand, upon very set purpose.
Moreover, Humfrey, I give you the lurching of all young novices, citizens’ sons, and country gentlemen, that are hooked in by the winning of one twelvepenny game at first, lost upon policy, to be cheated of twelve pounds’ worth a’ bets afterward. And, old Bias, because thou art now and then smelt out for a cozener, I would have thee sometimes go disguised (in honest apparel), and so drawing in amongst bunglers and ketlers[689] under the plain frieze of simplicity, thou mayest finely couch the wrought-velvet of knavery.
_Item_, I give and bequeath to your cousin-german here, Francis Fingerfalse, deputy of dicing-houses, all cunning lifts, shifts, and couches, that ever were, are, and shall be invented from this hour of eleven-clock upon black Monday, until it smite twelve a’ clock at doomsday. And this I know, Francis, if you do endeavour to excel, as I know you do, and will truly practise falsely, you may live more gallanter far upon three dice, than many of your foolish heirs about London upon thrice three hundred acres.
But turning my legacy to you-ward, Barnaby Burning-glass, arch-tobacco-taker of England, in ordinaries, upon stages[690] both common and private, and lastly, in the lodging of your drab and mistress; I am not a little proud, I can tell you, Barnaby, that you dance after my pipe so long, and for all counterblasts[691] and tobacco-Nashes[692] (which some call railers), you are not blown away, nor your fiery thirst quenched with the small penny-ale of their contradictions, but still suck that dug of damnation with a long nipple, still burning that rare Phœnix of Phlegethon, tobacco, that from her ashes, burned and knocked out, may arise another pipeful. Therefore I give and bequeath unto thee a breath of all religions save the true one, and tasting of all countries save his[693] own; a brain well sooted, where the Muses hang up in the smoke like red herrings; and look how the narrow alley of thy pipe shews in the inside, so shall all the pipes through thy body. Besides, I give and bequeath to thee[694] lungs as smooth as jet, and just of the same colour, that when thou art closed in thy grave, the worms may be consumed with them, and take them for black puddings.
Lastly, not least, I give and bequeath to thee, Pierce Pennyless, exceeding poor scholar, that hath made clean shoes in both universities, and been a pitiful battler[695] all thy lifetime, full often heard with this lamentable cry at the buttery-hatch, Ho, Launcelot, a cue[696] of bread, and a cue of beer! never passing beyond the confines of a farthing, nor once munching commons but only upon gaudy-days;[697] to thee, most miserable Pierce, or pierced through and through with misery, I bequeath the tithe of all vaulting-houses,[698] the tenth denier of each heigh, pass, come aloft! beside the playing in and out of all wenches at thy pleasure, which I know, as thou mayest use it, will be such a fluent pension, that thou shalt never have need to write _Supplication_ again.
Now, for the especial trust and confidence I have in both you, Mihell[699] Moneygod, usurer, and Leonard Lavender, broker or pawn-lender, I make you two my full executors to the true disposing of all these my hellish intents, wealthy villanies, and most pernicious damnable legacies.
And now, kinsmen and friends, wind about me; my breath begins to cool, and all my powers to freeze; and I can say no more to you, nephews, than I have said,—only this, I leave you all, like ratsbane, to poison the realm. And, I pray, be all of you as arrant villains as you can be; and so farewell: be all hanged, and come down to me as soon as you can.
This said, he departed to his molten kingdom: the wind risse,[700] the bottom of the chair flew out, the scrivener fell flat upon his nose; and here is the end of a harmless moral.
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Now, sir, what is your censure[701] now? you have read me, I am sure; am I black enough, think you, dressed up in a lasting suit of ink? do I deserve my dark and pitchy title? stick I close enough to a villain’s ribs? is not Lucifer liberal to his nephews in this his last will and testament? Methinks I hear you say nothing; and therefore I know you are pleased and agree to all, for _qui tacet, consentire videtur_; and I allow you wise and truly judicious, because you keep your censure to yourself.
FATHER HUBBURD’S TALES;
OR,
THE ANT AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
_Father Hubburds Tales: or The Ant, and the Nightingale. London Printed by T. C. for William Cotton, and are to be solde at his Shop neare adioyning to Ludgate._ 1604. 4to.
The first edition of this tract, in which several verses and the whole of “The Ant’s Tale when he was a scholar” are omitted, made its appearance during the same year in 4to, entitled _The Ant and the Nightingale: or Father Hubburds Tales. London Printed by T. C. for Tho: Bushell, and are to be solde by Jeffrey Chorlton, at his Shop at the North doore of Paules._ Mr. J. P. Collier (_Bridgewater-House Catalogue_, p. 199) mentions it as the _second_ edition; but a careful examination of both the impressions has convinced me that it is the _first_.
Taylor, the water-poet, in a “Preamble” to _The Praise of Hempseed_ (first printed in 1620), thus alludes to the present piece;
“One wrote the Nightingale and lab’ring Ant.” P. 62—_Workes_, 1630.
_To the true general patron of all Muses, Musicians, Poets, and Picture-drawers_, SIR CHRISTOPHER CLUTCHFIST, _knighted at a very hard pennyworth, neither for eating musk-melons, anchovies, or caviare, but for a costlier exploit and a hundred-pound feat of arms_, OLIVER HUBBURD, _brother to the nine waiting-gentlewomen the Muses, wisheth the decrease of his lands and the increase of his legs, that his calves may hang down like gamashoes_.[702]
Most guerdonless sir, pinching patron, and the Muses’ bad paymaster, thou that owest for all the pamphlets, histories, and translations that ever have[703] been dedicated to thee since thou wert one and twenty, and couldst make water upon thine own lands: but beware, sir, you cannot carry it away so, I can tell you, for all your copper-gilt spurs and your brood of feathers; for there are certain line-sharkers that have coursed the countries to seek you out already, and they nothing doubt but to find you here this Candlemas-term; which, if it should fall out so—as I hope your worship is wiser than to venture up so soon to the chambers of London— they have plotted together with the best common play-plotter in England to arrest you at the Muses’ suit—though they shoot short of them—and to set one of the sergeants of poetry, or rather the Poultry,[704] to claw you by the back, who, with one clap on your shoulder, will bruise all the taffeta to pieces. Now what the matter is between you, you know best yourself, sir; only I hear that they rail against you in booksellers’ shops very dreadfully, that you have used them most unknightly, in offering to take their books, and would never return so much as would pay for the covers, beside the gilding too, which stands them in somewhat, you know, and a yard and a quarter of broad sixpenny ribband; the price of that you are not ignorant of yourself, because you wear broad shoe-string; and they cannot be persuaded but that you pull the strings off from their books, and so maintain your shoes all the year long; and think, verily, if the book be in folio, that you take off the parchment, and give it to your tailor, but save all the gilding together, which may amount in time to gild you a pair of spurs withal. Such are the miserable conceits they gather of you, because you never give the poor Muse-suckers a penny: wherefore, if I might counsel you, sir, the next time they came with their gilded dedications, you should take the books, make your men break their pates, then give them ten groats a-piece, and so drive them away.
Your worship’s,
If you embrace my counsel,
OLIVER HUBBURD.
TO THE READER.
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Shall I tell you what, reader?—but first I should call you gentle, courteous, and wise; but ’tis no matter, they’re but foolish words of course, and better left out than printed; for if you be so, you need not be called so; and if you be not so, there were law against me for calling you out of your names:—by John of Paul’s-churchyard,[705] I swear, and that oath will be taken at any haberdasher’s, I never wished this book better fortune than to fall into the hands of a true-spelling printer, and an honest-minded[706] bookseller; and if honesty could be sold by the bushel like oysters, I had rather have one Bushel[707] of honesty than three of money.
Why I call these _Father Hubburd’s Tales_, is not to have them called in again, as the _Tale of Mother Hubburd_:[708] the world would shew little judgment in that, i’faith; and I should say then, _plena stultorum omnia_; for I entreat[709] here neither of rugged[710] bears or apes, no, nor the lamentable downfal of the old wife’s platters,—I deal with no such metal: what is mirth in me, is as harmless as the quarter-jacks in Paul’s, that are up with their elbows[711] four times an hour, and yet misuse no creature living; the very bitterest in me is but like a physical frost, that nips the wicked blood a little, and so makes the whole body the wholesomer: and none can justly except at me but some riotous vomiting Kit,[712] or some gentleman-swallowing malkin. Then, to condemn these Tales following because Father Hubburd tells them in the small size of an ant, is even as much as if these two words, _God_ and _Devil_, were printed both in one line, to skip it over and say that line were naught, because the devil were in it. _Sat sapienti_; and I hope[713] there be many wise men in all the twelve Companies.[714]
Yours,
If you read without spelling or hacking,
T. M.
THE ANT AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
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The west-sea’s goddess in a crimson robe, Her temples circled with a coral wreath, Waited her love, the lightener of earth’s globe: The wanton wind did on her bosom breathe; The nymphs of springs did hallow’d[715] water pour; Whate’er was cold help’d to make cool her bower.
And now the fiery horses of the Sun Were from their golden-flaming car untrac’d, And all the glory of the day was done, Save here and there some light moon-clouds enchas’d, A parti-colour’d canopy did spread Over the Sun and Thetis’ amorous bed.
Now had the shepherds folded in their flocks, The sweating teams uncoupled from their yokes: The wolf sought prey, and the sly-murdering fox Attempts to steal; fearless of rural strokes, All beasts took rest that liv’d by labouring toil; Only such rang’d as had delight in spoil.
Now in the pathless region of the air The wingèd passengers had left to soar, Except the bat and owl, who bode sad care, And Philomel, that nightly doth deplore, In soul-contenting tunes, her change of shape, Wrought first by perfidy and lustful rape.
This poor musician, sitting all alone On a green hawthorn from the thunder blest, Carols in varied notes her antique moan, Keeping a sharpen’d briar against her breast: Her innocence this watchful pain doth take, To shun the adder and the speckled snake.
These two, like her old foe the lord of Thrace, Regardless of her dulcet-changing song, To serve their own lust have her life in chase; Virtue by vice is offer’d endless wrong: Beasts are not all to blame, for now and then We see the like attempted amongst men.
Under the tree whereon the poor bird sat, There was a bed of busy-toiling ants, That in their summer winter’s comfort gat, Teaching poor men how to shun after-wants; Whose rules if sluggards could be learn’d to keep, They should not starve awake, lie cold asleep.
One of these busy brethren, having done His day’s true labour, got upon the tree, And with his little nimble legs did run; Pleas’d with the hearing, he desir’d to see What wondrous creature nature had compos’d, In whom such gracious music was enclos’d.
He got too near; for the mistrustful bird Guess’d him to be a spy from her known foe: Suspicion argues not to hear a word: What wise man fears not that’s inur’d to woe? Then blame not her she caught him in her beak, About to kill him ere the worm[716] could speak.
But yet her mercy was above her heat; She did not, as a many silken men Call’d by much wealth, small wit, to judgment’s seat,[717] Condemn at random; but she pitied then When she might spoil: would great ones would do so! Who often kill before the cause they know,
O, if they would, as did this little fowl, Look on their lesser captives with even ruth, They should not hear so many sentenc’d howl, Complaining justice is not friend to truth! But they would think upon this ancient theme, Each right extreme is injury extreme.
Pass them to mend, for none can them amend But heaven’s lieutentant and earth’s justice-king: Stern will hath will; no great one wants a friend; Some are ordain’d to sorrow, some to sing; And with this sentence let thy griefs all close, Whoe’er are wrong’d are happier than their foes.
So much for such. Now to the little ant In the bird’s beak and at the point to die: Alas for woe, friends in distress are scant! None of his fellows to his help did hie; They keep them safe; they hear, and are afraid: ’Tis vain to trust in the base number’s aid.
Only himself unto himself is friend: With a faint voice his foe he thus bespake; Why seeks your gentleness a poor worm’s end? O, ere you kill, hear the excuse I make! I come to wonder, not to work offence: There is no glory to spoil innocence.
Perchance you take me for a soothing spy, By the sly snake or envious adder fee’d: Alas, I know not how to feign and lie, Or win a base intelligencer’s meed, That now are Christians, sometimes Turks, then Jews, Living by leaving heaven for earthly news.
I am[718] a little emmet, born to work, Oftimes a man, as you were once a maid: Under the name of man much ill doth lurk, Yet of poor me you need not be afraid; Mean men are worms, on whom the mighty tread; Greatness and strength your virtue injurèd.
With that she open’d wide her horny bill, The prison where this poor submissant lay; And seeing the poor ant lie quivering still, Go, wretch, quoth she, I give thee life and way; The worthy will not prey on yielding things, Pity’s infeoffèd to the blood of kings.
For I was once, though now a feather’d veil Cover my wrongèd body, queen-like clad; This down about my neck was erst a rail[719] Of byss[720] embroider’d—fie on that we had! Unthrifts and fools and wrongèd ones complain Rich things were theirs must ne’er be theirs again.
I was, thou know’st, the daughter to a king, Had palaces and pleasures in my time; Now mine own songs I am enforc’d to sing, Poets forget me in their pleasing rhyme; Like chaff they fly, toss’d with each windy breath, Omitting my forc’d rape by Tereus’ death.
But ’tis no matter; I myself can sing Sufficient strains to witness mine own worth: They that forget a queen soothe with a king;[721] Flattery’s still barren, yet still bringeth forth: Their works are dews shed when the day is done, But suck’d up dry by the next morning’s[722], sun.
What more of them? they are like Iris’ throne, Commix’d with many colours in moist time: Such lines portend what’s in that circle shewn; Clear weather follows showers in every clime, Averring no prognosticator lies, That says, some great ones fall, their rivals rise.
Pass such for bubbles; let their bladder-praise Shine and sink with them in a moment’s change: They think to rise when they the riser raise; But regal wisdom knows it is not strange For curs to fawn: base things are ever low; The vulgar eye feeds only on the show.
Else would not soothing glosers oil the son, Who, while his father liv’d, his acts did hate: They know all earthly day with man is done When he is circled in the night of fate; So the deceasèd they think on no more, But whom they injur’d late, they now adore.
But there’s a manly lion now can roar Thunder more dreaded than the lioness; Of him let simple beasts his aid implore, For he conceives more than they can express: The virtuous politic is truly man, Devil the atheist politician.
I guess’d thee such a one; but tell thy tale: If thou be simple, as thou hast exprest, Do not with coinèd words set wit to sale, Nor with the flattering world use vain protest: Sith[723] man thou say’st thou wert, I prithee, tell While thou wert man what mischiefs thee befell.
Princess, you bid me buried cares revive, Quoth the poor ant; yet sith by you I live, So let me in my daily labourings thrive As I myself do to your service give: I have been oft a man, and so to be Is often to be thrall to misery.
But if you will have me my mind disclose, I must entreat you that I may set down The tales of my black fortunes in sad[724] prose: Rhyme is uneven, fashion’d by a clown; I first was such a one, I till’d the ground; And amongst rurals verse is scarcely found.
Well, tell thy tales; but see thy prose be good; For if thou Euphuize, which once was rare,[725] And of all English phrase the life and blood, In those times for the fashion past compare, I’ll say thou borrow’st, and condemn thy style, As our new fools, that count all following vile.
Or if in bitterness thou rail, like Nash— Forgive me, honest soul, that term thy phrase Railing! for in thy works thou wert not rash, Nor didst affect in youth thy private praise: Thou hadst a strife with that Trigemini;[726] Thou hurt’dst not them till they had injur’d thee.
Thou wast indeed too slothful to thyself, Hiding thy better talent in thy spleen; True spirits are not covetous in pelf; Youth’s wit is ever ready, quick, and keen: Thou didst not live thy ripen’d autumn-day, But wert cut off in thy best blooming May: