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And praise his gentle soule, and wish it well, But else, look how their virtue was their cwne, And of his friendly facts full often tell.
Not capable of propagation. His father dead! tush, no it was not be,
Right so their titles beene, nor can be thine, He finds records of his great pedigree,
Whose ill deserts might blanke their golden line. And tells how first his famous ancestour
Tell me, thou gentle Trojan, dost thou prize Did come in long since with the Conquerour. Thy brute beasts' worth by their dams' qualities? Nor bath some bribed herald first assign'd
Say'st thou this colt shall prove a swift-pac'd steed His quartered arms and crest of gentle kind; Only because a jennet did him breed' The Scottish barnacle, if I might choose,
Or say'st thou this same horse shall win the prize, That of a worme doth waxe a winged goose;
Because his dam was swiftest Trunchefice, Nathlesse some hungry squire for hope of good Or Runcevall his sire? himself a Gallaway? Matches the churl's sonde into gentle blood, Whiles like a tireling jade he lags half-way. Whose sonne more justly of his gentry boasts Or whiles thou seest some of thy stallion race, Than who were borne at two py'd painted posts, Their eyes bor'd out, masking the miller's maze, And had some traunting merchant to bis sire, Like to a Scythian slave sworne to the payle, That trafick'd both by water and by fire.
Or dragging frothy barrels at his tayle? O times ! since ever Rome did kings create,
Albe wise nature in her providence,
Wont in the want of reason and of sense,
Unto their cause, or place where they were sowne;
That one is like to all, and all like one.
Was never fox but wily cubs begets;
The bear his fiercenesse to his brood besets:
Nor fearful hare falls out of lyon's seed, What boots it,Pontice, though thou could'st discourse Nor eagle wont the tender dove to breed. Of a long golden line of ancestours ?
Creet ever wont the cypress sad to bear, Or show their painted faces gayly drest,
Acheron banks the palish popelar: From ever since before the last conquest ? The palm doth rifely rise in Jury field, Or tedious bead-rolls of descended blood,
And Alpheus waters nought but olives wild. From father Japhet since Ducalion's flood ?
Asopus breeds big bullrushes alone, Or call some old church-windows to record
Meander, heath ; peaches by Nilus growne. The age of thy faire armes;
An English wolfe, an Irish toad to see,
Were as a chaste man nurs'd in Italy.
To human-kind, that in his bosome bides,
Above instinct, his reason and discourse, The garter of thy greatest grandsires knee? His being better, is his life the worse? What to reserve their relicks mariy yeares,
Ah me! how seldome see we sonnes succeed
His faults befal his sonnes by course of kind.
But not his pared nayle will he forego.
Florian, the sire, did women love alive, In some deep cock-pit, or in desp'rate lot
And so his sonne doth too, all but his wife. Upon a six-square piece of ivory,
Brag of thy father's faults, they are thine own: Throw both thy self and thy posterity?
Brag of his lands if they are not foregrne. Or if (O shame!) in hired harlot's bed
Brag of thine own good deeds, for they are thine Thy wealthy heirdome thou have buried :
More than his life, or lands, or golden line.
Plus beaque furt.
Can I not touch some upstart carpet-shield
Of Lolio's sonne, that never saw the field;
Or lucklesse Collingborn's feeding of the crowes, But yet if bap'ly his third fornace hold,
Or hundreth scalps which Thames still overflowes, Devoteth all bis pots and pans to gold :
But straight Sigalion nods and knits his browes,
And lisp some silent letters in my eare?
Pardon, ye satires, to degenerate !
That no salt wave shall froth upon my backe.
Let Labeo, or who else list for me,
Wars, God forefend! nay God defend from war; Go loose his ears and fall to alchimy:
Soone are sonnes spent, that not soon reared are. Only let Gallio give me leave a while
Gallio may pull me roses ere they fall,
Or yelping beagles busy heeles pursue,
Or halter finches through a privy doore, Though never have I Salerne rhymes profest Or list he spend the time in sportful game, To be some lady's trencher-critick guest;
In daily coarting of his lovely dame, Whiles each bit cooleth for the oracle,
Hang on her lips, melt in her wanton eye, Whose sentence charms it with a rhyming spell. Dance in her hand, joy in her jollity; Touch not this coler, that meláncholy,
Here's little perill, and much lesser paine, This bit were dry and hot, that cold and dry. So timely Hymen do the rest restraine. Yet can I set my Gallio's dieting,
Hye, wanton Gallio, and wed betime, A pestle of a lark, or plover's wing;
Why should'st thou leese the pleasures of thy prime: And warn him not to cast his wanton eyne Seest thou the rose-leares fall ungathered ? On grosser bacon, or salt haberdine,
Then hye thee, wanton Gallio, to wed. Or dried fitches of some smoked beeve,
Let ring and ferule meet upon thine hand,
Such as it got when thou thy selfe wast bore :
Virginius vow'd to keep his maidenhead,
Long hath he liv'd, chaste as a vailed nunne; If Martius in boist'rous buffs be dress'd,
Free as a new-absolved damosell Branded with iron plates upon the breast,
That frier Cornelius shrived in his cell, And pointed on the shoulders for the nonce, Till now be wax'd a toothlesse bachelour, As new come from the Belgian garrisons,
He thaws like Chaucer's frosty Januere, What should thou need to envy ought at that, And sets a month's mind upon smiling May, Whenas thou smellest like a civet cat?
And dyes his beard that did his age bewray; Whenas thine oyled locks smooth platted fall, Biting on annys-seede and rosemarine, Shining like varnish'd pictures on a wall.
Which might the fume of his rot lungs refine ; When a plum'd fanne may shade thy chalked face, Now he in Charon's barge a bride doth seeke, And lawny strips thy naked bosom grace.
The maidens mocke, and call him withered leeke, If brabbling Make-fray, at each fair and size, That with a greene tayle hath an hoary head, Picks quarrels for to show his valiantize,
And now he would, and now he cannot wed.
Stupet albius ære. That he may live a lawlesse conquerour. If some such desp’rate hackster sball devise Would now that Matho were the satyrist, To rouze thine hare's-heart from her cowardice, That some fat bride might grease him in the fist, As idle children striving to excell
For which he need not brawl at any bar, In blowing bubbles from an empty shell;
Nor kisse the booke to be a perjurer; Oh, Hercules ! how like to prove a man,
Who else would scorne his silence to have sold, 'That'all so rath thy warlike life began?
And have his tongue tyed with strings of gold? Thy mother could thee for thy cradle set
Curius is dead, and buried long since, Her husband's rusty iron corselet;
And all that loved golden abstinence. Whose jałgling sound might rock her babe to rest, Might he not well repine at his old fee, That never plain'd of his uneasy nest :
Would he but spare to speake of usury? There did he dreame of dreary wars at hand, Hirelings enow beside can be so base, And woke, and fought, and won, ere he conld stand. Though we should scorne each bribing varlet's brasse: But who hath seene the lambs of Tarentine, Yet he and I could shun each jealous head, May guesse what Gallio his manners beene;. Sticking our thumbs close to our girdle-stead. All soft as is the falling thistle-downe,
Though were they manicled behind our backe, Soft as the fumy ball, or Morrian's crowne. Another's fist can serve our fees to take. Now Gallio, gins thy youthly heat to raigne Yet pursy Euclio cheerly smiling pray'd In every vigorous limb and swelling vaine ; [high, That my sharp words might curtail their side trade: Time bids thee raise thine headstrong thoughts on For thousands beene in every governall To valour and adventrous chivalry:
That live by losse, and rise by others fall. Pawne thou no glove for challenge of the deed, Whatever sickly sheepe so secret dies, Nor make thy quintaine others armed head But some foule raven hath bespoke his eyes? T'enrich the waiting berald with thy shame, What else makes N—when his lands are spent, And make thy losse the scornful scaffold's game. Go shaking like a threadbare malecontent,
Whose bandlesse bonnet vailes his o'ergrown chin, When it shall grind thy grating gall for shame, And sullen rags bewray his morphew'd skin : To see the lands that beare thy grandsire's name So ships he to the wolfish western isle
Become a dunghill peasant's summer-hall, Among the savage kernes in sad exile;
Or lonely hermit's cage inhospitall; Or in the Turkish wars at Cæsar's pay
A pining gourmand, an imperious slave, To rub his life out till the latest day.
An horse-leech, barren wombe, and gaping grave; Another shifting gallant to forecast
A legal thiefe, a blood!esse murtherer,
A fiend incarnate, a false usurer:
In the clay walls of thatched tenement.
For Easter gloves, or for a shrove-tide hen,
Which bought to give, he takes to sell again. By bushels was he wont to mete his coine,
I do not meane some glozing merchant's feate, As did the olde wife of Trimalcion.
That laugheth at the cozened world's deceit, Could he do more that finds an idle roome
When as an hundred stocks lie in his fist, .!" For many hundreth thousands on a tombe? He leaks and sinks, and breaketh when he list.' Or who rears up four free-schooles in his age But Nummius eas'd the needy gallant's care Of his old pillage, and damn'd surplusage? With a base bargain of his blowen ware Yet now he swore by that sweete crosse he kiss'd Of fusted hops, now lost for lack of sale, (That silver crosse, where he had sacrific'd Or mould brown paper that could nought availė; His covering soule, by his desire's owne doome, Or what he cannot utter otherwise, Daily to die the Devil's martyrdome)
May pleasure Fridoline for treble price; His angels were all flowne up to their sky,
Whiles his false broker lieth in the wind, And had forsooke his naked treasury.
And for a present chapman is assign'd, Farewell Astrea, and her weights of gold,
T'he cut-throat wretch for their compacted gaine Untill his lingripg calends once be told;
Buys all but for one quarter of the mayne;
Mammon himself shall be a citizen.
Quid placet ergo?
That men or know, or like not their estate:
Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morne Seest thou the wary angler trayle along
Not one but holds bis native state forlorne. His feeble line, soone as some pike too strong When comely striplings wish it were their chance, Hath swallowed the baite that scornes the shore, For Cænis' distaffe to enchange their lance, Yet now near-hand cannot resist no more?
And weare curl'd perriwigs, and chalk their face, So lieth he aloofe in smooth pretence,
And still are poring on their pocket-glasse. To hide his rough intended violence;
Tyr'd with pinn'd ruffs and fans, and partlet strips, As he that under name of Christmas cheere And busks and verdingales about their hips; Can starve his tenants all th' ensuing yeare.
And tread on corked stilts a prisoner's pace, Paper and wax, (God wot!) a weake repay
And make their napkin for their spitting place, For such decpe debts and downcast sums as they :
And gripe their waist within a narrow span : Write, seale, deliver, take, go spend and speede, Fond Cænis, that would'st wish to be a man! And yet full hardly could his present need Whose manish housewives like their refuse state, Part with such sum; for but as yester-late And make a drudge of their uxorious mate, Did Furnus offer pen-worths at easy rate,
Who like a cot-queene freezeth at the rock, For small disbursment; he the bankes hath broke, Whiles his breech't dame doth man the forren stock. And needs mote now some further playne o'erlook; Is 't not a shame to see each homely groome Yet ere he go faine would he be releast,
Sit perched in an idle chariot roome, Hye ye, ye ravens, hye you to the feast.
That were not meete some pannel to bestride, Provided that thy lands are left entire,
Sursingled to a galled hackney's hide? To be redeem'd or ere thy day expire:
Each muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse gaine, Then shalt thou teare those idle paper bonds Although hesmother up mowes of seven years graine, That thus had fettered thy pawned lands.
And hang'd himself when corne grows cheap again; Ah, foole! for sooner shalt thou sell the rest Although he buy whole harvests in the spring, Tban stake ought for thy former interest ;
And foyst in false strikes to the measuring:
Although his shop be muffled from the light Certes not all the world such matter wist
As are the seven hills, for a satyrist.
To see now Rome, were licenc'd to the light, The sturdy plough-man doth the soldier see How his enraged ghost would stamp and stare, All scarfed with py'd colours to the knee,
That Cæsar's throne is turn'd to Peter's chayre. Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate, To see an old shorne lozell perched high, And now he gins to loathe bis former state: Crossing beneath a golden canopy ; Now doth he inly scorne his Kendall-Greene, The whiles a thousand hairlesse crownes crouch And his patch'd cockers now despised beene.
low Nor list he now go whistling to the carre,
To kisse the precious case of his proud toe;
Tarn'd to the honour of our Lady's name.
The crooked staffe, their coule's strange form and Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent,
store, If he can live to see his name in print;
Save that he saw the same in Hell before; Who when he is once feshed to the presse,
To see the broken nuns, with new-shorne heads, And sees his handsell have such faire successe, In a blind cloyster tosse their idle beades, Sung to the wheele, and sung unto the payle, Or.louzy coules come smoking from the stewes, He sends forth thraves of ballads to the sale. To raise the lewd reut to their lord accrewes, Nor then can rest, hat volumes up bodg’d rhymes, (Who with ranke Venice doth his pompe advance To have his name talk'd of in future times. By trading of ten thousand courtezans) The brain-sick youth, that feeds his tickled eare Yet backward must absolve a female's sinne, With sweet-sauc'd lies of some false traveller, Like to a false dissembling Thcatine, Which hath the Spanish decades read awhile, Who when his skin is red with shirts of male Or whet-stone leasings of old Mandeville;
And rugged haire-cloth scoures his greasy vayle; Now with discourses breakes his mid-night sleepe, Or wedding garment tames his stubborne backe, Of his adventures through the Indian deepe, Which his hempe girdle dies all blew and blacke. Of all their massy heapes of golden mine,
Or of his almes-boule three dayes supp'd and din'd, Or of the antique toombes of Palestine;
Trudges to open stewes of either kinde: Or of Damascus'magick wall of glasse,
Or takes some cardinal's stable in the way, Of Solomon his sweating piles of brasse,
And with some pampered mule doth weare the day, Of the bird Ruc that bears an elephant,
Kept for his lord's own saddle when him list.
To see poor sucklings welcom'd to the light
With searing irons of some soure Jacobite, What monstrous cities there erected be,
Or golden offers of an aged foole, Cayro, or the city of the Trinity.
To make his coffin some Franciscan's coule; Now are they dung-hill cocks that have not seene To see the pope's blacke knight, a cloaked frere, The bordering Alpes, or else the neighbour Rhine: Sweating in the channel like a scavengere. And now he plies the newes-full grashopper, Whom erst thy bowed hamme did lowly greete, Of voyages and ventures to inquire.
When at the corner-crosse thou didst bim meete,
Or bis baretta, or his towred felt:
Armed against a devout flye's despight, Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, Which at th' high altar doth the chalice vaile Oh, let me lead an academick life;
With a broad Rie-flappe of a peacocke's tayle, To know much, and to think we nothing know; The whiles the liquorous priest spits every trice Nothing to have, yet think we bave enowe; With longing for his morning sacrifice, In skill to want, and wanting seek for more ;
Which reares up quite perpendiculare,
With the scant morsels of the sacrists' bread:
St. George, the Sleepers, or St. Peter's well,
Or of his daughter good St. Petronell?
But had he heard the female father's groane, POMH PEMH.
Yeaning in mids of her procession; Who says these Romish pageants been too high Or now should see the needlesse tryal-chayrc, To be the score of sportful poesy?
(When each is proved by his bastard heyre)
Or saw the churches, and new calendere
For when the full state in his fist doth lie,
His rent in fair respondence must arise
Whose thatched spars are furr’d with sluttish
A whole inch thick, shining like black-moor's brows,
Through smoke that down the headlesse barrel blows.
A starved tenement, such as I guesse
Stands straggling in the wastes of Holdernesse;
Or such as shiver on a peake hill side,
When March's lungs beate on their turf-clad hide ;
Such as nice Lipsius would grudge to see Pardon, ye glowing eares; needs will it out, Above his lodging in wild Westphalye; Though brazen walls compass'd my tongue about Or as the Saxon king his court might make, As thick as wealthy Scrobio's quick-set rowes When bis sides playned of the ncat-heard's cake. In the wide common that he did euclose.
Yet must he haunt his greedy landlord's hall Pull out mine eyes, if I shall see no vice,
With often presents at each festivall: Or let me see it with detesting eyes.
With crammed capons every new-yeare's morne, Renowned Aquine, now I follow thee,
Or with green cheeses when his sheep are shorne: Far as I may for feare of jeopardy;
Or niany maunds full of his mellow fruite, And to thy band yield up the ivy-mace
To make some way to win his weighty suite.
Or to win favour, or flee punishment ?
When grand Mæcenas casts a glavering eye
On the cold present of a puesy:
From the light burden of bis na pery.
What recks he then of paines or promise past?
Within the cold Coal-barbour sanctuary? Who knows a monk had been a mendicant ? Will one from Scots-bank bid but one groate While freezing Matho, that for one lean fee
more, Won term each term the term of Hilary, My old tenant may be turned out of doore, May now instead of those his simple fees,
Though much be spent in th' rotten roof's repaire, Get the fee-simples of faire manneries.
In hope to have it left unto his heir:
Were he as Furius, he would defy
And lay their roofe quite level with their floore,
Whiles yet he gives as to a yielding fence, By boary charters from his grandsire's chest, Their bag and baggage to his citizens, Wbich late some bribed scribe for slender wage, And ships them to the new-pam'd virgin-lond, 13. Writ in the characters of another age,
Or wilder Wales where never wight yet wonn'd. That Plowdon selfe might stammer to rehearse, Would it not vex thee where thy sires did keep, Whose date o'erlooks three centuries of years. To see the dunged folds of dag-tayl'd sheep? Who ever yet the tracks of weale so try'd,
And ruin'd house where holy things were sald, But there hath been oue beaten way beside? Whose free-stone walls the thatched roofe upbraid, He, when he lets a lease for life, or yeares, Whose shrill saint's-bell hangs on bis lovery, (As never he doth until the date expires ; While the rest are damned to the plumbery?