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So raw-bone hunger fcorns the mudded walls, And 'gins to revel it in lordly halls. So the black prince is broken loose againe That faw no funne fave once (as stories faine) That once was, when in Trinacry I weene He ftole the daughter of the harvest queene, And gript the mawes of barren Sicily With long constraint of pineful penury; And they that should refift his fecond rage, Have pent themselves up in the private cage Of fonie blind lane, and there they lurk unknowne Till th' hungry tempeft once be overblowne: Then like the coward after neighbour's fray, They creep forth boldly, and afk, Where are they? Meanwhile the hunger ftarv'd appurtenance Muft bide the brunt, whatever ill mischance: Grim Famine fits in their fore-pined face, All full of angles of unequal space, Like to the plane of many sided fquares, That wont be drawne cut by geometars; So fharp and meager that who fhould them fee Would fwear they lately came from Hungary. When their brasse pans and winter coverlid Have wip'd the maunger of the horse's bread, Oh me! what odds there feemeth 'twixt their cheer

And the fwolne bezzle at an alehouse fire,
That tonnes in gallons to his bursten paunch,
Whofe limy draughts his drought can never
ftaunch?

For fhame, ye gallants! grow more hospital,
And turn your needleffe wardrobe to your hall.
As lavish Virro that keeps open doores,
Like Janus in the warres,

Except the twelve days, or the wake-day feast,
What time he needs must be his coufin's guest.
Philene hath bid him, can he choose but come?
Who should pull Virro's fleeve to stay at home?
All yeare befides who mealtime can attend:
Come Trebius, welcome to the table's end.
What though he chires on purer manchet's crowne,
While his kind client grindes on blacke and
browne,

A jolly rounding of a whole foot broad,
From off the mong-corne heap fhall Trebius load.
What though he quaffe pure amber in his bowle
Of March brew'd wheat, yet flecks my thirsting
foul

With palifh oat, frothing in Bofton clay,
Or in a fhallow cruife, nor muft that ftay
Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd braine,
But call and crave, and have thy cruise agaitie:
Elfe how fhould even tale be registred,
Or all thy draughts, on the chalk'd barrel's head?
And if he lift revive his heartless graine
With fome French grape, or pure Canariane
When pleafing Bourdeaux falls into his lot,
Some fow'rish Rochelle cuts thy thirsting throate.
What though himfelfe craveth his welcome friend
With a cool'd pittance from his trencher's end,
Muft Trebius' lip hang toward his trencher fide?
Nor kiffe his fift to take what doth betide?
What though to fpare thy teeth he employs thy

tongue
In bufy questions all the dinner long?

What though the fcornful waiter lookes aftit,
And pcuts and frowns, and curseth thee the
And takes his farewell with a jealous cft,
At every morfell he his laft fhall fee?
And if but one exceed the common fize,
Or make an hillock in thy checke arife,
Or if perchance thou shouldeft, ere thou wit,
Hold thy knife upright in thy griped fill,
Or fittest double on thy backward feat,
Or with thine elbow fhad'ft thy fhared mea,
He laughs thee, in his fellow's care to forte,
And asks aloud, where Trebius was borne?
Though the third fewer takes thee quite away
Without a staffe, when thou would't longer,
What of all this? Is't not enough to say,
I din'd at Virro his owne board to-day?

SATIRE III.

ΚΟΙΝΑ ΦΙΔΩ͂Ν.

THE fatire fhould be like the porcupine, That fhoots fharp quills out in each angry list, And wounds the blushing checke, and fiery ry, Of him that hears, and readeth guiltily. Ye antique fatires, how I bleffe your dayes That brook'd your bolder ftile, their own di And well near with, yet joy my wifh is van, I had been then, or they been now againe! For now our eares been of more brittle me Than thofe dull earthen eares that were of d Sith theirs, like anvils, bore the hammer's Our glaffe can never touch unfhivered. But from the ashes of my quiet ftile Henceforth may rife fome raging rough Lat, That may with Æfchylus both find and The fnaky treffes of th' Eumenides: Meanwhile, fufficeth me, the world may by That I thefe vices loath'd another day, Which I hane done with as devout a cherre As he that rounds Poul's pillars in the yest Or bends his ham downe in the naked 'Twas ever said, Frontine, and ever fee That golden clerkes but wooden lawyers bee Could ever wife man wish, in good eftate, The ufe of all things indifcriminate? Who wots not yet how well this did befe The learned mafter of the academe? Plato is dead, and dead is his device, Which fome thought witty, none thought Yet certes Macha is a Platonist To all, they fay, fave whofo do not lift; Because her husband, a far trafick'd mat, Is a profefs'd Peripatecian. And fo our grandfires were in ages pal That let their lands lie all fo widely wake, That nothing was in pale or hedge pent Within fome province, or whole fhire's ext As nature made the earth, fo did it lie, Save for the furrowes of their husbandry; Whenas the neighbour lands fo coached bre That all bore fhew of one fair champian: Some headleffe croffe they digged on the Or roll'd fome marked meare-one in t

oor fimple men! for what mought that availe, hat my field might not fill my neighbour's payle, Tore than a pilled stick can stand in stead, o bar Cynedo from his neighbour's bed; More than the thread-bare client's poverty ebars th' attorney of his wonted fee?

they were thriftlesse, mought not we amend, nd with more care our dangered fields defend? ach man can guard what thing he deemeth deare, s fearful merchants do their female heir, Which, were it not for promise of their wealth, eed not be stalled up for fear of stealth; Would rather stick upon the bellman's cries, hough proffer'd for a branded Indian's price. hen raise we muddy bulwarks on our banks, eset around with treble quick set ranks; r if those walls be over weak a ward, The fquared bricke may be a better guard. to to, my thrifty yeoman, and upreare - brazen wall to fhend thy land from feare. Do fo; and I shall praise thee all the while, obe thou stake not up the common style; o be thou hedge in nought but what's thine

owne;

Whiles yet he may not for the treble price
Buy out the remnant of his royalties?"
Go on and thrive, my petty tyrant's pride,
Scorne thou to live, if others live befide;
And trace proud Caftile that afpires to be
In his old age a young fifth monarchy:
Or the red hat that cries the luckleffe mayne,
For wealthy Thames to change his lowly Rhine,

SATIRE IV.

Poffunt, quia poffe videntur.

VILLIUS, the wealthy farmer, left his heire
Twice twenty fte:ling pounds to spend by yeare:
The neighbours praisen Villio's hide-bound fonne,
And fay it was a goodly portion..
Not knowing how fome inerchants dow'r can rife,
By Sunday's tale to fifty centuries;

Or to weigh downe a leaden bride with gold,
Worth all that Matho bought, or Pontice fold.
But whiles ten pound goes to his wife's new

gowne,

Nor little leffe can ferve to fuit his owne;
Whiles one piece pays her idle waiting-man,
Or buys an hoode, or filver handled fanne,
Or hires a Friezeland trotter, halfe yard deepe,
To drag his tumbrell through the staring Cheape;
Or whiles he rideth with two liveries,
And's treble rated at the fubfidies;

One end a kennel keeps of thriftlesse hounds;
What think ye refts of all my younker's pounds
To diet him, or deal out at his doore,

To coffer up, or ftocke his wafting store?
If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare
That forty pounds ferve not the farmer's heire,

3 B

And if thou getteft but a pedant's fee,
Thy bed, thy board, and courfer livery,
O honour far beyond a brazen shrine,
To fit with Tarleton on an ale poft's figne!
Who had but lived in Auguftus' dayes,
'Thad been some honour to be crown'd with bayes;
When Lucan ftretched on his marble bed
To think of Cæfar, and great Pompey's deed:
Or when Achelaus fhav'd his mourning head,
Soon as he heard Stefichorus was dead.
At least, would fome good body of the reft
Set a gold pen on their baye-wreathed creft;
Or would their face in ftamped coin expreffe,
As did the Mytelens their poeteffe.
Now as it is, befhrew him if he might,
That would his browes with Cr far's laurell dight.
Though what ail'd me, I might not well as they
Rake up fome fur worne tales that smother'd lay
In chinney corners fmoak'd with winter fires,
To read and rock afleep our drowsy fires?
No man his threshold better knowes, than I
Brute's first arrival, and first victory;
Saint George's forrell, or his crosse of blood,
Arthur's round board, or Caledonian wood,
Or holy battles of bold Charlemaine,
What were his knights did Salen's fiege maintaine;
How the mad rival of faire Angelice
Was phyfick'd from the new-found paradife.
High ftories they, which with their fwelling ftraine
Have riven Frontoe's broad rehearsal plaine.
But fo to fill up books, both backe and fide,
What needs it? Are there not enow befide?
O age well thriven and well fortunate,
When each man hath a mufe apropriate;
And the, like to fome fervile eare-bor'd flave
Muft play and fing when and what he'd have!
Would that were all-small fault in number lies,
Were not the feare from whence it should arise.
But can it be ought but a spurious feed
That growes fo rife in fuch unlikely speed?
Sith Pontian left his barren wife at home,
And spent two years at Venice and at Rome,
Returned, hears his bleffing afk'd of three,
Cries out, O Julian law! adultery!
Though Labeo reaches right (who can deny?)
'The true ftrains of heroick poefy:
For he can tell how fury reft his fenfe,
And Phœbus fill'd him with intelligence.
He can implore the heathen deities
To guide his bold and bufy enterprize;
Or filch whole pages at a clap for need
From honeft Petrarch, clad in English weed;
Wile big but ob's! each stanza can begin,
Whofe trunk and taile fluttish and heartleffe been.

He knowes the grace of that new elegance, Which sweet Philifides fetch'd of late from Fram That well befeem'd his high-ftil'd Arcady, Though others marre it with much horty, In epithets to jo:ne two wordes in one For footh, for adjectives can't ftand alone: As a great poet could of Bacchus fay, That he was Semele-femori-gena.. Laftly he names the spirit of Aftrophel; Now hath not Labeo done wondrous well? But ere his Mufe her weapon learn to wield Or dance a fober pirrhicke in the field, Or marching wade in blood up to the krets, Her arma virum goes by two degrees, The fheepe-cote first hath beene her uurfery Where the hath worne her idle infancy, And in high startups walk'd the patur'd plaz To tend her tasked herd that there remaines, And winded ftill a pipe of oate or breate, Striving for wages who the praise shall beare; As did whilere the homely Carmelite, Following Virgil, and he Theocrite; Or else hath beene in Venus' chamber train'd To play with Cupid, till she had attain'd To comment well upon a beauteous face, Then was the fit for an heroic place; As witty Pontan in great earnest said, His miftrefs' breafts were like two weigh | Another thinks her teeth might liken'd be To two faire rankes of pales of ivory, To fence in fure the wild beast of her tongue, From either going far, or going wrong; Her grinders like two chalk-ftones in a m Which shall with time and wearing ware a As old Catillaes, which wont every night Lay up her holy pegs till next day-light, And with them grind foft-fimpring all the d When, left her laughter fhould her guns Her hands must hide her mouth if the bar. Faine would the feeme all frixe and fro Her forehead faire is like a brazen hill Whose wrinkled furrows which her age de Are dawbed full of Venice chalke for Her eyes like filver faucers faire befet With fhining amber, and with shady let, Her lids like Cupid's bow cafe, where he he The weapons that doth wound the want Her chin like Pindus, or Parnaffus hill, Where down defcends th' o'erflowing fran fill

The well of her faire mouth.-Each praise.

Who would not but wed poets now a days!