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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 saine)
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 tempest 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 braffe 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 fhould 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 must that ftay
Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd braine,
But call and crave, and have thy cruile againe :
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 the fcornful waiter lookes aftur,
And pcuts and frowns, and curíeth thee the
And takes his farewell with a jealous eft,
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 wi,
Hold thy knife upright in thy griped fill,
Or fittest double on thy backward feat,
Or with thine elbow fhad'ft thy fhared ma,
He laughs thee, in his fellow's eare to forte,
And afks aloud, where Trebius was borne?
Though the third fewer takes thee quite away
Without a staffe, when thou would'st longer day,
What of all this? Is't not enough to fay,
I din'd at Virro his owne board to-day?

SATIRE III.
ΚΟΙΝΑ ΦΙΔΩΝ.

THE fatire fhould be like the porcupine,
That shoots fharp quills out in each angry line,
And wounds the blushing checke, and fiery r
Of him that hears, and readeth guiltily.
Ye antique fatires, how I bleffe your dayes
That brook'd your bolder stile, 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 mo
Than thofe dull earthen eares that were of d
Sith theirs, like anvils, bore the hammer's
Our glaffe can never touch unshivered.
But from the ashes of my quiet stile
Henceforth may rife fome raging rough it,
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 chee
As he that rounds Poul's pillars in the ye
Or bends his ham downe in the naked
'Twas ever faid, Frontine, and ever feat.
That golden clerkes but wooden lawyer bee
Could ever wife man wish, in good citate,
The use 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 pa
That let their lands lie all fo widely walk,
That nothing was in pale or hedge peat
Within fome province, or whole fhire's ext
As nature made the earth, fo did it lie,
Save for the furrowes of their hufbandry;
Whenas the neighbour lands fo couched last

What though to fpare thy teeth he employs thy That all bore fhew of one fair champian:

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Some headleffe croffe they digged on the la
Or roll'd fome marked meare-tone in 1 **

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

If they were thriftleffe, mought not we amend,
And with more care our dangered fields defend?
Each man can guard what thing he deemeth deare,
As fearful merchants do their female heir,
Which, were it not for promise of their wealth,
Need not be stalled up for fear of stealth;
Would rather stick upon the bellman's cries,
Though proffer'd for a branded Indian's price.
Then raife we muddy bulwarks on our banks,
Befet around with treble quick set ranks;
Or if those walls be over weak a ward,
The squared bricke may be a better guard.
Go to, my thrifty yeoman, and upreare

A brazen wall to fhend thy land from feare.
Do fo; and I fhall praise thee all the while,
o be thou stake not up the common style;

o be thou hedge in nought but what's thine

owne;

o be thou pay what tithes thy neighbours done; o be thou let not lie in fallow'd plaine hat which was wont yield ufury of graine. out when I fee thy pitched stakes do stand in thy incroached piece of common land, Whiles thou difcommoneft thy neighbour's kyne, nd warn'ft that none feed on thy field fave thine; rag no more, Scrobius, of thy mudded bankes, for thy deep ditches, nor three quickset rankes. happy dayes of old Ducalion,

Then one was landlord of the world alone! ut now whofe choler would not rife to yield peasant halfe stakes of his new mown field, VOL. II.

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 fterling pounds to spend by yeare:
The neighbours praisen Villio's hide-bound fonne,j
And fay it was a goodly portion..

Not knowing how fome merchants 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 subfidies;
One end a kennel keeps of thriftleffe 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 ftore?
If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare
That forty pounds ferve not the farmer's heire,

3 B

SATIRES.

BOOK VE

SATIRE 1.

Semel infanivimus.

LABEO referves a long naile for the nonce,
To wound my margeant through ten leaves at

once,

Much worfe than Ariftarchus his blacke pile
That pierc'd old Homer's fide;-

And makes fuch faces that me feems I fee
Some foul Megara in the tragedy,
Threat'ning her twined fnakes at Tantale's ghoft;
Or the grim vilage of fome frowning post
'The crabtree porter of the Guildhall gates;
While he his frightful beetle elevates,
His angry cyne look all fo glaring bright,
Like th' hunted badger in a moonleffe night:
Or like a painted staring Saracen ;

His cheeks change hue like th' air-fed vermin skin,
Now red, now pale, and fwol'n above his eyes
Like to the old Coloflian imageries.

But when he doth of my recanting heare,

Away ye angry fires, and froits of feare,

Give place unto his hopeful temper'd thought

That yields to peace, ere ever peace be fought:
Then let me now repent me of my rage
For writing fatires in fo righteous age.

Patrons are honeft now, o'er they of old,
Can now no benefice be bought or fold?
Give him a gelding, or fome two yeares titk
For he all bribes and fimony defy'th.
Is not one pick-thank stirring in the court,
That feld was free tiil now, by all report.
But fome one, like a claw-back paralite,
Pick'd mothes from his niafter's cloake in igs,
Whiles he could pick out both his eyes for t
Mought they but ftand him in fome better i
Nor now no more fmell-feaft Vitellio
Siniles on his mafter for a meal or two,
And loves him in his maw, leaths in his h
Yet foothes, and yeas and nays on either p
Tattelius, the new-come traveller,
With his difguifed coate and ringed care,
Trampling the bourfe's marble twice a dr
Tells nothing but stark truths I dare we.",
Nor would he have them known for ass
Though all the vault of his loud murmang
Not one man tells a lie of all the yeare,
Except the Almanack or Chronicler.
But not a man of all the damned crew,
For hills of gold would fweare the thing t
Panfophus now, though all in the cold in
Dares venture through the feared caftic-gu,

Whereas I should have ftroak'd her tow'rdly head, Albe the faithful oracies have forefayne,

And cry'd evee in my fatires ftead;

Sith now not one of thoufand does amiffe,

Was never age! weene fo pure as this.
As pure as old Labulla from the banes,
As pure as through faire channels when it raines;
As pure as is a black moor's face by night,
As dung-clad fkin of dying Heraclite.
Seeke over all the world, and tell me where
Thou find'ft a proud man, or a flatteref ;
A thief, a drunkard, or a paricide,
A lecher, liar, or what vice befide?
Merchants are no whit covetous of late,
Nor make no mart of time, gain of deceit.

The wifeft fenatot fhall there be flaine: That made him long keepe home as wel Till now he hopeth of fome wiler wight The vale of Standgate, or the Suter's bil Or westerne plaine 2. free from feared il Let him that hath nought, feare nought i But he that hath ought hye him, and Go Nor drunken Dennis doth, by breake of c Stumble into blind taverns by the way, And reel me homeward at the ev'ning fam Or ride more eas'ly in his neighbour's cha Well might thefe checks have fitted former And fhoulder'd angry Skelton's breathleffe

Ere Chryfalus had barr'd the common boxe,
Which erft he pick'd to ftore his private ftocks;
But now hath all with vantage paid againe,
And locks and plates what doth behind remaine;
When erft our dry foul'd fires fo lavish were,
To charge whole boots-full to their friends welfare;
Now fhalt thou never see the salt befet
With a big-bellied gallon flagonet.
Of an ebbe cruise must thirsty Silen fip,
That's all foreftalled by his upper lip;
omewhat it was that made his paunch so peare,
His girdle fell ten inches in a yeare.

r when old gouty bed-rid Euclio
'o his officious factor fair could fhew
lis name in margent of some old caft bill,
nd fay, Lo! whom I named in my will,
Whiles he believes, and looking for the share
endeth his cumbrous charge with busy care
or but a while; for now he fure will die,
y his ftrange qualme of liberality.

reat thanks he gives-but God him shield and fave

om ever gaining by his master's grave: ily live long and he is well repaid,

id wets his forced cheeks while thus he faid; me ftrong fmell'd onion fhall ftir his eyes ther than no falt teares shall then arise. looks he like a marble toward raine,

d wrings and fnites, and weeps, and wipes again :

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en turns his back and smiles, and looks afkance, s'ning again his forrow'd countenance; iles yet he wearies heav'n with daily cries, d backward death with devout facrifice, at they would now his tedious ghost bereav'n, d wifhes well, that wifh'd no worse than heav'n. en Zoylus was ficke, he knew not where, e his wrough nigt-cap, and lawn pillowbear. d fooles! they made him fick that made him fine;

te thofe away, and there's his medicine. Gellia wore a velvet maftick-patch on her temples when no tooth did ache; en beauty was her theume 1 foon efpy'd, could her plaifter cure her of her pride. fe vices were, but now they ceas'd off long: a why did I a righteous age that wrong? uld repent me were it not too late, e not the angry world prejudicate. I the feven penitential

houfand white wands might me ought availe; rent or Thames could fcoure my foule offence fet me in my former innocence, nid at last repent me of my rage:

v, bear my wrong, I thine, O righteous age. or fine wits, an hundred thousand fold eth our age whatever times of old. in that puifne world, our fires of long ld hardly wag their too unwieldy tongue. pined crowes and parrots can do now, en hoary age did bend their wrinkled brow: 1 now of late did many a learned man ve thirty years prenticeship with Prifcian; now can every novice fpeake with ease : far-fetch'd language of th' Antipodea.

Would'st thou the tongues that erft were learned

hight,

Though our wife age hath wip'd them of their right;

Would't thou the courtly three in most request,
Or the two barbarous neighbours of the Weft?
Bibinus felfe can have ten tongues in one,
Though in all ten not one good tongue alone.
And can deep skill lie fmothering within,
Whiles neither smoke nor flame difcerned bin?
Shall it not be a wild fig in a wall,

Or fired brimstone in a minerall?
Do thou difdain, O ever-learned age!
The tongue-ty'd filence of that Samian fage:
Forth ye fine wits and rush into the preffe,
And for the cloyed world your works addreffe,
Is not a gnat, nor fly, nor feely ant,
But a fine wit can make an elephant.
Should Bandell's throftle die without a fong,
Or Adamantius, my deg, be laid along,
Downe in fome ditch without his exequies,
Or epitaphs, or mournful elegies?
Folly felf, and baldnesse may be prais'd,
And fweet conceits from filthy objects rais'd.
What do not fine wits dare to undertake?
What dare not fine wits do for honcur's fake?
But why doth Balbus his dead doing quill
Parch in his rufty fcabbard all the while;
His golden fleece o'ergrowne with mouldy hoare
And though he had his witty works forfwore ?
Belike of late now Balbus hath no need,
Nor now belike his fhrinking fhoulders dread
The catch-poll's fift-The preffe may still remaing
And breathe, till Balbus be in debt againe.
Soon may that be fo I had filent beene,
And not this rak'd up quiet crimes unfeen.
Silence is fafe, when saying ftirreth fore,
And makes the ftirred puddle ftink the more.
Shall the controller of proud Nemefis
In lawleffe rage upbraid each other's vice,
While no man feeketh to reflect the wrong,
And curb the raunge of his mifruly tongue?
By the two crownes of Parnaffe ever-green,
And by the cloven head of Hippocrene
As I true poet am, I here avow
(So folemnly kifs'd he his laurell bough)
If that bold fatire unrevenged be
For this fo faucy and foule injury.
So Labeo weens it my eternal fhame
Το
prove
I never carn'd a poet's name.
But would I be a poet if I might,
To rub my browès three days and wake three

nights,

And bite my nails, and scratch my dullard head,
And curfe the backward Mufes on my bed
About one peevith fyllable; which out-fought
I take up Tales joy, fave for fore-thought
How it fhall pleafe each ale-knight's cenfuring eye,
And hang'd my head for fear they deem awry:
While thread-bare Martiall turns his merry note
To beg of Rufus a caft winter coate;
While hungry Marot leapeth at a beane,
And dieth like a starved Cappuchein;
Go Arioft, and gape for what may fall
From trencher of a flattering cardinall;

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 fome 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 rest
Set a gold pen on their baye-wreathed crest;
Or would their face in ftamped coin expreffe,
As did the Mytelens their poeteffe.
Now as it is, beshrew 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 chimney 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 croffe of blood,
Arthur's round board, or Caledonian wood,
Or holy battles of bold Charlemaine,
What were his knights did Salen's siege 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 muse apropriate;
And fhe, 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 arife.
But can it be ought but a spurious feed
That growes fo rife in such 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 Phabus 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 Buttish and heartleffe been.

He knowes the grace of that new elegance,
Which sweet Philifides fetch'd of late from France,
That well befeem'd his high-stil'd Arcady,
Though others marre it with much liberty,
In epithets to joine two wordes in one
For footh, for adjectives can't stand alone:
As a great poet could of Bacchus fay,
That he was Semele-femeri-gena.

Lastly 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 knees,
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 pastur'd plaim,
To tend her tasked herd that there remaines,
And winded ftill a pipe of eate or breare,
Striving for wages who the praife shall beare;
As did whilere the homely Carmelite,
Following Virgil, and he Theocrite;
Or elfe 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 she fit for an heroic place;
As witty Pontan in great earnest faid,
His mistress' breafts were like two weights of lead,
Another thinks her teeth might liken'd be
To two faire rankes of pales of ivory,
To fence in fure the wild heart 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 warr
As old Catillaes, which wont every night
Lay up her holy pegs till next day-light,
And with them grind foft-fimpring all the day.
When, left her laughter fhould her guns best,
Her hands must hide her mouth if the but it:
Faine would the feeme all frixe and froche
Her forehead faire is like a brazen hill
Whofe wrinkled furrows which her age d
Are dawbed full of Venice chaike for t:
Her eyes like filver faucers faire befet
With shining amber, and with fhady le,
Her lids like Cupid's bow cafe, where he
The weapons that doth wound the want
Her chin like Pindus, or Parnaffus hill,
Where down defcends th' o'erflowing from

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