Te luckleffe rhymes, whom not unkindly Spight
Begot long fince of truth and boly rage,
Lye bere in wombe of filence and fill night,
Until the broils of next unquiet age?

That which is others grave fhall be your wombe,
And that which bears you, your eternal tombe.

Ceafe ere you gin, and ere ye live be dead;
And dye and live ere ever ye be borne;
And be not bore 'ere ye be buried;
Then after live, fith you have dy'd beforne.

When I am dead, and rotten in the duft,
Then gin to live, and leave when others luft.

For when I die, fball envy dye with me,
And lie deep fmother'd with my marble flone;
Which while I live cannot be done to dye,
Nor, if your life gin ere my life be done,

Will bardly yield t'await my mourning besife But for my dead corps change my living werf, What fall the afbes of my fenfelesse urne Need to regard the raving world above? Sith afterwards I never can returne, To feel the force of hatred or of love.

Ob! if my foul could fee their pofthume, Should it not joy and triumph in the jight! Whatever eye falt find this bateful forde After the date of my deare exequies, Ab pity thou my plaining orphan's dole, That jaine would fee the funne before it diss. It dy'd before; now let it live again; Then let it dye, and bide fome famous bant,

Satis eft potuiffe videri.

SATIRE I.

Che baiar quol, bai.

Wнo dares upbraid these open rhymes of mine
With blindfold Aquines, or dark Venufine? [vain
Or rough-hewn Teretifmes, writ in th' antique
Like an old fatire, and new Flaccian? [brow,
Which who reads thrice, and rubs his rugged
And deep intendeth every doubtful row,
Scoring the margent with his blazing stars,
And hundreth crooked interlinears,

(Like to a merchant's debt-roll new defat',
When fome crack'd manour crofs'd his book it
Should all in rage the curfe-beat page out net,
And in each duft heap bury me alive,
Stamping like Pucephall, whofe flacken'd rains
And bloody fetlocks fry with feven mens bras
More cruel than the cravon fatire's ghoff,
That bound dead bones unto a burning p&;
Or fome more trait-lac'd jutor of the rest,
Impannel'd of an Holyfax inqueft:
Yet well bethought, floops down and real's new,
The best lies low, and loathes the shallow Why

Quoth old Eudemon, when his gout-swolne fist
Gropes for his double ducates in his chift:
Then buckle clofe his careleffe lids once more,
To pofe the pore-blind fnake of Epidaure.
That Lycius may be match'd with Gaulard's fight,
That fees not Paris for the houses height;
Or Wily Cyppus, that can winke and fnort
While his wife dallies on Mæcenas' kort:
Yet when he had my crabbled pamphlet read
As oftentimes as Philip hath been dead,
Bids all the furies haunt each peevish line
That thus have rack'd their friendly reader's eyne;
Worfe than the Logogryphes of later times,
Or hundreth riddles fhak'd to fleevelesse rhymes.
Should I endure thefe curfes and defpight
"While no man's eare fhould glow at what I write?
Labeo is whipt, and laughs me in the face:
Why? for 1 fmite and hide the galled place.
Gird but the cynick's helmet on his head,
Cares he for Talus, or his flayle of lead?
Long as the crafty cuttle lieth fure
In the blacke cloud of his thicke vomiture,
Who lift complaine of wronged faith or fame,
When he may fhift it to another's name?
Calvus can fcratch his elbow and can fmile,
That thriftleffe Pontice bites his lips the while.
Yet I intended in that felfe device

To checke the churle for his knowne covetife.
Each points his ftraight forefinger to his friend,
Like the blind dial on the belfry end.
Who turns it homeward, to fay this is I,
As bolder Socrates in the comedy?

But fingle out, and fay once plat and plaine
That coy Matrona is a courtezan;

Or thou falfe Cryspus choak'dst thy wealthy guest
Whiles he lay fnoring at his midnight reft,
And in thy dung-cart didft the carkaffe thrine
And deepe intombe it in Port-efquiline,
Proud Trebius lives, for all his princely gait,
On third-hand fuits, and fcrapings of the plate.
Titius knew not where to fhroude his head
Until he did a dying widow wed,
Whiles fhe lay doating on her death's bed.
And now hath purchas'd lands with one night's
paine,

And on the morrow wooes and weds againe.
Now fee 1 fire flakes fparkle from his eyes,
Like a comet's tail in th' angry ikies;
His pouting cheeks puff up above his brow,
Like a fwolne toad touch'd with the fpider's

blow;

His mouth fhrinks fideward like a fcornful playfe,
To take his tired car's ingrateful place.
His cars hang living like a new lugg'd fwine,
To take fome counfel of his grieved eyne.
Now laugh I loud, and breake by fplene to fee
This pleafing pastime of my poeke;
Much better than a Paris-garden beare,
Or prating puppet on a theatre ?
Or Mimoe's whittling to his tabouret,
Selling a laughter for a cold meal's meat.
Go to then, ye my facred Semonees,

And pleafe me more, the more you do displease.
Care we for all thofe bugs of idle feare?
For Tigele grinning on the theatre ?

Or fear-babe threatenings of the rascal crew;
Or wind-spent verdicts of each ale-knight's view?
Whatever breast doth freeze for fuch falfe dread,
Befhrew his bafe white liver for his meed.
Fond were that pity, and that feare were fin,
To fpare wafte leaves that fo deserved bin.
Thofe toothleffe toys that dropt out by mishap,
Be but as lightning to a thunder-clap.
Shall then that foul infamous Cyned's hide
Laugh at the purple wales of other's fide?
Not if he were as near as, by report,
The flewes had wont to be th' tennics court:
He that, while thousands envy at his bed,
Neighs after bridals, and fresh maidenhead;
While flavish Juno dares not to look awry,
To frowne at fuch imperious rivalry;
Not though fhe fees her wedding jewels drest
To make new bracelets for a ftrumpet's wreft;
Or like fome strange disguised Messaline,
Hires a night's lodging of his concubine;
Whether his twilight torch of love do call
To revels of uncleanly muficall,

Or midnight plays, or taverns of new wine,
Hye ye white aprons to your landlord's figne;
When all, fave toothleffe age, or infancy,
Are fummon'd to the court of venery.
Who lift excufe? when chafter dames can hirs
Some fnout fair ftripling to their apple fquire,
Whom ftaked up like to fome ftallion steed,
They keep with eggs and oysters for the breed.
O Lucine! barren Caia hath an heir,
After her husband's dozen years despair.
And now the bribed midwife fwears apace,
The baftard babe doth bear his father's face.
But hath not Lelia pafs'd her virgin years?
For modeft fhame (God wot !) or penal fears?
He tells a merchant tidings of a prize,
That tells Cynedo of fuch novelties,
Worth little lefs than landing of a whale,
Or Godes' fpoils, or a churl's funerale.
Go bid the banes and point the bridal day,
His broking bawd hath got a noble prey;
A vacant tenement, an honeft dowre
Can fit his pander for her paramoure,
That he, bafe wretch, may clog his wit-old head,
And give him hanfel of his Hymen-bed.
Ho! all ye females that would live unfhent,
Fly from the reach of Cyned's regiment.
If Trent be drawn to dregs and Low refufe,
Hence, ye hot lecher, to the steaming fewes.
Tyber, the famous fink of Christendome,
Turn thou to Thames, and Thames run towards
Rome.

Whatever damned ftreame but thine were meet
To quench his lufting liver's boiling heat?
Thy double draught may quench his dog-days rage
With fome ftale Bacchis, or obfequious page,
When wirthen Lena makes her fale-fet fhews
Of wooden Venus with fair limued brows;
Or like him more fome vailed matron's face,
Or trained prentice trading in the place.
The clofe adultreffe, where her name is red, [bed,
Comes crawling from her husband's luke-warm
Her carrion fkin bedaub'd with odours fweet,
Groping the poftern with his bared feet.
3 A iiij

Now play the fatire whofo lift for me,
Valentine felf, or fome as chafte as he.
In vaine fhe wifheth long Alkmæna's night,
Curfing the hafty dawning of the light;
And with her cruel lady-ftar uprofe
She feeks her third rouft on her filent toes,
Befmeared all with loathfonie fmoake of luft,
Like Acheron's steams, or fmoldring fulphur duft.
Yet all day fits the fimpering in her mew,
Like fome chafte dame, or fhrined faint in fhew;
Whiles he lies wallowing with a wefty-head
And palith carcaffe, on his brothel-bed,
Till his falt howels boil with poisonous fire;
Right Hercules with his fecond Deianire.
O Efculape! how rife is phyfick made,
When each braffe bafon can professe the trade
Of ridding pocky wretches from their paine,
And do the beally cure for ten groats gaine?
All thefe and more deferve fome blood-drawn
lines,

But my fix cords beene of too loose a twine:
Stay till my beard fhail fweep mine aged breast,
Then fhall I feem an awful fatirift:

While now my rhymes relish of the ferule fill,
Some nofe-wife pedant faith; whofe deep-feen skill
Hath three times conftrued either Flaccus o'er,
And thrice rehears'd them in his trivial floore.
So let them tax me for my hot blood's rage,
Rather than fay I doated in my age.

SATIRE II.

Arcades ambo.

OLD driveling Lolio drudges all he can
To make his eldest fonne a gentleman.
Who can despaire to fee another thrive,
By loan of twelvepence to an oyster-wive?
When a craz'd fcaffold, and a rotten stage,
Was all rich Nonius his heritage.
Nought fpendeth he for feare, nor fpares for coft:
And all he spends and fpares befides is loft.
Himfelfe goes patched like fome bare cottyer,
Left he might ought the future flocke appeyre,
Let giddy Cofmius change his choice array,
Like as the Turk his tents, thrice in a day,
And all to fun and air his fuits untold
From spiteful moths, and frets, and hoary mold,
Bearing his pawn-laid lands upon his backe
As inailes their fhells, or pediers do their packe.
Who
no cannot shine in tiflues and pure gold
That hath his lands and patrimony fold?
Lolie's fide coat is rough pampilian
Gilded with drops that downe the bosome ran,
White carfey hofe patched on either knee,
The very embleme of good husbandry,
And a knit night-cap made of coarsest twine,
With two long labels button'd to his chin;
So rides he mounted on the market-day,
Upon a ftraw-flufft pannel all the way,
With a maund charg'd with houfhold merchandize,
With eggs, or white-mcate, from both dayries;
And with that buys he roaft for Sunday noone,
Proud how he made that week's provifion,

Elfe is he ftail-fed on the worky day,
With browne-bread crusts soften'd in fodden whey,
Or water-gruel, or those paups of meale
That Maro makes his fimule, and cybeale:
Or once a weeke, perhaps for novelty,
Reez'd bacon foords fhall feaft his family;
And weens this more than one egg cleft in twaine
To feaft fome patrone and his chappelaine:
Or more than is fome hungry gallant's dole,
That in a dearth runs fneaking to an hole,
And leaves his man and dog to keepe his hall
Left the wild room fhould run forth of the wall.
Good man! him lift not spend his idle meales
In quinfing plovers, or in wining quailes;
Nor toot in cheap-fide baskets earn and late
To fet the first tooth in some novell cate.
Let sweet-mouth'd Mercia bid what crown f
please

For half-red cherries, or greene garden peale,
Or the first artichoaks of all the yeare,
To make fo lavish cost for little cheare:
When Lolio feaffeth in his revelling fit,
Some starved pullen fcoures the rufted Spit.
For elfe how should his fonne maintained be
At inns of court or of the chancery:
There to learn law, and courtly carriage,
To make amends for his mean parentage;
Where he unknowné and ruffling as he can,
Goes currant each where for a gentleman?
While yet he roufteth at fome uncouth figue,
Nor ever red his tenures fecond line:
What broker's lousy wardrobe cannot reach
With tiffued pains to pranck each peafant's breech?
Couldst thou but give the wall, the cap, the kit,
To proud Sartorio that goes ftraddling by.
Wert not the needle pricked on his fleeve,
Doth by good hap the fecret watch-word gt?
But hear'ft thou Lolio's fonne? gin not thy ga
Until the evening owl or bloody bat:
Never until the lamps of Paul's been light,
And niggard lanterns fhade the moon-fhur
Then when the guilty bankrupt, in bold s
From his clofe cabbin thrufts his shrinking
That hath been long in fhady fheiter pent
Imprisoned for feare of prisonment.
May be fome ruffet-coat parochian
Shall call thee cousin, friend, or countryman,
And for thy hoped fift croffing the streete
Shall in his father's name his god-fon greete
Could never man work thee a worfer fhame
Than once to minge thy father's odious ran
Whole mention were alike to thee as live
As a catch-poli's fift unto a bankrupt's fleet;
Or an bos ego from old Petrarch's spright
Unto a plagiary fonnet-wright.
There, foon as he can kifs his hand in gree,
And with good grace bow it below the kret,
Or make a Spanish face with fawning chetre,
With th' ifland conge like a cavalier,
And shake his head, and cringe his neck and i

Home hies he in his father's farm to bude.
The tenants wonder at their landlord's font,
And blesse them at fo fudden coming on,
More than who vics his pence to view loa: Tak
Of franges Moroco's dumb arithmetics,

Was never fox but wily cubs begets;
The bear his fierceneffe to his brood befets:
Nor fearful hare falls out of lyon's feed,
Nor eagle wont the tender dove to breed:
Creet aver wont the cyprefs fad to bear,
Acheron banks the palih popelar :
The palm doth rifely rife in Jury field,
And Alpheus waters nought but olives wild.
Afopus breeds big bullrushes alone,
Meander, heath; peaches by Nilus growne.
An English wolfe, an Irish toad to fee,
Were as a chafte man nurs'd in Italy.
And now when nature gives another guide
To human kind, that in his bofome bides,
Above inftinct, his reafon and discourse,
His being better, is his life the worse ?

Ah me how feldome fee we fonnes fucceed
Their father's praife, in proweffe and great deed?
Yet certes if the fire be ill inclin'd,

His faults befal his fonnes by courfe of kind.
Scaurus was covetous, his fonne not fo;
But not his pared nayle will he forego.
Florian the fire did women love alive,
And fo his fon doth too, all but his wife.
Brag of thy father's faults, they are thine own;
Brag of his lands, if they are not forgone;
Brag of thine own good deeds, for they are thine
More than his life, or lands, or golden line.

SATIRE IV.

Plus beaque fort.

CAN I not touch fome upftart carpet-fhield
Of Lolio's fonne, that never faw the field,
Or taxe wild Pontice for his luxuries,
But straight they tell me of Tirefias eyes?
Or luckleffe Collingborn's feeding of the crowes,
Or hundreth fcalps which Thames ftill over-(
flowes,

But ftraight Sigalion nods and knits his browes,
And winkes and waftes his warning hand for feare,
And lifps fome filent letters in my eare?
Have I not vow'd for fhunning fuch debate?
Pardon ye fatires, to degenerate!
And wading low in the plebeian lake,
That no falt wave fhall froth upon my backe.
Let Labeo, or who elfe lift for me,
Go loofe his ears, and fall to alchimy:
Only let Gallio give me leave a while
To schoole him once or ere I change my ftile.
O lawleffe paunch the caufe of much defpight,
Through raunging of a currish appetite,
When spleenith morfels cram the gaping maw,
Withouten dict's care or trencher-law;
Though never have I Salerne rhymes profeft,
To be fome lady's trencher-critick guest;
Whiles cach bit cooleth for the oracle,
Whofe fentence charms it with a rhyming spell.
Touch not this coler, that melancholy,
This bit were dry and hot, that cold and dry.
Yet can I fet my Gallio's dieting,
A pole of a lark, or plover's wing;

And warn him not to caft his wanton eye
On groffer bacon, or falt haberdine,
Or dried flitches of some smoked beeve,
Hang'd on a writhen wythe fince Martin's ent
Or burnt larke's heeles, or rafhers raw and grem
Or melancholick liver of an hen,
Which flout Vorano brags to make his fat,
And claps his hand on his brave oftridge brez;
Then falls to praise the hardy Janizar,
That fucks his horse fide, this fting in the war;
Laftly, to feal up all that he hath spoke,
Quaffes a whole tunnell of tobacco ímoke.
If Martius in boift'rous buffs be dreis'd,
Branded with iron plates upon the breaft,
And pointed on the fhoulders for the nance,
As new come from the Belgian garriíons,
What should thou need to envy ought at the
Whenas thou fmelleft like a civet cat?
Whenas thine oyled locks fmooth platted fail,
Shining like varnish'd pictures on a wail.
When a plum'd fanne may fhade thy chi
face,

And lawny ftrips thy naked bofom grace.
If brabbling Make-fray, at each fair and fize,
Picks quarrels for to fhew his valiantize,
Straight preffed for an hungry Swizzer's pay,
To thruft his fift to each part of the fray;
And piping hot puffs toward the pointed phr
With a broad Scot, or proking fpit of Spaine;
Or hoyfeth fayle up to a forraine thore,
That he may live a lawleffe conqueror.
If fome fuch defp'rate hackster fhall devile
To rouze thine hare's-heart from her cowards,
As idle children friving to excell
In blowing bubbles from an empty fack;
Oh Hercules! how like to prove a mai,
That all fo rath thy warlike life began!
Thy mother could thee for thy cradle fet
Her husband's rufty iron corfelet,
Whofe jargling found might rock her babe
That never plain'd of his uneafy neft:
There did he dreame of dreary wars at
And woke, and fought, and won, ere i
ftand.

But who hath feene the lambs of Tarentine
May gueffe what Gallio his manners beet,
All foft as is the falling thistle-downe,
Soft as the fumy ball, or Morrian's crowne.
Now Gallio, gins thy youthly heat to right
In every vigorous limb and fwelling vaine;
Time bids thee raise thine headstrong the

high,

To valour and advent'rous chivalry:
Pawne thou no glove for challenge of the de
Nor make thy Quintaine others armed he
Tenrich the waiting herald with thy fhant,
And make thy loffe the fcornful feafold's g
Wars, God forefend! nay God defend frem **
Soone are fonnes spent, that not foon rea
Gallio may pull me rofes ere they fall,
Or in his net entrap the tennis-ball,
Or tend his fpar-hawke mantling in her m
Or yelping beagles bufy heeles purive,
Or watch a finking corke upon the fort,
Or halter finches through a privy decrę,