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 ever wont the cyprefs fad to bear,
Acheron banks the palifh 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 Irifh 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 bosome bides,
Above inftin&t, 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 course 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 upftarf 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 ny backe.
Let Labeo, or who elfe lift for me,
Go loose his ears, and fall to alchimy:
Only let Gallio give me leave a while
To fchoole him once or ere I change my ftile.
O lawleffe paunch the cause of much despight,
Through raunging of a currish appetite,
When fpleenifh morfels cram the gaping maw,
Withouten diet's care or trencher-law;
Though never have I Salerne rhymes profest,
To be fome lady's trencher-critick guest;
Whiles each bit cooleth for the oracle,
Whose sentence 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 pestle of a lark, or plover's wing;

And warn him not to caft his wanton eyne
On groffer bacon, or falt haberdine,

Or dried flitches of some smoked beeve,
Hang'd on a writhen wythe fince Martin's eve,
Or burnt larke's heeles, or rafhers raw and greene,
Or melancholick liver of an hen,

Which stout vorano brags to make his feast,
And claps his hand on his brave oftridge breaft;
Then falls to praise the hardy Janizar,
That fucks his horse fide, thirfting in the war;
Laftly, to feal up all that he hath spoke,
Quaffes a whole tunnell of tobacco smoke.
If Martius in boist'rous buffs be drefs'd,
Branded with iron plates upon the breast,
And pointed on the shoulders for the nonce,
As new come from the Belgian garrisons,
What should thou need to envy ought at that,
Whenas thou smelleft like a civet cat?
Whenas thine oyled locks fmooth platted fall,
Shining like varnish'd pictures on a wall.
When a plum'd fanne may fhade thy chalked
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 thrust his fift to cach part of the fray;
And piping hot puffs toward the pointed plaine
With a broad Scot, or proking fpit of Spaine;
Or hoyfeth fayle up to a forraine fhore,
That he may live a lawleffe conquerour.
If fome fuch defp'rate hackster fhall devife
To rouze thine hare's-heart from her cowardice,
As idle children striving to excell

In blowing bubbles from an empty fhell;
Oh Hercules! how like to prove a man,
That all fo rath thy warlike life began?
Thy mother could thee for thy cradle fet
Her husband's rusty iron corfelet,
Whofe jargling found might rock her babe to rest,
That never plain'd of his uneafy nest:
There did he dreame of dreary wars at hand,
And woke, and fought, and won, ere he could
ftand.

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

To valour and advent'rous chivalry:
Pawne thou no glove for challenge of the deed,
Nor make thy Quintaine others armed head
T'enrich the waiting herald with thy fhame,
And make thy loffe the fcornful scaffold's game.
Wars, God forefend! nay God defend from war ;
Soone are fonnes spent, that not foon reared are.
Gallio may pull me rofes ere they fall,
Or in his net entrap the tennis-ball,
Or tend his fpar-hawke mantling in her mew,
Or yelping beagles bufy heeles purfue,
Or watch a finking corke upon the fhore,
Or halter finches through a privy doore,

For small difburfment; he the bankes hath broke, And needs mote now fome further playne o'erlook;

Yet ere he go faine would he be releaft,
Hye ye, ye ravens, hye you to the feast.
Provided that thy lands are left entire,
To be redeem'd or ere thy day expire:
Then fhalt thou teare thofe idle paper bonds
That thus had fettered thy pawned lands.
Ah foole! for fooner fhalt thou fell the rest
Than stake ought for thy former intereft ;
When it shall grind thy grating gall for shame,
To fee the lands that beare thy grandfire's name
Become a dunghill peafant's fummer-hall,
Or lonely hermit's cage inhofpitall;
A pining gourmand, an imperious flave,

An horfe-leech, barren wombe, and gaping grave;

A legal thiefe, a bloodleffe murtherer,
A fiend incarnate, a falfe ufurer :
Albe fuch mayne extort scorns to be pent
In the clay walls of thatched tenement :
For certes no man of a low degree
May bid two guests, or gout, or ufury;
Unleffe fome base hedge-creeping Collybift
Scatters his refufe fcraps on whom he lift
For Eafter gloves, or for a Shrove-tide hen,
Which bought to give, he takes to fell again.
I do not meane fome glozing merchant's feate,
That laugheth at the cozened world's deceit,
When as an hundred stocks lie in his fift,
He leaks and finks, and breaketh when he lift.
But Nummius eas'd the needy gallant's care
With a base bargain of his blowen ware
Of fufted hops, now loft for lack of sale,
Or mould brown paper that could nought avail;
Or what he cannot utter otherwise,
May pleasure Fridoline for treble price;
Whiles his falfe broker lieth in the wind,
And for a prefent chapman is affign'd,

The cut-throat wretch, for their compacted gaine,
Buys all but for one quarter of the mayne ;
Whiles if he chance to break his deare-bought
day,

And forfeit, for default of due repay,
His late intangled lands; then, Fridoline,
Buy thee a wallet, and go beg or pine.

If Mammon's felfe fhould ever live with men,
Mammon himself shall be a citizen.

SATIRE VI.

Quid placet ergo?

I woT not how the world's degenerate,
That men or know or like not their estate:
Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morne,
Not one but holds his native ftate forlorne.
When comely ftriplings with it were their chance,
For Canis diftaffe to enchange their lance,
And weare curl'd periwigs, and chalk their face,
And fill are poring on their pocket-glaffe.

Tyr'd with pinn'd ruffs and fans, and partlet ftrips,

And busks and verdingales about their hips;
And tread on corked ftilts a prisoner's pace,
And make their napkin for their spitting place,
And gripe their waift within a narrow Ipan :
Fond Canis, that would'st wish to be a man!
Whofe manifh housewives like their refuse state,
And make a drudge of their uxorious mate,
Who like a cot-queene freezeth at the rock,
Whiles his breech't dame doth man the forren
ftock.

Is't not a shame to fee each homely groome
Sit perched in an idle chariot roome,
That were not meete fome pannel to beftride,
Surfingled to a galled hackney's hide?
Each muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse
gaine,
[graine,
Although he fmother up mowes of seven years
And hang'd himself when corne grows cheap
again;

Although he buy whole harvests in the spring,
And foyft in falfe ftrikes to the measuring;
Altho' his fhop be muffled from the light,
Like a day dungeon, or Cimmerian night;
Nor full nor fafting can the carle take rest,
While his George-Nobles ruften in his chest ;
He fleeps but once, and dreames of burglary,
And wakes, and cafts about his frighted eye,
And gropes for th' eves in ev'ry darker shade;
And if a moufe but stirre, he calls for ayde.
The sturdy ploughman doth the foldier fee
All scarfed with py'd colours to the knee,
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate,
And now he gins to loathe his former ftate;
Now doth he inly scorne his Kendall-Greene,
And his patch'd cockers now defpised beene;
Nor lift he now go whiftling to the carre,
But fells his teeme, and fetleth to the warre.
O warre! to them that never try'd thee, sweete!
When his dead mate falls groveling at his feete,
And angry bullets whiftlen at his eare,

And his dim eyes fee nought but death and drere. Oh happy ploughman! were thy weale well knowne :

Oh happy all eftates, except his own!
Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent,
If he can live to fee his name in print;
Who when he is once fleshed to the preffe,
And fees his handfell have fuch faire fucceffe,
Sung to the wheele, and fung unto the payle,
He fends forth thraves of ballads to the fale;
Nor then can reft, but volumes up bodg'd
rhymes,

To have his name talk'd of in future times,
The brain-fick youth that feeds his tickled eare
With fweet-fauc'd lies of fome false traveller,
Which hath the Spanish decades read awhile,
Or whet-stone leafings of old Mandeville;
Now with difcourfes breakes his midnight fleepe,
Of his adventures through the Indian deepe,
Of all their maffy heapes of golden mine,
Or of the antique toombes of Palestine,
Or of Damafcus magick wall of glaffe,
Of Solomon his fweating piles of braffe,

Of the bird Rue that bears an elephant,
Of mermaids that the foutherne feas do haunt,
Of headleffe men, of favage cannibals,
The fashions of their lives and governals;
What monstrous cities there erected be,
Cayro, or the city of the Trinity.

Now are they dunghill cocks that have not feene
The bordering Alpes, or elfe the neighbour Rhine:
And now he plies the newes-full grafhopper,
Of voyages and ventures to inquire.

His land mortgag'd, he, sea-beat in the way,
Wishes for home a thousand fighs a day:
And now he deems his home-bred fare as leafe
As his parcht bifket, or his barrel'd beefe.
Mongst all these itirs of difcontented ftrife,
Oh let nie lead an academick life;

To know much, and to think we nothing know;
Nothing to have, yet think we have enowe;
In skill to want, and wanting feek for more;
In weale nor want, nor with for greater store.
Envy ye monarchs, with your proud exceffe,
At our low fayle, and our high happinesse.

SATIRE VII.

ΡΟΜΗ ΡΥΜΗ.

WHO fays thefe Romish pageants been too high
To be the fcorne of iportful poefy?
Certes not all the world fuch matter wist
As are the feven hills, for a fatyrist.
Perdie I loath an hundred Mathoes tongues,
An hundred gametters fhifts, or landlords wrongs,
Or Labeo's poems, or bafe Lolio's pride,
Or ever what I thought or wrote befide.
When once I think if carping Aquine's spright
To fee now Rome, were licenc'd to the light,
How his enraged ghoft would stamp and stare,
That Cæfar's throne is turn'd to Peter's chayre;
To fee an old fhorne Lozell perched high,
Croffing beneath a golden canopy;

The whiles a thousand hairleffe crownes crouch low,

To kiffe the precious cafe of his proud toe;
And for the lordly Fafces borne of old,
To fee two quiet croffed keyes of goid,
Or Cybele's thrine, the famous Pantheon's frame,
Turn'd to the honour of our Lady's name.
But that he moft would gaze and wonder at,
Is th' horned mitre, and the bloody hat,
The crooked staffe, their coule's ftrange form and
ftore,

Save that he faw the fame in hell before;

To fee the broken nuns, with new-fhorne heads,
In a blind cloyster toffe their idle beades,
Or louzy coules come fmoking from the stewes,
To raife the lewd rent to their lord accrewes,
(Who with ranke Venice doth his pompe advance
By trading of ten thousand courtezans)
Yet backward muft abfolve a female's finne,
Like to a falfe diffembling Theatine,

Who when his fkin is red with fhirts of male
And rugged haire-cloth fcoures his greasy nayle,
Or wedding garment tames his ftubborne backe,
Which his hempe girdle dies all blue and black;
Or of his almes-boule three dayes fupp'd and
din'd,

Trudges to open stewes of either kinde;
Or takes fome cardinal's ftable in the way,
And with fome pampered mule doth weare the
day,

Kept for his lord's own faddle when him lift.
Come, Valentine, and play the fatyrist,
To fee poor fucklings welcom'd to the light
With fearing irons of fome foure Jacobite,
Or golden offers of an aged foole,

To make his coffin fome Francifcan's coule;
To fee the Pope's blacke knight, a cloaked frere,
Sweating in the channel like a scavengere;
Whom erft thy bowed hamme did lowly greete,
When at the corner-croffe thou didst him meete,
Tumbling his rosaries hanging at his belt,
Or his barretta, or his towred felt :
To fee a lazy dumbe Acholithite

Armed against a devout flye's defpight,
Which at th' high altar doth the chalice vaile
With a broad flie-flappe of a peacocke's tayle,
With longing for his morning facrifice,
The whiles the liquorous pricft fpits every trice
Which he reares up quite perpendiculare,.
That the mid church doth fpighte the chancel's
fare,

Beating their empty mawes that would be fed
With the fcant morfels of the facrifts bread:
Would he not laugh to death when he fhould
heare

The fhameleffe legends of St. Christopher,
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,
Yeaning in mids of her proceffion;
Or now fhould fee the needleffe tryal-chayre,
(When each is proved by his bastard heyre)
Or faw the churches, and new calendere,
Pefter'd with mongrel faints and relicks deare,
Should he cry out on Codro's tedious toombes,
When his new rage would ask no narrower
roomes?

SATIRE I.

Sit pana merenti.

PARDON, ye glowing cares; needs will it out,
Though brazen walls compafs'd my tongue about
As thick as wealthy Scrobio's quick-fet rowes
In the wide common that he did enclose.
Pull out mine eyes, if I fhall fee no vice;
Or let me fee it with detefting eyes.
Renowned Aquine, now I fellow thee,
Far as I may, for feare of jeopardy;
And to thy hand yield up the ivy-mace
From crabbed Perfius, and more smooth Horace;
Or from that shrew, the Roman poeteffe,
That taught her goffips learned bitternesse;
Or Lucile's muse, whom thou didft imitate,
Or Menips old, or Pafquillers of late.
Yet name I not Mutius or Tigilline,
Though they deserve a keener ftyle than mine;
Nor meane to ranfack up the quiet grave,
Nor burn dead bones, as he example gave.
I taxe the living; let the dead afhes reft,
Whofe faults are dead, and nailed in their cheft.
Who can refrain that's guiltlesse of their crimé,
Whiles yet he lives in fuch a cruel time?

When Titio's grounds, that in his grandfire's dayes,

But one pound fine, one penny rent did raise,
A fummer fnow-ball, or a winter rose,
Is growne to thousands, as the world now goes.
So thrift and time fets other things on floate,
That now his fonne foups in a filken coate,
Whofe grandfire happily, a poore hungry swaine,
Begg'd fome caft abbey in the church's wayne :
And but for that, whatever he may vaunt,
Who knows a monk had been a mendicant?
While freezing Matho, that for one lean fee
Won't term each term the term of Hillary,
May now, inftead of those his fimple fees,
Ger the fee-fimples of faire manneries.

What, did he counterfeat his prince's hand,
For fome ftreave lordship of concealed land?
Or on each Michael and Lady-day,
Tooke he deepe forfeits for an hour's delay?
And gain'd no leffe by fach injurious brawl,
Than Gamius by his fixth wife's burial?
Or hath he wonne fome wider intereft,
By hoary charters from his grandfire's cheft,
Which late fome bribed fcribe, for flender wage,
Writ in the characters of another age,
That Plowdon felfe might stammer to rehearse,
Whofe date o'erlooks three centuries of years.
Who ever yet the tracks of weale so try'd,
But there hath been one beaten way befide?
He, when he lets a leafe for life, or yeares,
(As never he doth until the date expires;
For when the full state in his fift doth lie,
He may take vantage of the vacancy)
His fine affords fo many treble pounds
As he agreeth yeares to lease his grounds:
His rent in fair refpondence muft arife
To double trebles of his one yeare's price.
Of one baye's breadth, God wot! a filly coate,
Whofe thatched spars are furr'd with fluttish foote
A whole inch thick, fhining like biack-moor's
[blows.

brows,

Through smoke that down the headieffe barrel
At his bed's feet feeden his ftalled teeme ;
His swine beneath, his pullen o'er the beame.
A ftarved tenement, fuch as I gueffe
Stands ftraggling in the waftes of Holdernesse;
Or fuch as fhiver on a Peake hill fide,
When March's lungs beate on their turf-clad hide,
Such as nice Lipfius would grudge to fee
Above his lodging in wild Weftphalye ;
Or as the Saxon king his court might make,
When his fides playned of the neat-heard's cake.
Yet must he haunt his greedy landlord's hall
With often prefents at each feftival:
With crammed capons every New-yeares morne,
Or with green cheeses when his sheep are thorne: