Or many maunds full of his mellow fruite,
To make fome way to win his weighty fuite.
Whom cannot gifts at last cause to relent,
Or to win favour, or flee punishment?
When griple patrons turn their sturdie fteele
To waxe, when they the golden flame do feele :
When grand Mæcenas cafts a glavering eye
On the cold prefent of a poefy:

And left he might more frankly take than give,
Gropes for a French crowne in his empty fleeve.
Thence Clodius hopes to fet his shoulders free
From the light burden of his Napery.
The finiling landlord fhewes a fun-fhine face,
Feigning that he will grant him further grace,
And leers like Æfop's foxe upon a crane
Whofe neck he craves for his chirurgian:
So lingers off the lease until the last,
What recks he then of paines or promise past?
Was ever feather, or fond woman's mind
More light than words? the blasts of idle wind!
What's fib or fire, to take the gentle flip,
And in th' exchequer rot for furetyfhip?
Or thence thy starved brother live and die,
Within the cold Coal harbour fan&uary?
Will one from Scots-bank bid but one groate more,
My old tenant may be turned out of doore,
Though much he spent in th' rotten roof's repaire,
In hope to have it left unto his heir:
Though many a load of marle and manure layd,
Reviv'd his barren leas, that erft lay dead.
Were he as Furius, he would defy
Such pilfering flips of petty landlordry:
And might diflodge whole colonies of poore,
And lay their roofe quite level with the floore,
Whiles yet he gives as to a yielding fence,
Their bag and baggage to his citizens,
And fhips them to the new-nam'd Virgin-lond,
Or wilder Wales where never wight yet wonn'd.
Would it not vex thee where thy fires did keep,
To fee the dunged folds of dag-tayl'd theep?
And ruin'd house where holy things were faid,
Whose free-ftone walls the thatched roofe upbraid,
Whofe fhrill faint's bell hangs on his lovery,
While the rest are damned to the plumbery?
Yet pure devotion lets the fteeple stand,
And idle battlements on either hand:
Left that, perhaps, were all thofe relicks gone,
Furius his facrilege could not be knowne.

SATIRE II.

Hei quarite Trojam.

HOUSE-KEEPING's dead, Saturio, wot'ft thou where?

For footh they fay far hence in Breckneckshire.
And ever fince, they fay that feel and taste,
That men may breck their neck foon as their fast.
Certes, if pity dy'd at Chaucer's date,
He liv'd a widower long behind his mate:
Save that I fee fome rotten bed-rid fire,
Which to outftrip the nonage of his heire,
Is cramm'd with golden broths, and drugs of price,
And each day dying lives, and living dies;

Till once furviv'd his wardship's faten eve,
His eyes are clos'd, with choice to die or live.
Plenty and He dy'd both in that fame yeare,
When the fad fky did fhed fo many a teare.
And now, who lift not of his labour faile,
Mark with Saturio my friendly tale,
Along thy way thou canst not but defcry
Fair glittering halls to tempt the hopeful eye,
Thy right eye 'gins to leap for vaine delight,
And furbeat toes to tickle at the fight;

As greedy T-- when in the founding mould
He finds a fhining potfhard tip'd with gold;
For never fyren tempts the pleafed eares,
As these the eye of fainting paffengers.
All is not fo that feemes, for furely then
Matrona should not be a courtezan;

Smooth Chrysalus should not be rich with fraud,
Nor honeft Ŕ be his own wife's bawd.
Look not afquint, nor ftride across the way
Like fome demurring Alcide to delay;
But walk on cheerly, till thou have espy'd
Saint Peter's finger at the church-yard fide.
But wilt thou needs when thou art warn'd fo well
Go fee who in fo garish walls doth dwell?
There findest thou forne ftately Dorick frame,
Or neat Ionick worke ;-

Like the vain bubble of Iberian pride,
That overcroweth all the world befide.
Which rear'd to raise the crazy monarch's fame,
Strives for a court and for a college name;
Yet nought within but loufy coules doth hold,
Like a scabb'd cuckow in a cage of gold.
So pride above doth fhade the fhame below;
A golden periwig on a black moor's brow.
When Mævio's firft page of his poefy,
Nail'd to an hundred poftes for novelty,
With his big title an Italian mot,
Layes fiege unto the backward buyer's groat ;
Which all within is drafty fluttish geere,
Fit for the oven, or the kitchen fire.
So this gay gate adds fuel to thy thought,
That fuch proud piles were never rais'd for
nought.

Beat the broad gates a goodly hollow found
With double echoes doth again rebound;
But not a dog doth bark to welcome thee,
Nor churlish porter canft thou chafing fee;
All dumb and filent, like the dead of night,
Or dwelling of fome fleepy Sybarite.
The marble pavement hid with defart weed,
With houfe-leck, thistle, dock, and hemlock feed:
But if thou chance caft up thy wond'ring eyes,
Thou fhalt difcern upon the frontispiece
ΟΥΔΕΙΣ ΕΙΣΙΤΩ graven up on high,
A fragment of old Plato's poefy:

The meaning is " Sir foole ye may be gone,
"Go back by leave, for way here lieth none."
Look to the tow'red chimnies which fhould be
The windpipes of good hofpitality,
Through which it breatheth to the open aire,
Betokening life, and liberal welfare;

Lo! there th' unthankful swallow takes her reft,
And fills the tunnell with her circled neft;
Nor half that fmoke from all his chimies goes
Which one tobacco pipe drives through his poiç.

So raw-bone hunger fcorns the mudded walls,
And 'gins to revel it in lordly halls.
So the black prince is broken loofe againe
That faw no funne fave once (as ftories 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 fome 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 squares,
That wont be drawne out 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 swolne bezzle at an alehouse fire,
That tonnes in gallons to his bursten paunch,
Whofe flimy 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 feaft,
What time he needs must be his coufin's gueft.
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 cruise, nor must that stay
Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd braine,
But call and crave, and have thy cruise 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'rith Rochelle cuts thy thirsting throate.
What though himselfe 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

n bufy questions all the dinner long?

1

What though the fcornful waiter lookes askile,
And pouts and frowns, and curfeth thee the while,
And takes his farewell with a jealous eye,

At every morfell he his last shall fee?
And if but one exceed the common fize,
Or make an hillock in thy checke arise,
Or if perchance thou shouldeft, ere thou wift,
Hold thy knife upright in thy griped fift,
Or fittest double on thy backward feat,
Or with thine elbow fhad'ft thy shared meat,
He laughs thee, in his fellow's eare to fcorne,
And afks aloud, where Trebius was borne ?
Though the third fewer takes thee quite away
Without a staffe, when thou would't longer tay,
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 sharp quills out in each angry line,
And wounds the blushing checke, and fiery eye,
Of him that hears, and readeth guiltily.
Ye antique fatires, how I bleffe your dayes,
That brook'd your bolder ftile, their own difpraife,
And well near wifh, yet joy my wish is vaine,
I had been then, or they been now againe !
For now our eares been of more brittle mold,
Than thofe dull earthen eares that were of old :
Sith theirs, like anvils, bore the hammer's head,
Our glaffe can never touch unshivered.
But from the ashes of my quiet file
Henceforth may rife fome raging rough Lucile,
That may with Æfchylus both find and leefe
The fnaky treffes of th' Eumenides :
Meanwhile, fufficeth me, the world may say
That I thefe vices loath'd another day,
Which I hane done with as devout a cheere
As he that rounds Poul's pillars in the yeare,
Or bends his ham downe in the naked quire.
'Twas ever faid, Frontine, and ever seene,
That golden clerkes but wooden lawyers been.
Could ever wife man wish, in good estate,
The use of all things indifcriminate?

Who wots not yet how well this did befeeme The learned mafter of the academe ?

[wife,

Plato is dead, and dead is his device,
Which fome thought witty, none thought ever
Yet certes Macha is a Platonift
To all, they fay, fave whofo do not lift;
Becaufe her husband, a far trafick'd man,
Is a profefs'd Peripatecian.

And fo our grandfires were in ages past,
That let their lands lie all fo widely waste,
That nothing was in pale or hedge ypent
Within fome province, or whole thire's extent,
As nature made the earth, fo did it lie,
Save for the furrowes of their husbandry;
Whenas the neighbour lands fo couched layne
That all bore fhew of one fair champian :
Some headleffe croffe they digged on their lea,
Or roll'd fome marked meare-ftone in the way.

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 thriftlesse, 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 raise we muddy bulwarks on our banks,
Befet around with treble quick fet 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,
So be thou stake not up the common style;

So be thou hedge in nought but what's thine

owne;

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

When one was landlord of the world alone!
But now whofe choler would not rife to yield
A 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 aspires 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 praifen Villio's hide-bound fonnej
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 ftaring Cheapes
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 stocke his wasting store?
If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare
That forty pounds ferve not the farmer's heire

3 B

Ere Chryfalus had barr'd the common boxe,
Which erft he pick'd to store his private stocks;
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 shalt thou never fee the falt befet
With a big-bellied gallon flagonet.

Of an ebbe cruise must thirsty Silen fip,
That's all foreftalled by his upper lip;
Somewhat it was that made his paunch so peare,
His girdle fell ten inches in a yeare.
Or when old gouty bed-rid Euclio
To his officious factor fair could fhew
His name in margent of some old caft bill,
And fay, Lo! whom I named in my will,
Whiles he believes, and looking for the share
Tendeth his cumbrous charge with bufy care
For but a while; for now he fure will die,
By his ftrange qualme of liberality.

Great thanks he gives-but God him fhield and fave

From ever gaining by his master's grave:
Only live long and he is well repaid,
And wets his forced cheeks while thus he faid;
Some ftrong fmell'd onion fhall ftir his eyes
Rather than no falt teares fhall then arife.
So looks he like a marble toward raine,
And wrings and fnites, and weeps, and wipes
again :

Then turns his back and fmiles, and looks afkance,
Seas'ning again his forrow'd countenance;

Whiles yet he wearies heav'n with daily cries,
And backward death with devout facrifice,
That they would now his tedious ghoft bereav'n,
And wishes well, that wifh'd no worse than heav'n,
When Zoylus was ficke, he knew not where,
Save his wrough nigt-cap, and lawn pillowbear.
Kind fooles! they made him fick that made him
fine;

Take thofe away, and there's his medicine.
Or Gellia wore a velvet maftick-patch
Upon her temples when no tooth did ache;
When beauty was her theume 1 foon espy'd,
Nor could her plaifter cure her of her pride.
These vices were, but now they ceas'd off long:
Then why did I a righteous age that wrong?
I would repent me were it not too late,
Were not the angry world prejudicate.
If all the feven penitential

Or thousand white wands might me ought availe;
If Trent or Thames could fcoure my foule offence
And fet me in my former innocence,

I would at laft repent me of my rage:
Now, bear my wrong, I thine, O righteous age.
As for fine wits, an hundred thousand fold
Paffeth our age whatever times of old.
For in that puifne world, our fires of long
Could hardly wag their too unwieldy tongue.
As pined crowes and parrots can do now,
When hoary age did bend their wrinkled brow:
And now of late did many a learned man
Serve thirty years prenticeship with Prifcian;
But now can every novice speake with ease
The far-fetch'd language of th' Antipodes.

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

Would't thou the courtly three in moft 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 brimflone 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 addresse.
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 dog, be laid along,
Downe in fome ditch without his exequies,
Or epitaphs, or mournful elegies?

Folly itfelf, and baldneffe may be prais'd,
And sweet conceits from filthy objects rais'd.
What do not fine wits dare to undertake?
What dare not fine wits do for honour'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 ftill remaine
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 unseen.
Silence is fafe, when saying stirreth 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 misruly tongue i
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
To prove I never carn'd a poet's name.
But would I be a poet if I might,

To rub my browes three days and wake three

nights,

And bite my nails, and feratch my dullard head,
And curfe the backward Mufes on my bed
About one peevish fyllable; which out-fought
I take up Tales joy, fave for fore-thought
How it shall please 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 ftarved Cappuchein;
Go Arioft, and gape for what may fall
From trencher of a flattering cardinall;