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Or many maunds full of his mellow fruite, Till once surviv'd his wardship's faten eve,
To make some way to win his weighty suite. His eyes are clos'd, with choice to die or live.
Whom cannot gifts at last cause to relent, Plenty and He dy & both in that same yeare,
Or to win favour, or face punishment ?

When the sad sky did shed so many a teare.
When griple patrons turn their sturdie steele And now, who likt not of his labour faile,
To waxe, when they the golden flame do feele : Mark with Saturio my friendly tale.
When grand Mæcenas casts a glavering eye Along thy way thou canst not but defcry
On the cold present of a poesy :

Fair glitrering halls to tempt the hopeful cye,
And left he might more frankly take than give, Thy right eye 'gins to leap for vaine delight,
Gropes for a French crowne in his empty sleeve. Aad furbeat toes to tickle at the light;
Thence Clodius hopes to fet his shoulders free As greedy T-- when in the founding mould
From the light burden of his Napery.

He finds a shining potrhard tip'd with gold; The finiling landlord Thewes a fun-shine face, For never fyren tempts the pleased cares, Feigning that he will grant him further grace,

As these the eye of fainting passengers. And leers like Æsop's foxe upon a crane

All is not fo that seemes, for surely then Whose neck he craves for his chirurgian :

Matrona should not be a courtezan; So lingers off thc lease until the last,

Smooth Chrysalus should not be rich with fraud, What recks he then of paines or promise past? Nor honest Rbe his own wife's bawd. Was ever feacher, or fond woman's mind Look not asquint, nor ftride across the way More light than words? the blasts of idle wind! Like some demurring Alcide to delay; What's lib or fire, to take the gentle flip,

But walk on cheerly, till thou have espy'd And in th'exchequer rot for suretyship?

Saint Peter's finger at the church-yard lide. Or thence thy ftarved brother live and die, But wilt thou needs when thou art warn'd so well Within the cold Coal harbour fanduary ?

Go see who in fo garish walls doth dwell? Will one from Scots-bank bid but one groate more, There findest thou soine stately Dorick frame, My old renant may be turned out of doore, Or neat Ionick worke;Though much he spent in th' rotten roof's repaire, Like the vain bubble of Iberian pride, - In hope to have it left unto his heir :

That overcroweth all the world beside. Though many a load of marle and manure layd, Which rear'd to raise the crazy monarch's fame, Reviv'd his barren leas, that erst lay dead.

Strives for a court and for a college name; Were he as Furius, he would defy

Yet nought within but loufy coules doch hold, Such pilfering Nips of petty landlordry :

Like a scabb'd cuckow in a cage of gold. And might dislodge whole colonies of poore, So pride above doth shade the shame below; And lay their roofe quite level with thc floure, A golden periwig on a black moor's brow. Whiles yet he gives as to a yielding fence, When Mævio's first page of his poefy, Their bag and baggage to his citizens,

Nail'd to an hundred poftes for novelty, And ships them to the new-nam'd Virgin-lond,

With his big title an Italian mot, Or wilder Wales where never wight yet wonn'd. Layes fiege unto the backward buyer's groat; Would it not vex thee where thy fires did keep,

which all within is drafty fluttish geere, To see the dunged folds of dag-layl'd sheep?

Fit for the oven, or the kitchen fire. And ruin'd house where holy things were said, So this gay gate adds fuel to thy thought, Whose free-stone walls the thatched roofe upbraid, That such proud piles were never rais'd for Whore Thrill saint's bell hangs on his lovery,

nought. While the rest are danined to the plumbery? Beat the broad gates a goodly hollow found Yet pure devotion lets the steeple stand,

With double echoes doth again rebound; And idle battlements on either hand :

But not a dog doth bark to welcome thee, Left that, perhaps, were all those relicks gone,

Nor churlith porter canst thou chafing see :
Furius his facrilege could not be knowne.

All dumb and silent, like the dead of night,
Or dwelling of some sleepy Sybarite.

The marble pavement hid with desast weed,
SATIRE II.

With house-leek, thistle, dock, and hemlock seed:

But if thou chance cast up thy wond'ring eyes, Heic quærite Trojam.

Thou shalt discern upon the frontispiece

ΟΥΔΕΙΣ ΕΙΣΙΤΩ graven up on high, , HOUSE-KEEPING's dead, Sacurio, wot'it thou

A fragment of old Plato's poesy: where?

The meaning is “ Sir foole ye may be gone, Forsooth they say far hence in Breckneckshire..

“ Go back by leave, for way here licth none." And ever fince, they say that feel and taste, Look to the tow'red chimnies which should be That men may breck their neck soon as their fast. The windpipes of good hospitality, Certes, if pity dy'd at Chaucer's date,

Through which it breatheth to the open aire, He liv'd a widower long behind his niate : Betukening life, and liberal welfare; Save that I fee fome rotten bed-rid fire,

Lo! there th’unthankful swallow takes her res, Which to oucftrip the nonage of his heire,

And fills the tunnell with her circled neft ; Iş cramm'd with golden broths, and drugs of price, Nor half that snoke from all his chimaies goes And each day dying lives, and living cies; Which one tobacco pipe drives through his poie.

So raw-bone hunger fcorns the mudded walls, What though the scornful waiter lookes akile,
And 'gins to revel it in lordly halls.

And pouts and frowns, and curseth thee the while,
So the black prince is broken loose againe And takes his farewell with a jealous eye,
That saw no funne save once (as stories faine) At every morfell he his last shall see?
That once was, when in Trinacry I woene And if bat one exceed the common size,
He stole the daughter of the harvest qucene, Or make an hillock in thy checke arise,
And gript the mawes of barren Sicily

Or if perchance thou shouldest, ere thou wift, With long conftraint of pineful penury;

Hold thy knife upright in thy griped fift,
And they that should refift his second rage, Or fittest double on thy backward seat,
Have pent themselves up in the private cage Or with thine elbow shad'it thy shared meat,
Of some blind lanc, and there they lurk unknowne He laughs thee, in his fellow's eare to scorne,
Till th' hungry tempest once be overblowne : And asks aloud, where Trebius was borne ?
Then like the coward after neighbour's fray, Though the third lewer takes thee quite away
They creep forth boldly, and ask, Where are they? Without a staffe, when thou would'i longer stay,
Meanwhile the hunger starv'd appurtenance What of all this? Is't not enough to say,
Must bide the brunt, whatever ill mischance : I din'd at Virro his owne board to-day?
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;

SATIRE III.
So sharp and meager that who should them fee
Would swear they lately came from Hungary.

KOINA DIANN.
When their brasse pans and winter coverlid Tue satire should be like the porcupine,
Have wip'd the maunger of the horse's bread, That shoots sharp quills out in each angry line,
Oh 'me! what odds there seemeth 'twixt their And wounds the blushing checke, and fiery eye,
cheer

Of him that hears, and readeth guiltily. And the swolne bezzle at an alehouse fire, Ye antiquc fatires, how I blesse your dayes, That tonnes in gallons to his bursten paunch, That brook'd your bolder stile, their own dispraise, Whose limy draughts his drought can never And well near wish, yet joy my wish is vaine, ftaunch?

I had been then, or they been now againe ! For shame, ye gallants ! grow more hospital, For now our eares been of more brittle mold, And turn your needlefse wardrobe to your hall. Than those dull earthen eares that were of old : As lavish Virro that keeps open doores,

Sith theirs, like anvils, bore the hammer's bead, Like Janus in the warres,

Our glasse can never touch unshivered. Except the twelve days, or the wake-day feast, But from the ashes of my quiet ftile What time he needs must be his cousin's guest. Henceforth may rise fome raging rough Lucile, Philene hath bid him, can he choose but come? That may with Æschylus both find and leese Who should pull Virro's sleeve to stay at home? The snaky treffes of th' Eumenides : All yeare belides who mealtime can attend : Meanwhile, sufficeth me, the world may say Come Trebius, welcome to the table's end. That I these vices loath'd another day, What though he chires on purer manchet's crowne, which I hane done with as devout a cheere While his kind client grindes on blacke and As he that rounds Poul's pillars in the yeare, browne,

Or bends his ham downe in the naked quire. A jolly rounding of a whole foot broad,

'Twas ever said, Frontine, and ever seene, From off the mong.corne heap Mall Trebius load. That golden clerkes but wooden lawyers been. What though he quaffe pure amber in his bowle Could ever wise man with, in good estate, Of March brew'd wheat, yet flecks my thirsting | The use of all things indiscriminate ? soul

Who wots not yet how well this did beseeme With palifh oat, frothing in Boston clay,

The learned master of the academe? Or in a shallow cruise, nor must that stay

Plato is dead, and dead is his device, (wise, Within thy reach, for feare of thy craz'd braine, Which some thought witty, none thought crer But call and crave, and have thy cruise againe : Yet certes Mächa is a Platonist Else how should cven tale be registred,

To all, they say, save whoso do not lift;
Or all thy draughts, on the chalk'd barrel's head? Because her husband, a far trafick'd man,
And if he list revive his heartless graine

Is a profess'd Peripatecian.
With some French grape, or pure Canariane And so our grandfires were in ages past,
When pleasing Bourdeaux falls into his lot, That let their lands lie all fo widely waste,
Some fow'rith Rochelle cats thy thirsting throate. "That nothing was in pale or hedge ypent
What though himlelse craveth his welcome friend within some province, or whole shire's extent.
With a cool'd pitrance from his trencher's end, As nature made the earth, so did it lie,
Must Trebius' lip hang toward his trencher side ? Save for the furrowes of their husbandry;
Nor kifle his filt to take what doch betide ?, Whenas the neighbour lands so couched layne
What, though to spare thy teeth he employs thy That all bore shew of one fair champian :
tongue

Some headlesse crofle they digged on their lea, a busy questions all the dinner long?

Or rollid fome marked meare-itone in the way.

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Poor limple men! for what mought that availe, Whiles yet he may not for the treble price
That my field might not fill my neighbour's payle, Buy out the remnant of his royalties?
More than a pilled stick can stand in stead, Go on and thrive, my petty tyrant's pride,
To bar Cynedo from his neighbour's bed; Scorne thou to live, if others live beside;
More than the thread-bare client's poverty And trace proud Caftile that aspires to be
Debars th' attorney of his wonted fee?

In his old age a young fifth monarchy:
If they were thriftlesse, mought not we amend, Or the red hat that cries the lucklesse mayne,
And with more care our dangered fields defend? For wealthy Thames to chánge his lowly Rhine.
Each nan 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 Itcalth ;

SATIRE IV. Would rather stick upon the bellman's cries,

Poffunt, quia poffe videntur. Though proffer'd for a branded Indian's price. Then raise we muddy bulwarks on our banks, Vilnius, the wealthy farmer, left his heire Beset around with creble quick set ranks; Twice twenty sterling pounds to spend by ycare : Or if those walls be over weak a ward,

The neighbours praisen Villio's hide-bound sonnes The squared bricke may be a better guard. And say it was a goodly portion. Go to, my thrifty yeoman, and upreare

Not knowing how some merchants dow'r can rise, A brazen wall to fhend thy land from feare. By Sunday's tale to fifty centuries; Do so; and I shall praise thee all the while, Or to weigh downe a leaden bride with gold, So be thou stake not up the common style ; Worth all that Matho bought, or Pontice sold. So be thou hedge in nought but what's thine But whiles ten pound goes to his wife's new owne;

gowne, So be thou pay what tithes thy neighbours done; Nor little lesse can serve to suit his owne; So be thou let not lie in fallow'd plaine

Whiles one piece pays her idle waiting-man, That which was wont yield usury of graine. Os buys an hoode, or filver handled fanne, But when I see thy pitched (takes do stand Or hires a Friezeland trotter, halfe yard deepe, On thy incroached piece of common land, l'odtag his tumbrell through the staring Cheape; Whiles thou discommoneft thy neighbour's kyne, Or whiles he rideth with two liveries, And warn't that bene feed on thy field fave thine; And's treble rated at the fubfidies; Brag no more, Scrobius, of thy mudded bankes, One end a kennel keeps of thriftlefie hounds; Nor thy deep ditches, nor three quickset rapkes. What think ye rests of all my younker's pounds O happy dayes of old Ducalion,

To diet him, or deal out at his doore, When one was landlord of the world alone! To coffer up, or stocke his wasting store? But now whose choler would not rise to yield If then I reckon'd right, it should appeare A peasant halfe Atakes of his new mown field, That forty pounds ferve not the farmer's heirea

VOL. II.

3 B

S Á T I R E S.

BOOK VI:

once,

SATIRE Í.

Patrons are honest now, o'er they of old,
Semel infaritimus.

Can now no benefice be bought or sold ?

Give him a gelding, or some two yeares tithe, Labeo reserves a long naile for the nonce, For he all bribes and fimony defy'th. 1o wound my margeant through ten leaves at Is not one pick-thank firring in the court,

That seld was free will now, by all report. Much worse than Aristarchus his blacke pile But some one, like a claw-back paralite, That pierc'd old Homer's side ;

Pick'd mothes from his master's cloake in figbe, Apd makes such faces that me seems I see, Whiles he could pick out both his eyes for need, Sonic foul Megæra in the tragedy,

Mought they but fand him in some better stead. Threat'ning her ewined snakes at Tantale’s ghost; Nor now no more smell fealt Vitellio Or the grim visage of some frowning post Smiles on his master for a meal or two, The crabtree porter of the Guildhall gates; And loves him in his inaw, loaths in his heart, While he his frightful beetle elevates,

Yec fooihes, and yeas and nays on either part. His angry eyhe look all fo glaring bright, Tattelius, the new-come traveller, Like th' hunted badger in a moonleffe night : With his disguised coate and ringed care, Or like a painted staring Saracen;

Trampling the bourse's marble ewice a day, His cheeks change hue like th' air-fed vermin skin, Tells nothing but ftark truths I dare well say; Now red, now pale, and swol'n above his eyes Nor would he have them known for any thing, Like to the old Colossian imageries.

Though all the vault of his loud murmuring. But when he doth of my recanting hearc,

Not one man tells a lie of all the yeare, Away ye angry fircs, and frosts of feare,

Except the Almanack or Chronicler. Give place unto his hopeful temper'd thought But not a man of all the damned crew, That yields to peace, ere ever peace be sought : For hills of gold would sweare the thing untruc. Then let me now repent me of my rage

Pansophus now, though all in the cold sweat, For writing satires in so righteous age.

Dares venture through the feared castle-gate, Whereas I hould have stroak’d her tow'rdly head, | Albe the faithful oracles have forefayne, And cry'd evee in my satires ftcad;

The wiseft fenator shall there be flaine : Sith now not one of thousand docs amisse, That made him long keepe home as well it might, Was never age ! weene so pure as this.

Till now he hopeth of some wiser wight. pure as old Labulla from the banes,

The vale of Standgate, or the Suter's hill, As pure as through faire channels when it raines; Or westerne plaine are free from feared ill. As pute as is a black moor's face by night, Let him that hath nought, feare nought ) areed: As dung-clad skin of dying Heraclite.

But he that hath ought hye him, and God speed. Seeke over all the world, and tell me where Nor drunken Dennis duth, by breake of day, Thou find'lt a proud man, or a flatterer ;

Stumble into blind taverns by the way, A thief, a drunkard, or a paricide,

And reel me homeward at the ev'ning starte, A lecher, liar, or what vice beside ?

Or ride more eas’ly in his neighbour's chayre. Merchants are no whit covetous of late,

Well mighe these checks have fitted former cines, Nor make no mart of time, gain of deceit. And thoulder'd angry Skelton's breathleflc shymes

As

Ert Chryfalos had barr'd the common boxe, Would'st thou the tongues that erst were learned Which erst he pick'd to store his private stocks ;

hight, But now hath all with vantage paid againe, Though our wise age hath wip'd them of their And locks and places what doth behind remaine';

right; When erit our dry foul'd fires so lavish were, Would it thou the courtly three in most request, To charge whole boots-full to their friends welfare; Or the two barbarous neighbours of the Wett? Now shalt thou never see the falt beset

Bibinus felfe can have ten tongues in one, With a big-bellied gallon fagonet.

Though in all ten not one good tongue alone. Of an ebbe cruise must thirsty Silen sip,

And can deep tkill lie fmothering within, That's all forestalled by his upper lip;

Whiles neither smoke nor flame discerned bin? Somewhat it was that made his paunch so peare, Shall it not be a wild fig in a wall, His girdle fell ten inches in a yeare.

Or fired brimstone in a minerall ? Or when old gouty bed-rid Euclio

Do thou disdain, Oever-learned age! To his officious factor fair could shew

The tongue-ty'd filence of that Samian fage : His name in margent of some old cast bill, Forth ye fine wits and rush into the presse, And say, Ld. whom I named in my will, And for the cloyed world your works addresse. Whiles he believes, and looking for the share Is not a gnat, nor fly, nor beely ant, Tendeth his cumbrous charge with busy care But a fine wit can make an elephant. For but a while ; for now he fure will die, Should Bandell's throple die without a song, By his strange qualme of liberality.

Or Adamantius, my dng, be laid along, Great thanks he gives—but God him shield and Downe in some ditch without his exequies, fave

Or epiraphs, or mournful elegies? From 'cver gaining by his master's grave:

Folly itself, and baldneffe may be prais'd, Only live long and he is well repaid,

And sweet conceits from filthy objects rais'd. And wets his ferced checks while thus he said; What do rot fine wits dare to undertake? Some strong smell’d onion shall ftir his eyes What dare not fine wits do for honour's fake? Rather than no falt teares shall then arise.

But why doth Balbus his dead doing quill So looks he like a marble toward raine,

Parch in his rufty scabbard all the while; And wrings and fnites, and weeps, and wipes His golden fleece o'ergrowne with mouldy hoare again :

And though he had his witty works forswore? Then turns his back and smiles, and looks askarce, Belike of late now Balbus hath no need, Seas'ning again his forrow'd countenance; Nor now belike his fhrinking shoulders dread Whiles yet he wearies heav'n with daily cries, The catch-poll's fift-The presse may still remaine And backward death with devout facrifice, And breathe, till Balbus be in debt againe. That they would now his tedious ghoft bereav'n, Soon may that be! fo I had silent beene, And wishes well, that wish'd no worse than heav'n. And not this rak'd up quiet crimes unseen. When Zoylus was sicke, he knew not where, Silence is fafe, when saying stirreth fore, Save his wrough nigt-cap, and lawn pillowbear. And makes the stirred puddle Itink the more. Kind fooles! they made him fick that made him Shall the controller of proud Nemesis

In lawlese rage upbraid each other's vice, Take those away, and there's his medicine. While no man seekech to reflect the wrong, Qr Gellia wore a velvet mastick-parch

And curb the raunge of his misruly tongue ? Upon her temples when no tooth did ache ; By the eso crownes of Parnasse ever-green, When beauty was her rheume I soon espy'd, And by the cloven head of Hippocrene Nor could her plaister cure her of her pride. As I true poct am, I here avow These vices were, but now they ceas'd off long: (So solemnly kiss'd he his laurell bough) Then why did I a righteous age that wrong? If that bold satire unrevenged be I would repent me were it not too late,

For this so faucy and foule injury. Were not the angry world prejudicate.

So Labeo weens it my eternal shame If all the seven penitential

To prove I never carn'd a poet's name. Or thousand white wands might me ought availe ; | But would I be a poet if I might, If Trent or Thames could scoure my soule offeace To ryb ny browes three days and wake three And see me in my former innocence,

nights, I would at last repent me of my rage:

And bite my nails, and scratch my dullard head, Now, bear my wrong, I thine, O rightcous age. And curse che backward Muses on my bed As for fine wits, an hundred thousand fold About one peevilh syllable; which out-sought Pafseth our age whatever times of old.

| take up Tales joy, fase for fore-:hought For in that puisne world, our fires of long

How it shall please each ale-knight's censuring eye, Could hardly wag their too unwieldy tongue.

And hang'd my head for fear they deem awry: As pined crowes and parrots can do now,

While thread-bare Marciall turns his merry note When hoary age did bend their wrinkled brow : To beg of Rufus a cast winter coate; And now of late did many a learned man

While hungry Marot Icapeth at a beane, Serve thirty years prenticeship with Prifcian; And dieth like a starved Cappuchcin ; But now can every novice speake with ease Go Ariost, and gape for what may fall The far-fetch'd language of th’Antipodes. From trencher of a flattering cardinall;

fine;

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