THAT WHICH SEEMS BEST IS WORST. EXPRESSED IN A PARAPHRASTICAL TRANSCRIPT of IWENALS tenth Satire. TOGETHER WITH THE tragical narration of Virginia's death interserted. By W. B. Nec verbum verbo curabit reddere fidus Interpres. The pith is iwenal's, but not the rhyme: All that is good is his, the rest is mine. LONDON Imprinted by Felix Kyngston for Nathanael Newberry, and are to be sold at his shop under Saint Peter's in Cornhill, and in Popes-head Alley. 1617. IWENAL HIS TENTH satire. The Argument of this tenth Satire. Wealth, Honour, Empire, strength and Eloquence, Beauty, long Life, Children and wives we wish, These happinesses seem to outward sense: In this world's swelling sea for these we fish. Happy we think ourselves, if these we have, These therefore only of the Gods we crave. And yet these things are those which hurt us most, Wealth tempts the thief, Honour the envious man. Strength makes men rash, & Eloquence is crossed, Beauty's a whore, long Life is but a span, And Wives and Children say as do the rest, That things most sought for, are not always best. The man who would be truly blest therefore, Must unto virtues way himself apply. He must be patient, constant, seek no more, Resolved, and neither wish nor fear to die. And let him unto God refer the rest, Who better than ourselves, knows what is best. IN all the lands, from Gades unto the East To Ganges, few there are who know what's best, Or worst, though error's mist were quite removed: For what with reason is there feared or loved? What in conceit hath ere so well begun, Which hath not in the end been wished undone? The gentle gods giving as men would have them, Have taken from them all that ere they gave them; They by their granting all that ere men craved, Have undone many a house they might have saved. In peace, in war, most hurtful things are sought, Thus flowing eloquence hath come to nought, Murdered itself. Thus milo's wondrous strength Wherein he trusted, was his bane at length. But heaps of coin hoardward with too much care Strangle; and so doth wealth which is so rare Exceeding others, their estates and all As doth the British Whale the Dolphin small. Thus, in those cruel times, when Nero bade The Soldiers rifle all the goods men had, They get them presently to Longines house, To Senecaes' rich gardens, where they rouse, And spoil, and bear away what ere they can, And then beser the house of Lateran: These do they rob, while as the poor man sleeps, Seldom the Soldier in a cottage peeps. Bear but a little of thy silver plate At night about thee, when thou travelst late, The sword, the spear, the shadow of a reed Shaken in Moon light, fills thee full of dread: Whereas the empty traveler goes by, And sings before a thief full merrily. The chiefest vows in every Church most known, Are riches, wealths increase, our coffers grown; And yet in pitchers poisons are not ta'en, In cups beset with gems suspect thy bane, Or when the Setine Wine thou mayst behold, Burning within a burnished pot of gold. Now which of these two wise men dost thou praise, Or he which laughed, or he which wept always? A laughing censure is an easy thing, But strange; whence t'others tears should always spring. Merry Democritus did always smile And beat his lungs with laughter; yet mean while Within those Cities where this wise man bode, There went no purple golden coats abroad, There were no Fasces; Chairs of State as then, No swooping trains or litters borne by men. O had he seen the Praetor mounted high, And in his chariot through the street pass by In mighty jupiters' own robes clad, Or in his gown with gaudy colours made, Or else the circle of his massy crown Such as might weigh & press his shoulders down. The load whereof in public makes him sweat, Now lest this Consul might himself forget, Within his Coach his servant sitteth by, Teaching his Master's pride, humility, Anon he takes his mase of ivory, On top whereof Ioues bird sits perching high, There may you hear a noise of Corneters, And here a rank of other Officers; Others attending at the horses rains, All which he hires, and with his money gains. Democritus was wont in the same sort, At every one he met to laugh and sport, Whose wisdom shows, that so it may fall out, Lords may be borne amidst the witless rout; men's joys and sorrows he a like disdained, And at their tears would laugh when they complain'd: ' When fortune frowned, to him it was no matter, he'd send a halter to her, and point at her. Thus man desires both vain and hurtful things, For which unto the Gods his vows he brings. Others desirous to be great and known, Have been envied, and thereby overthrown, Their Catalogue and all their acts defaced, Their honours lost, and they themselves disgraced, Their statues spoiled, and dragged along the street, Their Coach-wheels broke, and all trod under feet, And their proud horses which in triumph went, They must be slain, and for their Masters shent. And now the smoke and fire begins to flame, And that adored head which had such fame, Mighty Sejanus; he who was so great, Begins to fry amidst the flaming heat, And of the ashes of his honoured face Pitchers are made, and vessels of disgrace. O who could think that ever great Seian ' Should being burnt, become a dripping-pan. Where are thy Laurels, thy triumphant bays Thy bulls for sacrifice, the people says? Sejanus to his death is led forth right, And goes along in all the people's sight, Whereat the envious multitude is glad: Look (say they) what a face, what lips he had Saith one, I never loved this haughty man, I did foresee this end when he began. But say, now tell me what was his offence, Who his accusers, upon what pretence, What proofs, what witnesses did any bring Against Sejanus when they wrought this thing? Tut! none of these; it was sufficient There was a letter from Campania sent, Which to the Senate came: O ho, was't so; No more; I guess now how the world doth go. But what? mean while, what do the people say? As always; that which fortune does, do they. Fortune's inconstancy they emulate: Whom Fortune loves they love, whom not, they hate. Though a man's life his death may well commend, Yet do the people hate a man condemned. And yet these people, these self very same Who now cry out upon Sejanus name, Had yet the Goddess Nurscia him defended, Or had the Prince's life with age been ended Tha 〈…〉 y hour wherein the Prince had died God ●●e Sejanus! had the people cried. He had been made Augustus, he alone Had had the people's acclamation: But since it is not now, as erst of old, Since now the people's voices are not sold, Indeed they once did give the Empery The Fasces, Legions, and each dignity, But now they leave, and lay aside this care And with their bread and sports contented are. Mean while some of the people herewithal Begin to fear to see Sejanus fall, 'tis said (saith one) there's more than he proscribed, Nay 'tis too true, a mighty fire's provided As I came by, I met Brutidius At Mars his shrine who looked most piteous: O how I fear lest Caesar should pretend That we the people do him ill defend? Whereof accused, to escape a greater ill, With Ajax, many a one himself will kill; Come then and let us while his body yet Lies on the shore, trample it under feet; And let our slaves look on lest they deny And bring their Masters into jeopardy. Thus Seian ' falls, and thus the people speak Thus fortunes frowns ambitions neck doth break. And wilt thou now since this is come to pass Desire to be saluted as he was, To have his wealth, his chiefest seat of all, Over the Army to be General, The Prince's guide, who out of Rome doth sit With Caldie Wizards practising his wit? Thou fain wouldst have (is not thy mind so bend) His Lance, his troops, his horse, his stately tent? Thou wishest these might fall unto thy lot, This thou dost ask, and sayst, why should I not? For some there are which would not kill their foe, Which wish yet to be able to do so. But in this world what can so happy be, What hope from fear? what State from danger free? Our honey sweets with bitter gall are blended And all our joys with sorrows are attended: Which of these two then hadst thou rather be, Or great Sejanus in his surquedry. Or else some Officer, some simple man Awing the Fiden and the Gabian? Clerk of the marquet like a judge to sit, Breaking their measures as thou thinkest fit? Sure thou wilt say, Setanus he was wood Who wished and had, but wist not what was good, He which to too much honour did aspire, And, not content, did too much wealth desire, He raised a turret overtopping all, The higher 'twas, the greater was his fall: Fortune that raised him threw him down again, And when he 'gan to fall he fell amain. What overthrew Crassus and Pompey's state, And him which did the Romans subjugate, But honour's thirst, by proud ambition wrought? While as the Gods vouchsafed them all they sought. Few Kings do die which are not murdered, Seldom a Tyrant dieth in his bed. Since honours fall then is so violent, Another wisheth to be eloquent, Famous as Tully or Demosthenes; Wherefore he prays, it might Minerva please, (And therefore celebrates her five days feast, And buys Minerva's picture at the least Which in a Casket he doth trimly keep) That he may have their eloquence so deep: But out alas! they both gave such offence, That both did perish by their eloquence; Each of them had a fluent tongue indeed, But this alone did both their mischiefs breed: Tully's own wit cut off his head and hands; A meaner Orator securely stands All day at bar, and pleads the best he can, And no man seeks to hurt the honest man. When I was Consul Rome was fortunate, Said Tully once, but this procured no hate: Had all the rest he spoke, been like to this He might have scorned a world of Anthony's, But 'twas not so, that which his throat did stick Was his so famous second Philippicke. Thus he whom Athens did so much admire. Whose words did set his auditors on fire, Who in the Theatre the rains did hold, And led the common people as he would; This mighty torrent of swift eloquence Came to his end by his fierce vehemence: Hard was his hap, and sinister his fate, The angry Gods made him unfortunate; Whose father almost blind in both his eyes With soot and smoke, which from his forge did rise, From midst his rust, his hammers, and his tools, From Vulcan's shop he sent him to the schools. O but the spoils and trophies of the war, The Gorget, Helmet hewed with many a scar, The broken Chariots, Flags and Ancients torn, The captive prisoners looking all forlorn; These high renowns do noble breasts inflame And make them hazard all to purchase fame: This doth the worthy Roman and the Greek, This the Barbarian doth also seek; This makes them fear no dangers, this doth make Them all so many labours undertake; (So far the thirst of honour doth exceed, On learning's praise, on sacred virtues meed: For who will ever after virtue look, If virtues guerdons be from virtue took). Yet lust of praise, the glory of a few, Our State and country sometimes overthrew. O what a goodly thing it seemed to some To see their titles graven on their tomb! Which yet a fig, a shrub in little space Their taking root, would ruin and deface: And can a tomb then fame perpetuate? Alas, itself is subject unto fate. Weigh Hannibal and see how many pound Within this captains ashes may be found. This is that Hannibal whom Africa (Which westward stretcheth to th' Atlantic sea, Eastward as far as Nilus' slimy sands To Aethiopiaes mighty Elephands): All which cannot great Hannibal contain, But to these Kingdoms he uniteth Spain. Over the Pyrenaean hills he goes, Until he come toward the Alpian snows, Where natures self would seem to stop his way, But all in vain; nothing can make him stay, He tears the rocks, and melts the snow with fire, And fretteth out his way with vinegar. And now is he possessed of Italy, Where with his army he doth onward high. All this is nought (saith he) yet must we come And break the gates, and raze the walls of Rome, Where in Suburra in the market place we'll ' spread our colours, and the Romans chase. O what a martial countenance had he? How brave a sight his picture drawn would be? When with one eye like to a petty God Upon an Elephant he proudly road. But what became of all this pomp and state? O false vainglory, most unhappy fate! Great Hannibal is overcome and flies, And for his safety into Syria hies: From thence he gets into Bythinia, And seeks for succour of King Prusia, Where at the Court he stands without the gate, And for the King's return from sleep doth wait: He which so much disturbed the world with strife From whom nor sword, nor spear could take his life. He which at Cans the Romans overthrew, This man at length his poisoned own ring flew. Go mighty mad man! climb the Alps again, And then come down and rifle all the plain, Make matter for each boy to work upon, Wherewith to stuff his declamation. One world will not contain great Alexander, To find out other worlds he needs must wander: He hath not elbow room, but puffs and blows, This world wants air, it is too strait and close Alas! to Alexander 'tis no more Than is the island Giare or Seripho. And yet this great one for the world too great, At Babylon lies in a narrow seat; Death takes us down, death doth alone confess How much our bodies then our minds are less. It is believed 'mong other tales of old, Which lying Greece hath in her story told, How Cyrus digged down Athos, how he came, And with his Navy overfaild the same: How in the sea on ships a bridge he set, O'er which his army and his troops might get: And how the Persian soldiers passing by, Have at one dinner drank whole rivers dry, He which made land be sea, and sea be land, (saith Sostratus) who could his power withstand? And yet this Cyrus with his flying fame, What was he when from Salamine he came? He which with whips was wont to scourge the wind, (To whom great Aeolus was far more kind) He which would lay up Neptune fast in chains, Or bore him through the ear with gentler pains, Can any think the Gods (O monstrous blindness!) Would any of them do this fool a kindness? How came he back then? only with one boat Which 'mongst his slaughtered men in blood did float: Thus glory ends, and thus ends he which sought it: Thus was it sold, and thus he dearly bought it. Great jupiter! (saith one prolong my days: Thus sometimes merry, sometimes sad he prays: Mean while the man that liveth to be old Sustains more misery than can be told: Old age with many sorrows is distressed, And those uncessant that it cannot rest: How fowl and ugly 'tis to look upon? Full of diseases and corruption. O how unlike a man it makes a man, His soft white skin it doth like leather tan, It makes his cheeks hang flag, wrinkles his brow▪ Hollows his eyes, and makes his shoulders bow, In Tabracena like an old Bitch-Ape Among the trees, so doth he rub and scrape. 'Mong young men many differences be, He is more fair than this, and this than he, One is more swift, another stronger is, Each joyeth in his proper qualities: But old men's faces all do look as one; His limbs do tremble, and his voice doth moan, He shakes his head, and like an infant goes, And coughs and drivels through his snotty nose; He sups his meat, and softer bread he chaws, Alas, a crust would bruise his toothless jaws; A knife he cares not for, give him a spoon, Feed him with pap, and milk, and sleep at noon: Old man alas! he is unsavoury Unto himself, his wife and progeny. He which would be his heir cannot abide him, Cossus, he stops his nose, and doth deride him: The relish of his meat and drink is past, For now his palate is quite out of taste. The pleasures he was wont in youth to find, Are now long since forgot and out of mind; He can do nothing now as heretofore, Those days be gone, he can do so no more. His body's i'll, his lusty blood is cold, Alas, put clothes upon him, now he's old. If he pleased others in his youthful time, They shall do well if now they cherish him; They must not look for former pleasures still, Without performance what avails the will? But now behold! another loss appears, The noise of music pleaseth not his ears, No, though Seleucus sing with all his skill, Or all his consort with their trumpets shrill: It skills not in the Theatre where he sit, Cornet or trumpet he hears near a whit, His boy, which tells him who comes in and out, And what's the clock, must in his deaf ear shout; The little life, which in his pulse doth beat, Is warmed only by a fevers heat. A swarm of old diseases crawl about him, Aches and pains within him and without him; Whose several names if any man desire; Sooner I might express (did need require) The names of those which have with Hippia lain, How many patients Themison hath slain, How many young men Basilus hath spoiled, How many pupils Hirrus hath beguiled, How many men long Maura in one day, Hath swallowed quick, and brought them to decay: I could in lesser time at large express How many Towns Licinius doth possess, Who now into the Senate house doth pass, Who erst no better than a barber was: One of his shoulders, this of his loins complains Another's hips are weak and full of pains. A fourth hath lost both eyes, and doth envy A very blinkes that hath but half an eye, His pale wan lips, whilom so cherry red, Must from another's fingers now be fed, Whose hungry appetite at times of meals, Was wont to gape and ring the kitchen peals, Like a young Swallow waiting for her dam, He now sits gaping while they do him cram; But which is worst, he turns directly sot, His friends and servants names he hath forgot. They which did sup with him but yester night, Before next morning are forgotten quite: Nay, his own children, flesh and blood (which came Out of his loins, bred by him (fie for shame!) These are unknown, nay, he is so misled, That his own heirs are disinherited, And Phiale, that Witch, that common Whore, Gulls him, and turns his children out of door: And all the goods this doting fool ere got, Must fall at length unto this harlot's lot. A mischief on't! can it be prosperous, When old age dotes and must be lecherous? No, no, 'gainst nature this is done, to spite her, And fortune certainly at length will right her. O ist not brave to see a foul rank Goat, Hunting traine-sent upon a petticoat; To see an old deformed crooked Ram, Raging with lust upon a silly Lamb? 'Tis odious madness, nature's self doth hate it, And sense and reason do abominate it: Yet sense and reason here can do no good, Nature dissuades, but is not understood. Hence she grows malcontent, & hangs the head, And seems to live, but she indeed is dead; Nature and sense, and reason hence are gone, Madness and lust predominate alone. When age and lust, dry wood and fire do meet, How can the flame be quenched? when did you see't? Thus to live long, and then to be a fool, Grant it, O jupiter to him that wool. But say that sense and wit remain entire, And age and wisdom happily conspire, When strength and outward beauties are declined, Yet virtue still surviveth in the mind, Is not this length of days to be desired, As deeply wished, as worthily admired? Yes certainly: and yet this happy age Is but a scene upon a tragic stage; While like a sad spectator he must see Life mixed with death, and joy with misery; He lives indeed to see his kindred die, His brethren and his sister's destiny: But this most makes him weary of his life, Death lets him live, but kills his dearest wife; This is the pain which longer life attends, Still to bewail the fortune of its friends, To see one's house perpetually to waste, And to be spent and quite consumed at last; Only himself, now like a man forlorn, Is left alive their funerals to mourn, Unhappy he must sorrow all alone, For all his friends alas are dead and gone. King Nestor (if that Homer hath not lied) Did live three hundred years before he died, Was he not happy, which from year to year So long together could his death defer? Counting his years upon his finger's ends, And drink new wine so oft among his friends? But mark, I pray, a while, and Nestor cries, And doth exclaim against the destinies Of too long life. How much did he complain, When dear Antilochus his son was slain? How did he hate to live, and wish to die, When as his son was burnt, and he stood by? Alas (quoth he, and then he turns about, And makes his moan to all the gazing rout). What have I done? Why do the Gods me wrong, Against my will to let me live so long? Antilochus, Antilochus my son, Why do I live? Alas, what have I done? Antilochus! and with that word, amain His tears burst out, his griefs begin again; So oft his speech doth fail, his words suppressed With sighs and sobs, which cannot be expressed: Only he wrings his hands, lifts up his eyes, And fain would speak, but can speak nought but whies. Why? Why? (saith he) O Why? nay tell me Why? Could he speak more, he'd say, Do I not die? And thus old Peleus lived with grief to see His son Achilles mournful tragedy: And thus Laerta lived to hear men say, Her son Vl●sses ship was cast away. Had Priam died before the siege of Troy, He might have met Assaracus with joy, With great solemnity and festivals, His children had performed his funerals, And Hector and his brethren had him borne Unto his grave, while all the people mourn! Cassandra had gone weeping all before, And then Polyxena with garments tore. O had he died before that Paris went To build those ships which he for Helen sent! Though this untimely death might him displease, Yet had he gone into his grave with peace; Then had he died, he should but once have died, (In length of days, alas! what good is spied?) But living longer, woe is me therefore! He lives to die ten thousand deaths and more: He lives to see all spoiled and overturned, Asia with fire and sword consumed and burned, When like a soldier which with fear doth quake, He lays aside his Crown, and Arms doth take, He fly's, and on great jupiter he calls, And down before his altars dead he falls, Even as an Ox with age and toil quite done Under the yoke for weariness doth groan: So aged Priam overcharged with woe, Fainted and fell and could no farther go: And Hecuba his wife, which did survive, Till she was turned into a dog, did live. I haste unto our own, and will pass by The King of Pontus' long-lived misery, And Croesus too, to whom wise Solon said, That till the end none could be happy made. Marius lived long, and suffered banishment, Cold irons, durance, and imprisonment, And in minturna's marshes hid his head, And at the loss of Carthage begged his bread; This man! O had he died, when he had led In triumph those whom he had conquered; When all his warlike pomp had now been ended, Assoon as from his chariot he descended, Nature in earth, Rome never had possessed A Citizen more fortunately blest. Campania did for Pompey's fame provide, For with a Fever there he should have died, Had not the people's prayers then preserved him, And for a worse after death reserved him: W●th Civil war he did the City waste, Which from his body smote his head at last. Which punishment and death yet Lentulus Escaped, and Catiline and Cethegus, They were not cut or cast into the fire; But being dead, their bodies were entire: For they were hanged, forsooth, their throats were broke, And nothing but a halter did them choke. Next now the tender mother on her knees, When she but Venus' Temple only sees, Softly she prays for beauty for her son: But for her daughter she will ne'er have done; They both forsooth, must bear away the prize, And be admired and wooed by each man's eyes, Why should they not? Did not fair Venus joy, To see Dan Cupid, and to buss the boy? Did not Latona's smile, and laugh to see How beautiful Diana seemed to be? Yet though this beauty make the mother glad, So fair a face as once Lucretia had She doubts to wish; she was too fair, alas! Her ruin and her death her beauty was. Her beauty 'twas which Tarquin did admire, Her beauty 'twas which set his heart on fire. Her beauty 'twas which brought him to her bed, Where for her beauty she was ravished, Which when she knew, she so abhorred the deed, With her own hands she made her own heart bleed. Virginia was as fair as fair might be, As fair as any Virgin Rome did see, But Rutila a cromp-backt monster was, And ill complexioned, and deformed her face, Then she, a fouler no where could be found, No beast so ugly living on the ground. And yet how oft did fair Virginia Wish in her heart, she were foul Rutila: That she could faces change, that she might be As Rutila, and Rutila as she. Oh if that this could ever have been done; And each could have each others face put on. Virginia might have lived and near been eyed: Nor by her father's hand at length have died. But this was her unhappy beauty's fate, It was pursur'de with lust, far worse than hate. Grave Appius her beauty 'gins to note, And in the end must needs upon her dote. Who would believe it? Appius is a man That's wise and stayed; who also wisely can From his experience younger men advise: Who says that Appius loves Virginia, lies: For is not Appius old, Virginia young: Sweet is Virginia's breath, but his like dung: she's soft, he's hard, and how can these agree? He may her father, she his daughter be. This Appius knows, and this so kills his heart, That to himself scant dares he this impart, From others therefore he his thought doth hide, He would not for a world it were descried; And yet for all it is so closely penned, His heart must break, or he must give it vent. Maugre his head this makes him sadly moan, And with dejected eyen walk all alone, Where he doth meditate, and mainly plot How for his lust Virginia may be got, Mean while he sighs, looks wild, & sometimes weeps, Forsakes his meat, and God knows how he sleeps. Tokens of love he sends and pretty gifts, And useth twenty thousand other shifts: He still pursues her, wheresoe'er she go Only to talk and look on her, no more. But when he cannot come unto her right, Under her window than he walks in sight. When she's away; how will he look about? What pretty tricks he'll use to find her out? When being found, nought hath he else to say, But how dost pretty sweet Virginia? Or tell some tale, or else himself commend Somewhat aloof, for fear he might offend; His love (he doubts) she will not entertain, Which makes him be afeard of speaking plain, In a third person he his tale doth tell Lest she (perhaps) his ranker lust might smell, With dearest words of love he doth her flatter, But dares not nearer come unto the matter. Whereby much time in idle talk is spent In wanton courting, and in complement. Himself mean time grows flag and waxeth lean, And no man may suspect what this doth mean: A silent tongue he hath, but speaking eyes, Yet who says Appius loves Virginia, lies. Fie Appius! fie for shame! ne'er be so weak, What! be afraid unto a girl to speak? How canst thou thus endure to live in pain? And, where thou wilt not be denied, complain: The man that spares to speak must spare to speed, Who will not speak, shall never do the deed. Then Appius speak thy mind, and be a man; And so he doth as much as silence can: For Appius (if you ask him) all denies: Who saith that Appius loves Virginia, lies. Appius is chief of the Decemuiri, And lives in glitter and authority: He covets mightily that he may please The common people, and enjoy his ease, He punisheth and pardons as him list; But many a fault in silence yet is hisht: To fear and flattery he doth incline, Which is the ruin of all discipline: To see a fault, and not to reprehend it, Doth often make a fault, but never mend it. Hence comes disorder, pride and luxury, Discord, and in the end an anarchy; Rome's youth hereby become effeminate And dissolute, and scorn the magistrate. How can they choose? Let modesty avaunt, As long as Appius doth use his haunt. If Appius love! how can the younger fry But live and wallow in foul luxury? Why? doth not Appius thus (say they) and thus, And shall it not be lawful then for us? If Appius his Uirginia must have, Some liberty, as well as he we'll crave. Thus when Superiors do a fault commit, The people presently do follow it. Their ill example hurts a great deal more, For all will follow, as they go before. Mean while the Sabines such incursions make, That idle wanton Rome begins to quake; Their men and cattle now are driven away They to their enemies are made a prey. To Appius all this harm some do impute: No marvel then, if Appius walk so mute, Barbatus rails upon his government: And this some say doth cause his languishment. Some one, and some another tale devise, But who says Appius loves Virginia, lies. Alas poor wench! Virginia all this while Thinks Appius like herself without all guile; And therefore bids him welcome, and is glad When Appius comes, she's sorry when he's sad: Good sir (saith she) why are you malcontent? Where are your stories and your merriment? Which she doth speak with such simplicity, So harmelesly, and with such modesty, That though her gentleness inflame him more; Yet her chaste modest look makes him give o'er: So that when he of purpose would impart His secret thought, he dares not for his heart: Sometimes he therefore knows not what to say, But then he'll gaze, yet will not go away. Anon some idle matter he pretends, Some wrong he hath received from his friends, He did not think they would have used him so, And such a one, but let that matter go; His answers like his thoughts are torn and rend, And interrupted and impertinent. He sees she's chaste, and should he talk of love, Out of the way (perhaps) she would remove; So might he lose her company and sight, And this would kill him and undo him quite: And therefore to prevent such misery, On any terms he'll have her company. By this way then no good is to be done, Some other course must therefore be begun; Which he so carries in such subtle wise, That who saith Appius loves Virginia, lies. But love increasing, hatcheth fearless lust, And lust proceeds to fury. Appius must Enchant Virginia with some philtrous drug, And for to second it look trim and smug: Her uncle Numitorius must be made Hot Appius' pander, and he must persuade His niece Virginia to come off and yield: Thus Appius hopes at length to win the field, Thus must it be (saith Appius) Numitorius, Must first be made, and then Virginius. And Numitorius he must write or speak, And all the matter to Virginia break: Perchance at first the motion will distaste, But yet I doubt not to prevail at last, Fair promises and importunity Will make her weary of her chastity, And i'll pursue her closely at an inch, Let her say what she will, I will not flinch: she'll say that I am foggy & too old, Her uncle then shall tell her of my gold, And of my office the Decemvirate, And what a jointure I will to her state. I am not fair indeed, nor am I foul, Nor do I always smile, nor always scowl, Good meat I love, and good clothes I put on, She knows I am a boon companion, And hath not many a one more old than I Enjoyed as young as she full merrily? Why should I not then hope and hopeful woo, And see what Numitorius will do? Those and a thousand other tricks he tries, Yet who says Appius loves Virginia, lies. But Numitorius is too wise a man, And Appius here must fail, do what he can; What then? is here an end? is Appius spent? No no: Virginia's father must be sent Unto the wars; and then when he's away, Appius assures himself to have the prey: For Claudius strait, a Client of his own, He sends; and unto him anon makes known His mind, conjuring him to secrecy, And then instructs him for the villainy. 'tis so (saith he) I must Virginia have, And thou must challenge her to be thy slave, And bid her follow thee, tut! let her weep, Take thou her home, and there thou shalt her keep, Say that she never was Virginius child, But that thou was't of her long since beguiled: She in thy house was born and stolen from thence: And until now didst never see her since. If she resist, bring her by force to me, And thou shalt have her home I warrant thee. Now Claudius hath his errand and is gone, And with Virginia he meets anon. Whom rudely he begins to apprehend, And tells her that 'tis bootless to contend: Whereat her nurse and she with fear cry out Which made the people all come in a rout: Who when they had but heard Uirginias' name, They all cry out on Claudius, fie for shame! And round about they stand in her defence, So that she now is safe from violence: Saith Claudius then: I pray be still, 'tis so Along with me Virginia must go, She is my slave, I do not do her wrong, That which I do i'll justify ere long, Before the judge the matter shall be known, And you shall see I only seek mine own. Forthwith he brings her whereas Appius sat, And there begins the matter to relate, (Which Appius knew sufficiently before) And Claudius now doth earnestly implore His aid, craves justice, that he may have right, And that he be not overborne by might; She is not daughter to Virginius, But doth belong to me Mark, Claudius: And if Virginius do not say the same, Let me be punished then and bear the blame: Mean while I say she is my slave, and so She ought in reason home with me to go. Nay! (say her advocates) alas yet stay! Her father in the wars is now away, Within these two days he may well be here, If any will but send a messenger, And 'tis unjust (he absent) to contend, That he his daughter present should defend; Wherefore they beg of Appius that the doom Might be deferred until her father come, And that (according to his own decree) Till than Virginia might be counted free, And not to hazard her Virginity, Before she's judged to lose her liberty. Saith Appius, Then the Law which you commend Doth show how much I have been freedoms friend, And now as you desire, I am content, That for Virginius some man may be sent, And to defer the sentence till he come: But Claudius' mean time must have her home, So that he promise to return her here, Assoon as ere Uirginius shall appear. Hereat, alas! Virginia 'gins to cry; The people murmur, but none dare reply. At length her Uncle Numitorius And (he to whom she was betrothed) Icilius, These hastily come crowding through the press, And call upon fell Appius for redress: But Appius cries again, Take them away, Sentence is past, and they have nought to say. Nought? saith Icilius, Yes: and moughtst thou know 'Tis such a tale shall make thy ears to glow: Threats cannot drive me hence or hide thy lust, Who takes me hence, do it by force he must. Know Appius that Virginia is my Spouse, And ere that Claudius get her to his house, Ye Gods and men! mark what Icilius faith, He'll sooner lose his life, then break his faith. The people fear lest this his vehemence Should hurt Virginia, and the judge incense; For now the Lictors round about him get, Yet after all they dare no more but threat. So powerful is the strength of innocence, That it doth curb the rage of violence, A wicked conscience when it is most bold Is but a coward, and its courage cold. Go to, saith Appius, you Icilius, Would seem to patronize Virginius, But 'tis another matter makes you chat, You would be Tribune sir: say, would you not? And to make way to your ambition, You think it best to raise sedition: But you shall fail for once of your intent, And for to day Claudius shall be content To leave his right; Virginia home shall go Not for your sake Icilius, think not so: But for Virginius sake who absent is, And for the name of father, more than this. Mean while (Icilius, you and such as you:) I tell you this: and you shall find it true, If that Virginius by to morrow day Appear not here; know that I know the way, Nor want I means or power myself alone, To crush the Authors of sedition. Thus for the present is the Court dismissed, He for Virginius may go who list. But Appius stays a while till they be gone, Lest he might seem t'have sat for this alone. Virginius' friends in sending are not slack. Appius mean while plots how to keep him back. Icilius' brother strait without delay, And Numitorius son do post away. But what doth Appius now? he doth not sleep, He writes to his Colleagues, that they should keep Virginius there, nor give him leave to part Till they did hear from him, this was his art. But this, as it fell out, did not succeed, His letters came to late to do the deed; For at first watch Virginius went his way, But Appius letters came not till next day: When as Virginius so fast doth wend, That by this time he's at his journeys end, Where he doth find his lovely daughter fate, In mourning habit all disconsolate, With grief and thought so pined away and worn, That now she seemed not what she was beforue; She that was erst so fair, with grievous moan, Now looks like death, she's nought but skin & bone Her meat and sleep she doth forego and why? Because she will not live, but fain would die. But all in vain; Appius by break of day, Towards his seat of justice takes his way, Where all the City at the bar doth stand, And still expects Virginius out of hand, The common people loved Virginius well, When will he come (say they) pray can you tell, Come, come way Virginius, quickly come. Yonder he is, saith one, I pray make room; Whereat the people every one looks out, And on his tiptoes casts his eye about, Each over tother's head doth seek and spy, If he see any man approaching nigh, Which if he do, as far as he can see, O now he comes (saith he) sure this is he: So soon men credit to affection give; For, what men wish, they willingly believe. But Appius thinks he's safe enough for that, When lo! unlooked for, opportunely pat, In comes Virginius, Appius bends his brow, A mischief (saith he) on Virginius now: But sad Uirginius like a man forlorn, With many Matrons which with him did mourn, In sordid and neglected weeds doth bring His lamblike daughter to the butchering. The doubtful people round about them press, And all lament and pity their distress. Virginius at length thus weeping said: Good sirs! I beg not, but require your aid, For you, your wives and children in the wars My life I have exposed, received these scars, And for all this, shall this be my reward? Shall I my daughter lose without regard? My dearest child, the only child I have, Shall she by violence be made a slave? Thus to the people did Virginius cry, And made his moan to all as he passed by: Icilius also told them all the same, Whereat they wept and murmured, and cried shame: But cruel Appius moved with no remorse (Such is lust's rage) became a great deal worse, Up to his judgement seat he soon ascends, Where he all right and equity pretends, And Claudius now demands his slave again, And of their wrong that keep her doth complain: But ere that he could any farther high, Or that Virginius could make reply. Enraged Appius swollen with lust and wrath Doth burst in twain and interrupts them both: This brawl of yours (saith he) doth me offend, Take her home Claudius, and there's an end. What though Virginius and the youth repine, She is thy slave, take her I say, she's thine. At first the people each on other gazed, And at the horror of it stand amazed, And Claudius boldly in his hands her hent: But sadly all the people did lament, Virginius knows not what to say, but stands And to the people stretcheth out his hands, Who after he had wept, with sorrow thus, He cries aloud to wicked Appius: My daughter, Appius! is no slave, but free, Her have I given to Icilius, not to thee; And I have brought her up still heretofore To be a wife, but not to be a whore. What? shall we live like beasts promiscuously, Without distinction in foul luxury? O● age and sex shall no regard be bad? Shall each man by his beastly lust be lad? If these (the people here) shall this permit, Others I know which will not suffer it. With this the women do together band, And round about Virginia they stand, They drive Marc Claudius away, and cry, No● let her go, she shall have liberty. Hearing this noise, the Crier bids them peace, And Appius beckons to them for to cease. Which done, and silence made, in sullen wise, Thus subtle Appius to the people cries: Icilius spoke his pleasure yesterday, And tell me now what doth Virginius say; Doth not he rail and rage as much as he? If not sedition, what then may this be? But more than this here in the City they Have met at night, they shamed to meet by day, So that I must thus guarded hither come For preservation of the peace of Rome. I come not here to wrong the innocent, But to suppress their purpose and intent. Lictor make room, remove the company, And let the Master and his slave pass by. This spoke he angrily, and with that word Back went the people of their own accord: So that Virginia can no longer stay, To lust and violence she's made a prey. Herself poor heart! for pity seems to woo, Her father knows not what to say or do: But down upon his knees poor man he falls, And weeps, and cries, for help and pity calls: Now Appius! take pity on my woe, Let not my only child thus from me go, Forgive my hasty words; I was dismayed, And in my grief I knew not what I said, Impute it to the weakness of my age, To my affection. O let this assuage The rigour of thy sentence, hear me speak, Do not with sorrow cause my heart to break. I am the woefullest wight that e'er did live, I know not what to do: Appius forgive! Indeed I was too blame, and yet alas She is my daughter, I her father was: Her father was? What am I not so still? Why do I live? this word my heart doth kill. Yet give me leave to take her nurse aside To ask her this, by her I will be tried; That so if falsely I thus termed be, I shall then part with her more willingly, And let the wench go with us; let me die! If so I do not bring her by and by. I will not go far hence, not out of sight, I will but only ask of her the right. Appius could not deny this small request, But lets them go: Virginius much distressed, Looking about anon he had espied A butcher's stall, and thitherward he hied, Where being come, he cries and weeps amain, Looks on his daughter, and then weeps again: My only joy! my dearest child (quoth he) What shall I do? how shall I set thee free? Shall I? no, no: I am her father, I: But shall she be a slave? first mought she die! Sooner I'll murder her while she is chaste, Then be the father of a whore at last. But then returning to his child again; Now God forbid! (saith he) she should be slain! How sayst? sweet girl! (and then he 'gan to cry, Surely (saith he) the wench is loath to die); Now tell me pretty heart! which hadst thou rather That Claudius were thy Lord, or I thy father, I always loved thee dearly, did I not? Yes wench, I did, it cannot be forgot? What was the pleasure thou desiredst most, But I would get it, whatsoe'er it cost? Nothing me thought could be too much for thee, For thou was't all my heart's felicity: I cannot tell (if thou to Claudius go) Whether that Claudius will love thee so. Say, wilt thou live with Claudius or with me? His slave he'll make thee, but i'll keep thee free. The silent girl with fear doth trembling stand, And still doth eye her father's busy hand. She answers not a word, but sighs and gaps, And in her griping arms her father clasps. Into his bosom she with tears doth fly, As if, she said, good father, let me die, Rather than live with Claudius as his slave, And loose Icilius which to me you gave. The good old man now lays his neck on hers And all her bosom with his tears he blurs. And then he kisseth her, and then he cries, And then doth gaze upon her blubbered eyes, Poor wench (quoth he) thou shalt not be their slave, I'll sooner see thee laid full low in grave: Yea that I will; I will my pretty soul, Rather than thou shalt suffer their control, I'll take such order that thou shalt escape, I will deceive them of their wicked rape; O God saith he, now tell me, is't not best? And then he wept and kissed his daughter's breast, No no, it is not: is't not? yes; what? kill her? Yes rather than these lustful beasts shall spill her: But is she not thy flesh and blood, thy child? Yes that she is; but shall she be defil'de? And is she not thine only child, thine heir? Look in her face, how sayst? is she not fair? Yes▪ too too fair, I would she were not so, Her beauty is the cause of all my woe. And who can ever so hardhearted be As hurt Virginia, if he do her see? How then can I her farther do the deed, I cannot do't, I cannot see her bleed: she's all the children, all the joy I have: Her health is mine, her life my life doth save: Where shall I have more children when she's gone? Or if I could, like her, I can have none. she's the best daughter father ever had, She is so pretty: O I shall be mad. Appius and Claudius, out you stinking goats! O that the people will not cut your throats! You shameless lechers, shall she sat your lust? I'll kill her first; O do not! but I must. And with that word, he snatcheth from the stall, The butcher's knife, and stabs her therewithal: Then turning to the judgement seat he cries, Thus, Appius! for thy sake Virginia dies: Upon thy head her blood I consecreate, She shall not be a slave thy lust to sat: Before she should be prostitute to thee, This have I done, thus have I set her free. Upon this fact a hideous cry arose, Take him (saith Appius) ere he farther goes. But now Virginius with his knife in hand, So made his way, that none could him withstand, Away he flies and gets without the gate, And then to apprehend him 'twas too late: Indeed, the people for him made a lane, They loved him so, they would not have him ta'en. Mean while Icilius, sad Icilius, And dead- Virginia's uncle Numitorius, took up the body of this murdered wight And laid it out to all the people's sight: All pale and ghastly now she looks alas, Who erst so beautiful and lovely was: Sad was the spectacle, sad was the cry Of all the people that were standing by: Some do commend, some blame Virginius: Some pity him, and some Icilius; Of Appius and of Claudius all complain, Their rape and lust have poor Uirginia slain. For whom the multitude so sore lament, As if their tears and plaints would ne'er be spent: Alas Virginia! hard was thy fare, And thy admired face unfortunate! Hadst thou been soul, or not so passing fair, We needed not with cries thus fill the air: Thy beauty 'twas which did thee so commend, And 'twas thy beauty brought thee to thy end. beauty's a rose whose colours are most fair, Whose precious odours do perfume the air: Yet to itself is neither fair nor sweet, But only unto those who smeled or see't. Men for this cause pluck roses from the tree, Because so sweet and beautiful they be: While as the nettle and the dock do stand, And grow untouched by any envious hand. The proper man (they say) the worst luck hath, Whereas deformity is free from scathe. The fair faced boy doth make his mother glad, But care and fear of him, still makes her sad. It is a lovely boy, now God him bless: Yet than she weeps upon him nere'thelesse. To catch this prettiness such baits are laid, As always make the parents hearts afraid. Beauty and chastity we hardly find Together, or a fair face and fair mind. Though parents bring their children up at home Under their eye, and never let them room, Where ill behaviour they might see or learn: Though like the Sabines they be ne'er so stern. Nay say that nature's self with a free hand Hath gi'n them wit enough to understand What's good, and hath disposed them virtuously, Gi'n them ablushing cheek, a modest eye; When nature thus hath blessed them with her store, (What can a father's care or love do more?) Yet than their cockered chick, their tidling son, Before he be a man must be undone. Prodigious lust becomes a prodigal, And for to get his purpose, spendeth all. Nay such his confidence is in his coin, That he the parents hearts hopes to purloin: Hereby he hopes they will be both so awed, That he will be the pander, she the bawd. Never was tyrant yet, that ere would geld, That boy in whom he beauties want beheld. Nero ne'er loved that boy whose feet were clubbed, Whose paunch was boast, whose scabby fists were scrubd, Alas! fair boy! thou in thy beauty's pride Dost little wot what dangers thee abide! This youth becomes a known adulterer, And all those threats and punishments doth fear Which angry husbands full of jealousy Inflict on those which do them injury. Wiser than Mars this youth was never yet That he should never fall into the net. Wherefore then Mars he must not happier be, And Mars was taken at his Venery; And then this rage, this jealousy will have More right than law to wrong yet ever gave: It murders sometimes, and doth sometimes tear The flesh with whips and rowels without fear. O but your feat Endymion ne'er the less Shall be a stallion to some matroness, And if Seruilia with crowns him woo, (Although he love her not, he'll be hers too, For which, foul she (rather than he shall lack) Will strip and sell her clothes from off her back; What is't which any woman can deny To this fair Sir, to have his company. Oppia Catulla be it, true 'tis still, She is a woman and she'll have her will: The neediest woman here, and she that's worst, Will in this case be free, in bounty first. But what? in beauty we no harm can find, If there be chastity lodged in the mind. 'tis true; immodest beauty is a snare, Where fond affections soon surprised are. The fairest beauty void of chastity, Is soon converted into brothelry. At first such beauties (having gotten fame) Are spectacles of love, at last of shame: And modest beauties scant have better ends, Were't not that chastity their fame defends. But otherwise alas! their fortunes still Unhappy are, attended with some ill. Fair was Hippolytus, and full of grace, Courteous and temperate, and chaste he was: Thus did believe and thus he vowed to die, He would not lose his maiden chastity. But did this profit him? did there hence grow Aught that was good? no; but his overthrow. Phaedra his father's wife, and his stepmother, Did fall in love with him above all other; And wooed him oft, and oft his patience tried, He oft refused, and oft her suit denied. Whereat she blushed to see herself disdained, But her affection cunningly she feigned, She now doth wish that she had never spoke, Or that she could again her words revoke; Her love she now turns into mortal hate, And all her thoughts revenge do meditate. Poison she thinks on, or some murdering knife, Can she not have his love, she'll have his life? Which to effect, her busy mind anon, This subtle stratagem hath thought upon; She tells her husband how Hippolytus His son, would have abused her thus, and thus. Theseus on this, could not himself contain, Harmless Hippolytus must needs be slain. The father follows, and the son doth fly, And yet Hippolytus scant knoweth why. Yet on his horses run, until at last Upon a rock his Chariot wheels they braced, Whereas himself was dragged and torn asunder: He was too fair, too chaste; it was no wonder. Bellerophon was likewise in this case, For he was fair and had a lovely face, King Praetus wife, that Sthenobaea hight, Grows fond, and in his beauty takes delight: By circumstances she at first doth prove him, At last she plainly saith that she doth love him. Bellerophon would feign himself excuse, His friend King Praetus he may not abuse. He modestly denies her foul request, But she conceives fell vengeance in her breast: She tells her husband how Bellerophon Would have dishonoured her; he thereupon With letters sends Bellerophon away, Letters which did Bellerophon betray. Thus these; Both women, when they could not have What they did love, with hate began to rave. A woman most of all is merciless, When to her hate shame adds maliciousness. Silius is fair in Messalina'es' eye, So that She dotes on Silius out of cry: Now Messalina is Claud's Empress, And will not this her love her Silius bless? Speak thy opinion which wouldst thou choose, Or take her love, or else her love 〈◊〉. Silius is peerless fair, most ver●●●●●, And well descended of a noble house: Yet wretched he is ta'en, and made to die, In Messalina'es' presence, in her eye, While she doth sit dressed in her little vail, And like a Virgin bride bids him all hail: Her costly purple coloured marriage bed, Within her Garden on the ground is spread, In dowry as the ancient manner is, There shall be gi'n a thousand sesterces, He which is marriage joins their wedded hands Stands by: with those which seal & firm the bands. Which thou didst secret think, known but to few As if she were ashamed herself to show: No, she'll not married be but lawfully, And why then should it not be publicly? Now tell me which thou likest? what wilt thou do? If thou yield not, when thus she doth thee woo, Look to thyself she by some wicked slight Will do thee mischief sure ere it be night: But if thou dost without delay the thing. Known to the world, in Claudius' ears will ring. When this disgracethrough each man's mouth hath past, Alas good man Claudius shall know it last. Mean while, do thou thy Messalina obey, And sport and revel with her night and day: For tie all one, now thou hast done the wrong, Claudius of force, must hear of it ere long, And then, were't thou far fairer than thou art, Of his displeasure thou must feel the smart. Thy milk white neck must stoop unto the block, And yield itself unto the fatal stroke. Thus may we see, those things which men think good Are nothing so, if rightly understood. What then? shall therefore men for nothing crave? Soft! if thou seek and wouldst my counsel have; Doc thus: seek to those heavenly powers above, Leave all to them, for sure they do us love, Let God see first, what doth agree with us, What shall be fit, and most commodious. God doth not give according to our wit For pleasant things, he gives us what most fit. Dearer is man to him, than man can be Unto himself; yet blind and wretched we, Carried away by force of our own mind, (Mighty is lust, sense brutish, reason blind), A wooing do we go, but in such sort, As if we went unto our brothel sport, Red hot with lust, ranker than any Goat, Or any ship that still in salt doth float. With glaring eyes we stare upon our loves, And look them through and through while lust us moves. Why should we not? we hope it is no sin But love; yea, yea, le's ask our hearts within: At night our thought, our nose doth hunt by day, We talk and talk, and yet we nothing say. A mischief on this lust! but most of all On lust, which honesty itself doth call. This thought doth gull us so, we think all's well, Find fault who will, all's one, here will we dwell. This ugly thought makes blushes impudent, And honest hours in lustfulness be spent. It makes rank garlikes stinking hoary head Grow green again, and live though almost dead, O that I did that mould and garden keep! Where this foul garlic lusts to lodge and sleep! How would I tear it up? How would I rend Its blade, ere it my garden should offend. It should not with his breath my nose disease, It should not with its sight mine eyes displease. I should soon bring its sprouting blade fullow, And send it to some other place to grow: Away rank stink, away! get thee to those Like to thyself, but grow not near the Rose! A mischief On't! can any think it fit, That Garlic in a Roses lap should sit? Garlic must needs o'ercome and kill the Rose, Prickles cannot defend it from such foes. If wedded true love twixt these ever be, Let sweet and sour, old age and youth agree. But all in vain, this cloven Garlic head Madded with lust, cannot be answered. There let it grow then, if it needs must be, Yet pretty Rose still shall I pity thee, For thou must needs be quickly withered, And woe is me! anon thou wilt be dead, Then all too late thou wilt repent the hour, Thou hadst not joined thee to some sweeter flower; Then shalt thou see for all thy subtle wit, That all that is desired is not fit. Women do husbands, men do wives desire, And such and such they earnestly require, And when they have them, strait without delay, For sons and daughters they begin to pray. God only knows, mean time what c●e we crave, What wife and children every man shall have, Wedding and hanging go by destiny, And what a man must have, he cannot fly. But that thou mayst ask something, and obtain it, Unto the Temple get thee, ne'er refrain it, Look on the entrails of some beast and vow, And search the puddings of some slaughtered sow. Pray that within thy body sound and whole, There may be lodged a sound and wholesome soul; Pray for a mind that's brave and valiant, Whom fear of death as yet could never daunt, Who 'mongst rich nature's greatest benefits, Accounts that time when life and world he quits: Knowing that while he lives he still doth die, But when he dies he lives immortally. Who in mean time, come whatsoever will, Or toil or labour, he endures it still, He knows not how to chafe, he covets nought, His mind to baseness never can be brought. The toils and travels of great Horcules, He doth prefer before dull stupid ease, Or wantonness, or feasting, or discourse, Sardanapalus is a beast and worse. But let me show what thou thyself mayst give, One way there is no more, in peace to live, Wherein thou may'st live most contentedly, And that is, if thou shalt live virtuously: Fortune avaunt, were men but only wise, Thou hadst not power on them to tyrannize, And yet a Goddess of thee we must make, And give thee leave in heaven a place to take. Thou art a Goddess and in heaven we place thee: But were men wise, they out of heaven would chase thee. Laus Deo. Matritae Sept. 5. 1612. stilo vet. — pictoribus atque poëtis Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas. — Veniam petimúsque damúsque vicissim. W. B. FINIS.