THE METAMORPHOsis of Pygmalion's Image. AND Certain satires. AT LONDON, Printed for Edmond Mats, & are to be sold at the sign of the hand and Plough in Fleetstreet. 1598. TO THE WORLD'S MIGHTY MONARCH, GOOD OPINION Sole Regent of Affection, perpetual Ruler of judgement, most famous justice of Censures, only giver of Honour, great procurer of Advancement, the World's chief Balance, the All of all, and All in all, by whom all things are that that they are. I humbly offer this my Poem. THou soul of Pleasure, honours only substance, Great Arbitrator, Umpire of the Earth, Whom fleshly Epicures call virtues essence, Thou moving Orator, whose powerful breath Sways all men's judgements. Great OPINION, Vouchsafe to gild my imperfection. If thou but deign to grace my blushing style, And crown my Muse with good opinion: If thou vouchsafe with gracious eye to smile Upon my young new-born Invention, I'll sing an Hymn in honour of thy name, And add some Trophy to enlarge thy fame. But if thou wilt not with thy Deity Shade, and inmaske the errors of my pen, Protect an Orphan Poets infancy, I will disclose, that all the world shall ken How partial thou art in Honours giving: Crowning the shade, the substance praise depriving. W. K. THE ARGUMENT of the Poem. PIgmalion whose chaste mind all the beauties in Cyprus could not ensnare, yet at the length having carved in ivory an excellent propoition of a beauteous woman, was so deeply enamoured on his own workmanship, that he would oftentimes lay the Image in bed with him, and fondly use such petitions and dalliance, as if it had been a breathing creature. But in the end, finding his fond dotage, and yet persevering in his ardent affection, made his devout prayers to Venus, that she would vouchsafe to inspire life into his Love, and then join them both together in marriage. Whereupon Venus graciously condescending to his earnest suit, the Maid, (by the power of her Deity) was metamorphosed into a living Woman. And after, Pygmalion (being in Cyprus,) begat a son of her, which was called Paphus, whereupon, that Island Cyprus, in honour of Venus, was after, and is now, called by the inhabitants, Paphos. To his Mistress. MY wanton Muse lasciviously doth sing Of sportive love, of lovely dallying. O beauteous Angel, deign thou to infuse A sprightly wit, into my dulled Muse. I invocate none other Saint but thee, To grace the first blooms of my Poesy. Thy favours like Promethean sacred fire, In dead, and dull conceit can life inspire, Or like that rare and rich Elixir stone, Can turn to gold, leaden invention: Be gracious then, and deign to show in me, The mighty power of thy Deity. And as thou readest, (Fair) take compassion, Force me not envy my Pygmalion. Then when thy kindness grants me such sweet bliss, I'll gladly write thy metamorphosis. PYGMALION. 1. PIgmalion, whose high love-hating mind Disdained to yield servile affection, Or amorous suit to any womankind, Knowing their wants, and men's perfection. Yet Love at length forced him to know his fate, And love the shade, whose substance he did hate. 2. For having wrought in purest ivory, So fair an Image of a Woman's feature, That never yet proudest mortality Can show so rare and beauteous a creature. (Unless my Mistress all-excelling face, Which gives to beauty, beauties only grace.) 3. He was amazed at the wondrous rareness Of his own workmanships' perfection. He thought that Nature near produced such fairness In which all beauties have their mansion. And thus admiring, was enamoured On that fair Image himself portrayed. 4. And naked as it stood before his eyes, Imperious Love declares his Deity. O what alluring beauties he descries In each part of his fair imagery! Her nakedness, each beauteous shape contains. All beauty in her nakedness remains. 5. He thought he saw the blood run through the vain And leap, and swell with all alluring means: Then fears he is deceived, and then again, He thinks he seeth the brightness of the beams Which shoot from out the fairness of her eye: At which he stands as in an ecstasy. 6. Her Amber-coloured, her shining hair, Makes him protest, the Sun hath spread her head With golden beams, to make her far more fair. But when her cheeks his amorous thoughts have fed, Then he exclaims, such red and so pure white, Did never bless the eye of mortal sight. 7. Then view's her lips, no lips did seem so fair In his conceit, through which he thinks doth fly So sweet a breath, that doth perfume the air. Then next her dimpled chin he doth descry, And views, and wonders, and yet view's her still. " loves eyes in viewing never have their fill. 8. Her breasts, like polished ivory appear, Whose modest mount, do bless admiring eye, And makes him wish for such a Pillowbeare. Thus fond Pygmalion striveth to descry Each beauteous part, not letting overslip One parcel of his curious workmanship. 9 Until his eye descended so far down That it descried loves pavilion: Where Cupid doth enjoy his only crown, And Venus hath her chiefest mansion: There would be wink, & winking look again, Both eyes & thoughts would gladly there remain. 10. Who ever saw the subtle City-dame In sacred church, when her pure thoughts should pray, Peire through her fingers, so to hide her shame, When that her eye her mind would feign bewray. So would he view, and wink, and view again, A chaster thought could not his eyes retain. 11. He wondered that she blushed not when his eye Saluted those same parts of secrecy: Conceiting not it was imagery That kindly yielded that large liberty. O that my Mistress were an Image too, That I might blameless her perfections view. 12. But when the fair proportion of her thigh Began appear. O Ovid would he cry, Did ere Corinna show such ivory When she appeared in Venus' livery? And thus enamoured, dotes on his own Art Which he did work, to work his pleasing smart. 13. And fond doting, oft he kissed her lip. Oft would he dally with her ivory breasts. No wanton love-trick would he overslip, But still observed all amorous behests. Whereby he thought he might procure the love Of his dull Image, which no plaints could move. 14. Look how the peevish Papists crouch, and kneel To some dumb Idol with their offering, As if a senseless carved stone could feel The ardour of his bootless chattering, So fond he was, and earnest in his suit To his remorseless Image, dumb and mute. 15. He oft doth wish his soul might part in sunder So that one half in her had residence: Oft he exclaims, o beauties only wonder, Sweet model of delight, fair excellence, Be gracious unto him that form thee, Compassionate his true-love's ardency. 16. She with her silence, seems to grant his suit. Then he all jocund like a wanton lover, With amorous embracements doth salute Her slender waist, presuming to discover The vale of Love, where Cupid doth delight To sport, and dally all the sable night. 17. His eyes, her eyes, kindly encountered, His breast, her breast, oft joined close unto, His arms embracements oft she suffered, Hands, arms, eyes, tongue, lips, and all parts did woe. His thigh, with hers, his knee played with her knee, A happy consort when all parts agree. 18. But when he saw poor soul he was deceived, (Yet scarce he could believe his sense had failed) Yet when he found all hope from him bereaved, And saw how fond all his thoughts had erred, Then did he like to poor Ixion seem, That clipped a cloud in steed of heavens Queen. 19 I oft have smiled to see the foolery Of some sweet Youths, who seriously protest That Love respects not actual Luxury, But only joy's to dally, sport, and jest: Love is a child, contented with a toy, A busk-point, or some savour still's the boy. 20. Mark my Pygmalion, whose affections ardour May be a mirror to posterity. Yet viewing, touching, kissing, (common favour,) Can never satiat his loves ardency: And therefore Ladies, think that they near love you, Who do not unto more than kissing move you. 21. For my Pygmalion kissed, viewed, and embraced, And yet exclaims, why were these women made O sacred Gods, and with such beauties graced? Have they not power as well to cool, and shade, As for to heat men's hearts? or is there none Or are they all like mine? relentless stone. 22. With that he takes her in his loving arms, And down within a Downbed softly laid her. Then on his knees he all his senses charms, To invocate sweet Venus for to raise her To wished life, and to infuse some breath, To that which dead, yet gave a life to death. 23 Thou sacred Queen of sportive dallying, (Thus he gins,) loves only Empress, Whose kingdom rests in wanton reveling, Let me beseech thee show thy powerfulness In changing stone to flesh, make her relent, And kindly yield to thy sweet blandishment, 24 O gracious Gods, take compassion. Instill into her some celestial fire, That she may equalize affection, And have a mutual love, and loves desire. Thou knowst the force of love, then pity me, Compassionate my true loves ardency. 25 Thus having said, he riseth from the floor, As if his soul divined him good fortune, Hoping his prayers to pity moved some power. For all his thoughts did all good luck importune. And therefore strait he strips him naked quite. That in the bed he might have more delight. 26 Then thus, Sweet sheets he says, which now do cover, The Idol of my soul, the fairest one That ever loved, or had an amorous lover. Earth's only model of perfection, Sweet happy sheets, deign for to take me in, That I my hopes and longing thoughts may win. 27 With that his nimble limbs do kiss the sheets, And now he bows him for to lay him down, And now each part, with her fair parts do meet, Now doth he hope for to enjoy loves crown: Now do they dally, kiss, embrace together, Like Leda's Twins at sight of fairest weather. 28 Yet all's conceit. But shadow of that bliss Which now my Muse strives sweetly to display In this my wondrous metamorphosis. Deign to believe me, now I sadly say. The stony substance of his Image feature, Was strait transformed into a living creature. 29 For when his hands her fair formed limbs had felt, And that his arms her naked waist embraced, Each part like Wax before the sun did melt, And now, oh now, he finds how he is graced By his own work. Tut, women will relent When as they find such moving blandishment. 30. Do but conceive a Mother's passing gladness, (After that death her only son hath seized And overwhelmed her soul with endless sadness) When that she sees him gin for to be raised From out his deadly swoon to life again: Such joy Pygmalion feels in every vain. 31. And yet he fears he doth but dreaming find So rich content, and such celestial bliss. Yet when he proves & finds her wondrous kind, Yielding soft touch for touch, sweet kiss, for kiss, He's well assured no fair imagery Can yield such pleasing, loves felicity. 32. O wonder not to hear me thus relate, And say to flesh transformed was a stone. Had I my Love in such a wished state As was afforded to Pygmalion, Though flinty hard, of her you soon should see As strange a transformation wrought by me. 33. And now me thinks some wanton itching ear With lustful thoughts, and ill attention, List's to my Muse, expecting for to hear The amorous description of that action Which Venus seeks, and ever doth require, When fitness grants a place to please desire. 34. Let him conceit but what himself would do When that he had obtained such a favour, Of her to whom his thoughts were bound unto, If she, in recompense of his loves labour, Would deign to let one pair of sheets contain The willing bodies of those loving twain. 35. Can he, oh could he, when that each to either Did yield kind kissing and more kind embracing, Can he when that they felt, and clip▪ t together And might enjoy the life of dallying, Can he abstain midst such a wanton sporting From doing that, which is not fit reporting? 36. What would he do when that her softest skin Saluted his with a delightful kiss? When all things fit for loves sweet pleasuring Invited him to reap a lovers bliss? What he would do, the self same action Was not neglected by Pygmalion. 37. For when he found that life had took his seat Within the breast of his kind beauteous love, When that he found that warmth, and wished heat Which might a Saint and coldest spirit move, Then arms, eyes, hands, tongue, lips, & wanton thigh, Were willing agents in loves luxury. 38. Who knows not what ensues? O pardon me Ye gaping ears that swallow up my lines Expect no more. Peace idle Poesy, Be not obscene though wanton in thy rhymes. And chaster thoughts, pardon if I do trip, Or if some lose lines from my pen do slip, 39 Let this suffice, that that same happy night So gracious were the Gods of marriage Midst all there pleasing and long wished delight Paphus was got: of whom in after age Cyrus was Paphos called, and evermore Those Ilandars do Venus' name adore. FINIS. satires. The Author in praise of his precedent Poem. NOw Rufus, by old Glebrons' fearful mace Hath not my Muse deserved a worthy place? Come come Luxurio, crown my head with Bays, Which like a Paphian, wanton displays The Salaminian titillations, Which tickle up our lewd Priapians. Is not my pen complete? are not my lines Right in the swaggering humour of these times? O sing Peana to my learned Muse. Io bis dicite. Wilt thou refuse? Do not I put my Mistress in before? And piteously her gracious aid implore? Do not I flatter, call her wondrous fair? Virtuous, divine most debonair? Hath not my Goddess in the vanguard place, The leading of my lines their plumes to grace? And then ensues my stanzas, like odd bands Of voluntaries, and mercenarians: Which like Soldadoes of our warlike age, March rich bedight in warlike equipage: Glittering in daubed laced accoutrements, And pleasing suits of loves habiliments. Yet puffie as Dutch hose they are within, Faint, and white livered, as our gallants been: Patched like a beggar's cloak, and run as sweet As doth a tumbril in the paved street. And in the end, (the end of love I wots) Pygmalion hath a jolly boy begot. So Labeo did complain his love was stone, Obdurate, flinty, so relentless none: Yet Lynceus knows, that in the end of this, He wrought as strange a metamorphosis. Ends not my Poem then surpassing ill? Come, come, Augustus, crown my laureate quill. Now by the whips of Epigrammatists, I'll not be lashed for my dissembling shifts. And therefore I use Popelings discipline, Lay open my faults to Mastigophoros eyen: Censure myself, fore others me deride And scoff at me, as if I had denied Or thought my Poem good, when that I see My lines are froth, my stanzas sapless be. Thus having railed against myself a while, I'll snarl at those, which do the world beguile With masked shows. Ye changing Proteans list, And tremble at a barking Satirist. satire. I. Quedam videntur, et non sunt. I Cannot show in strange proportion, Changing my hue like a Chameleon. But you all-canning wits, hold water out, Ye vizarded-bifronted- janian rout. Tell me brown Ruscus, hast thou Gyges' ring, That thou presum'st as if thou wert unseen! If not. Why in thy wits half capreal Lettest thou a superscribed Letter fall? And from thyself, unto thyself dost send, And in the same, thyself, thyself commend? For shame leave running to some Satrap, Leave glavering on him in the peopled press: Holding him on as he through Paul's doth walk, With nods and legs, and odd superfluous talk: Making men think thee gracious in his sight, When he esteems thee but a Parasite. For shame unmask, leave for to cloak intent, And show thou art vainglorious, impudent. Come Briscus, by the soul of Complement, I'll not endure that with thine instrument (Thy Gamba viol placed betwixt thy thighs, Wherein the best part of thy courtship lies) Thou entertain the time, thy Mistress by: Come, now let's hear thy mounting Mercury, What mum? give him his fiddle once again, Or he's more mute than a Pythagoran. But oh! the absolute Castilio, He that can all the points of courtship show. He that can troth a Courser, break a rush, And armed in proof, dare dure a straws strong push. He, who on his glorious scutcheon Can quaintly show wits new invention, Advancing forth some, thirsty Tantalus, Or else the Vulture on Promethius, With some short motto of a dozen lines. He that can purpose it in dainty rhymes, Can set his face, and with his eye can speak, Can dally with his Mistress dangling seek, And wish that he were it, to kiss her eye And flare about her beauty's deity. Tut, he is famous for his reveling, For fine set speeches, and for sonneting; He scorns the viol and the scraping stick, And yet's but Broker of another's wit. Certes if all things were well known and viewed He doth but champ that which another chewed. Come come Castilion, skim thy posset cured, Show thy queer substance, worthless, most obsurd. Take ceremonious complement from thee, Alas, I see Castilios beggary. O if Democritus were now alive How he would laugh to see this devil thrive! And by an holy semblance blear men's eyes When he intends some damned villainies. Ixion makes fair weather unto jove, That he might make foul work with his fair love, And is right sober in his outward semblance, Demure, and modest in his countenance; Applies himself to great Saturnus son, Till Satur's daughter yields his motion. Night-shining Phoebe knows what was begat, A monstrous Centaur, illegitimate. Who would not chuck to see such pleasing sport. To see such troops of gallants still resort Unto Cornutos shop. What other cause But chaste Brownetta, Sporo thither draws? Who now so long hath praised the Choughs white bill That he hath left her ne'er a flying quill: His meaning gain, though outward semblance love; So like a crab-fish Sporo still doth move. Laugh, laugh, to see the world Democritus Cry like that strange transformed Tyreus. Now Sorbo with a feigned gravity Doth fish for honour, and high dignity. Nothing within, nor yet without, but beard Which thrice he strokes, before I ever heard One wise grave word, to bless my listening ear. But mark how Good-opinion doth him rear. See, he's in office, on his foot-cloth placed; Now each man caps, and strives for to be graced With some rude nod of his majestic head, Which all do wish in Limbo harried. But o I grecue, that good men deign to be Slaves unto him, that's slave to villainy. Now Sorbo swells with self conceited sense, Thinking that men do yield this reverence Unto his virtues: fond credulity! Ass, talk of Isis, no man honours thee. Great Tubrios feather gallantly doth wave, Full twenty falls doth make him wondrous brave. Oh golden jerkin! royal arming coat! Like ship on Sea, he on the land doth slote. He's gone, he's shipped, his resolution Pricks (by heaven) to this action. The pox it doth: not long since I did view The man betake him to a common stew. And there (I wis) like no acquaint stomached man Eats up his arms. And wars munition His waving plume, falls in the Broker's chest. Fie that his Ostrich stomach should digest His Ostrich feather: eat up Venis-lace. Thou that didst fear to eat Pore-iohns' aspace. Lie close ye slave at beastly luxury; Melt and consume in pleasures surquedry. But now, thou that didst march with Spanish Pike before, Come with French-pox out of that brothel door. The fleet's returned. What news from Rodio? Hot service, by the Lord, cries Tubrio. Why dost thou halt? Why six times through each thigh Pushed with the Pike of the hot enemy. Hot service, hot, the Spaniard is a man, I say no more, and as a Gentleman I served in his face. Farewell. Adieu. Welcome from netherlands, from steaming stew. Ass to thy crib, doff that huge lions skin, Or else the Owl will hoot and drive thee in. For shame, for shame, lewd living Tubrio Presume not troop among that gallant crew Of true Heroic spirits, come uncase, Show us the true form of Dametas face. Hence, hence ye slave, dissemble not thy state But henceforth be a turncoat, runagate. Oh hold my sides, that I may break my spleen, With laughter at the shadows I have seen. Yet I can bear with Curios nimble feet Saluting me with capers in the street, Although in open view, and people's face, He fronts me with some spruce, neat, cinquepace. Or Tullus, though when ere he me espies Strait with loud mouth (a bandy Sir) he cries. Or Robrus, who adiced to nimble fence, Still greets me with Stoccadoes violence. These I do bear, because I too well know They are the same, they seem in outward show. But all confusion sever from mine eye This janian-bifront hypocrisy. satire. 2 Quedam sunt, et non videntur. I That even now lisped like an Amorist, Am turned into a snaphance Satirist. O title, which my judgement doth adore! But I dull-sprighted fat Boetian Boor, Do far of honour that Censorian seat. But if I could in milk-white robes entreat Plebeians favour, I would show to be Tribunus plebis, 'gainst the villainy Of these same Proteans, whose hypocrisy, Doth still abuse our fond credulity. But since myself am not immaculate, But many spots my mind doth vitiate, I'll leave the white robe, and the biting rhymes Unto our modern satires sharpest lines; Whose hungry fangs snarl at some secret sin. And in such pitchy clouds enwrapped been His Sphinxian riddles, that old Oedipus Would be amazed and take it in foul snuffs That such Cimmerian darkness should involve A acquaint conceit, that he could not resolve. O darkness palpable! Egypt's black night! My wit is stricken blind, hath lost his sight. My shins are broke, with groping for some sense To know to what his words have reference. Certes (sunt) but (non videntur) that I know. Reach me some Poet's Index that will show. Imagines Deorum. Book of Epithets, Natales Comes, thou I know recites, And makest Anatomy of Poesy. Help to unmask the satires secrecy. Delphic Apollo, aid me to unrip, These intricate deep Oracles of wit. These dark Enigmas, and strange riddling sense Which pass my dullard brains intelligence. Fie on my senseless pate; Now I can show Thou writest that which I, nor thou, dost know. Who would imagine that such squint-eyed sight Can strike the world's deformities so right. But take heed Pallas, lest thou aim awry Love, nor yet Hate, had ere true judging eye. Who would once dream that that same Elegy, That fair framed piece of sweetest Poesy, Which Muto put betwixt his Mistress paps, (When he (quickwitted) called her Cruel chaps, And told her, there she might his dolours read Which she, oh she, upon his heart had spread) Was penned by Roscio the Tragedian. Yet Muto, like a good Vulcanian, An honest Cuckold, calls the bastard son, And brags of that which others for him done. Satire thou liest, for that same Elegy Is Mutos own, his own dear Poesy: Why 'tis his own, and dear, for he did pay Ten crowns for it, as I heard Roscius say. Who would imagine yonder sober man, That same devout meal-mouthed Precisean, That cries good brother, kind sister, makes a duck, After the antic grace, can always pluck A sacred book, out of his civil hose, And at th'opening, and at our stomachs close Says with a turn'd-vp eye a solemn grace Of half an hour, then with his silken face Smiles on the holy crew, And then doth cry O manners! o times of impurity! With that depaints a church reformed state, The which the female tongues magnificate: Because that Plato's odd opinion, Of all things (common) hath strong motion In their weak minds. Who thinks that this good man Is a vile, sober, damned, Politician? Not I, till with his bait of purity He bitten me sore in deepest usury. No jew, no Turk, would use a Christian So inhumanly as this Puritan. Diomedes jades were not so bestial As this same seeming-saint, vile Cannibal. Take heed o world, take heed advisedly Of these same damned Anthropophagy. I had rather be within a Harpies claws Then trust myself in their devouring jaws. Who all confusion to the world would bring Under the form of their new discipline. O I could say, Briareus hundred hands Were not so ready to bring jove in bands As these to set endless contentious strife Betwixt jehova, and his sacred wife. But see who's yonder, true Humility The perfect image of fair Courtesy. See, he doth deign to be in servitude Where he hath no promotions livelihood. Mark, he doth curtsy, and salutes a block, Will seem to wonder at a weathercock, Trenchmore with Apes, play music to an Owl, Bless his sweet honours running brasell bowl: Cries (bravely broke) when that his Lordship mist, And is of all the thurnged scaffold hist. O is not this a courteous minded man? No fool, no, a damned Machevelian. Holds candle to the devil for a while, That he the better may the world beguile That's fed with shows. He hopes though some repine, When sun is set, the lesser stars will shine: He is within a haughty malcontent, Though he do use such humble blandishment. But boldfaced Satire, strain not over high, But laugh and chuck at meaner gullery. In faith yond is a well faced Gentleman, See how he paceth like a Cyprian: Fair Amber tresses of the fairest hair That ere were waved by our London air, Rich laced suit, all spruce, all neat in truth. Ho Lynceus! What's yonder brisk neat youth 'Bout whom yond troop of Gallants flocken so? And now together to Brownes common go? Thou know'st I am sure, for thou canst cast thine eye Through nine mud walls, or else odd Poets lie. 'tis lose legged Lais, that same common Drab, For from good Tubro look the mortal stab. Ha ha, Nay then I'll never rail at those That wear a codpis, thereby to disclose What sex they are, since strumpet's breeches use, And all men's eyes save Lynceus can abuse. Nay steed of shadow, lay the substance out, Or else fair Briscus I shall stand in doubt What sex thou art, since such Hermaphrodites Such Protean shadows so delude our sights. Look, look, with what a discontented grace Bruto the travailer doth sadly pace Long Westminster, o civil seeming shade, Mark his sad colours, how demurely clad, Staidness itself, and Nestor's gravity Are but the shade of his civility. And now he sighs. O thou corrupted age, Which slight regard'st men of sound carriage, Virtue, knowledge, fly to heaven again Deign not 'mong these ungrateful sots remain. Well, some tongues I know, some Countries I have seen And yet these oily Snails respectless been Of my good parts. O worthless puffie slave! Didst thou to Venice go oft else to have? But buy a Lute and use a Currezan? And there to live like a Cyllenian? And now from thence what hither dost thou bring? But surpheuling, new paints and poisonings? Aretine's pictures, some strange Luxury? And new found use of Venus' venery? What art thou but black clothes? Say Bruto say Art any thing but only say array? Which I am sure is all thou brought'st from France, Save Naples pox, and Frenchman's dalliance. From haughty Spain, what brought'st thou else beside, But lofty looks, and their Lucifrian pride? From Belgia what? but their deep bezeling, Their boote-carouse, and their Beere-buttering. Well, then exclaim not on our age good man, But hence polluted Neapolitan. Now Satire cease to rub our gauled skins, And to unmask the world's detested sins. Thou shalt as soon draw Nilus' river dry, As cleanse the world from foul impiety. satire. 3. Quedam et sunt, et videntur. NOw grim reproof, swell in my rough-heued rhyme. That thou mayst vex the guilty of our time. Yond is a youth, whom how can I ore'slip, Since he so jump doth in my mashes hit? He hath been longer in preparing him Then Terence wench, and now behold he's seen. Now after two years fast and earnest prayer, The fashion change not, (lest he should despair Of ever hoarding up more fair gay clothes) Behold at length in London streets he shows. His ruff did eat more time in neatest setting Then Woodstocks work in painful perfecting. It hath more doubles far, than Ajax shield When he 'gainst Troy did furious battle wield. Nay he doth wear an Emblem 'bout his neck. For under that fair Russee so sprucely set Appears a fall, a falling-band forsooth. O dapper, rare, complete, sweet nitty youth! Ie'u Maria! How his clothes appear Crossed, and recrost with lace, sure for some fear, Lest that some spirit with a tippet Mace Should with a ghastly show affright his face. His hat, himself, small crown & huge great brim, Fair outward show, and little wit within. And all the band with feathers he doth fill, Which is a sign of a fantastic still, As sure, as (some do tell me) evermore A Goat doth stand before a brothel door. His clothes perfumed, his fusty mouth is aired, His chin new swept, his very cheeks are glazed. But ho, what Ganymede is that doth grace The gallants heels. One, who for two days space Is closely hired. Now who dares not call This Aesop's crow, fond, mad, fantastical. Why so he is, his clothes do sympathise, And with his inward spirit humorize. An open Ass, that is not yet so wise As his derided fondness to disguise. Why thou art Bedlam mad, stark lunatic, And glori'st to be counted a fantastic, Thou neither art, nor yet will seem to be Heir to some virtuous praised quality. O frantic men! that think all villainy The complete honours of Nobility. When some damned vice, some strange misshapen suit, Makes youths esteem themselves in high repute. O age! in which our gallants boast to be Slaves unto riot, and lewd luxury! Nay, when they blush, and think an honest act Doth their supposed virtues maculate! Bedlam, Frenzy, Madness, Lunacy, I challenge all your moody Empery Once to produce a more distracted man Then is inamorato Lucian. For when my ears received a fearful sound That he was sick, I went, and there I found Him laid of love, and newly brought to bed Of monstrous folly, and a frantic head. His chamber hanged about with Elegies, With sad complaints of his loves miseries: His windows strowed with Sonnets, and the glass Drawn full of love-knots. I approached the Ass, And strait he weeps, and sighs some sonnet out To his fair love. And then he goes about For to perfume her rare perfection With some sweet-smelling pink Epitheton. Then with a melting look he writhes his head, And strait in passion riseth in his bed; And having kissed his hand, struck up his hair, Made a French congee, cries. O cruel fear To the antic Bedpost. I laughed a main That down my cheeks the mirthful drops did rain. Well he's no janus, but substantial, In show, and essence a good natural. When as thou hearest me ask spruce Duceus Fron whence he comes. And he strait answers us, From Lady Lilla. And is going strait To the Countess of () for she doth wait His coming. And will surely send her Coach, Unless he make the speedier approach. Art not thou ready for to break thy spleen At laughing at the fondness thou hast seen In this vainglorious fool? When thou dost know He never durst unto these Ladies show His pippin face. Well, he's no accident, But real, real, shameless, impudent. And yet he boasts, and wonders that each man Can call him by his name, sweet Ducean: And is right proud that thus his name is known. I, Duceus, I, thy name is too far blown. The world too much, thyself too little knowst Thy private self. Why then should Duceus boast? But humble Satire, wilt thou deign display These open naggs, which purblind eyes bewray? Come, come, and snarl more dark at secret sin, which in such Labyrinths enwrapped been, That Ariadne I must crave thy aid To help me find where this soul monster's laid, Then will I drive the Minotaur from us, And seem to be a second Theseus. REACTIO. NOW doth Ramnusia Adrastian, Daughter of Night, and of the Ocean Provoke my pen. What cold Saturnian Can hold, and hear such vile detraction? Ye Pines of Ida, shake your fair grown height, For jove at first dash will with thunder fight. Ye Cedars bend, fore lightning you dismay, Ye Lions tremble, for an Ass doth bray. Who cannot rail? what dog but dare to bark 'Gainst Phaebes brightness in the silent dark? what stinking Scavenger (if so he will Though streets be fair,) but may right easily fill, His dungy tumbril? sweep, pair, wash, make clean, Yet from your fairness he some dirt can glean. The windie-chollicke strived to have some vent, And now 'tis flown, and now his rage is spent. So have I seen the fuming waves to fret, And in the end, nought but white soame beget. So have I seen the sullen clouds to cry, And weep for anger that the earth was dry After their spite, that all the haile-shot drops Can never pierce the crystal water tops, And never yet could work her more disgrace But only bubble quiet Thetis face. Vain envious detractor from the good what Cynic spirit rageth in thy blood? Cannot a poor mistaken title scape But thou must that into thy Tumbril scrape? Cannot some lewd, immodest beastliness Lurk, and lie hid in just forgetfulness, But Grillus subtile-smelling swinish snout Must sent, and grunt, and needs will find it out? Come dance ye stumbling satires by his side If he lift once the Zion Muse deride. Ye Granta's white Nymphs, come & with you bring Some syllabub, whilst he doth sweetly sing 'Gainst Peter's tears, and Mary's moving moan, And like a fierce enraged Boar doth foam At sacred Sonnets. O daring hardiment! At Bartas sweet Semaines, rail impudent At Hopkins, Sternhold, and the Scottish King, At all Translators that do strive to bring That stranger language to our vulgar tongue, Spett in thy poison their fair acts among. Ding them all down from fair jerusalem, And mew them up in thy deserved Bedlam. Shall paynim honour, their vile falsed gods With sprightly wits? and shall not we by odds far, far, more strive with wits best quintessence To adore that sacred everliving Essence? Hath not strong reason moved the Legists' mind, To say the fairest of all Nature's kind The Prince by his prerogative may claim? Why may not then our souls without thy blame, (which is the best thing, that our God did frame) Devote the best part to his sacred Name? And with due reverence and devotion Honour his Name with our invention? No, Poesy not fit for such an action, It is defiled with superstition: It honoured Bawl, therefore pollute, pollute, Unfit for such a sacred institute. So have I heard an Heritick maintain The Church unholy, where jehova's Name Is now adored: because he surely knows Sometimes it was defiled with Popish shows. The Bells profane, and not to be endured, Because to Popish rites they were enured. Pure madness peace, cease to be insolent, And be not outward sober, inly impudent. Fie inconsiderate, it grieveth me An Academic should so senseless be. Fond Censurer! Why should those mirrors seem So vile to thee? which better judgements deem Exquisite then, and in our polished times. May, run for sencefull tolerable lines. What, not mediocria firma from thy spite? But must thy envious hungry fangs needs light On Magistrates mirror? must thou needs detract And strive to work his ancient honours wrack? What, shall not Rosamond, or Gaveston, Open their sweet lips without detraction? But must our modern Critics envious eye Seem thus to quote some gross deformity? Where Art, not error shineth in their style, But error and no Art doth thee beguile. For tell me Crittick, is not Fiction The soul of Poesy's invention? Is't not the form? the spirit? and the essence? The life? and the essential difference? Which omni, semper, soli, doth agree To heavenly descended Poesy? Thy wit God comfort mad Chirurgeon What, make so dangerous an Incision? At first dash whip away the instrument Of Poet's Procreation? fie ignorant! When as the soul, and vital blood doth rest And hath in Fiction only interest? What Satire suck the soul from Poesy And leave him spritles? o impiety! Would ever any erudite Pedant Seem in his artless lines so insolent? But thus it is when pity Priscian's. Will needs step up to be Censorians. When once they can in true skaned verses frame A brave Encomium of good virtues name. Why thus it is, when Mimic Apes will strive with Iron wedge the trunks of Oaks to rive. But see, his spirit of detraction Must nible at a glorious action. Euge! some gallant spirit, some resolved blood will hazard all to work his Country's good And to enrich his soul, and raise his name will boldly sail unto the rich Guiane. What then? must strait some shameless Satirist with odious and opprobrius terms insist To blast so high resolved intention with a malignant vile detraction? So have I seen a cur dog in the street Piss 'gainst the fairest posts he still could meet. So have I seen the march wind strive to fade The fairest hew that Art, or Nature made. So Envy still doth bark at clearest shine And strives to stain heroic acts, divine. well, I have cast thy water, and I see thou'rt fallen to wits extremest poverty, Sure in Consumption of the sprightly part. Go use some Cordial for to cheer thy heart: Or else I fear that I one day shall see Thee fall, into some dangerous Lethargy. But come fond Braggart, crown thy brows with Bay Intrance thyself in thy sweet ecstasy. Come, manumit thy plumy pinion, And scour the sword of Elvish champion, Or else vouchsafe to breath in wax-bound quill, And deign our longing ears with music fill: Or let us see thee some such stanzas frame That thou mayst raise thy vile inglorious name. Summon the Nymphs and Dryads to bring Some rare invention, whilst thou dost sing So sweet, that thou mayst shoulder from above The Eagle from the stairs of friendly jove: And lead sad Pluto Captive with thy song, Gracing thyself, that art obscured so long. Come somewhat say (but hang me when 'tis done) Worthy of brass, and hoary marble stone; Speak ye attentive Swains that heard him never Will not his Pastorals endure for ever? Speak ye that never heard him aught but rail Do not his Poems bear a glorious fail? Hath not he strongly justled from above The Eagle from the stairs of friendly jove? May be, may be, tut 'tis his modesty, He could if that he would, nay would if could I see. Who cannot rail? and with a blasting breath Scorch even the whitest Lilies of the earth Who cannot stumble in a stuttering style? And shallow heads with seeming shades beguile? Cease, cease, at length to be malevolent, To fairest blooms of Virtues eminent. Strive not to soil the freshest hews on earth With thy malicious and upbraiding breath. Ennie, let Pines of Ida rest alone, For they will grow spite of thy thunder stone, Strive not to nible in their swelling grain With toothless gums of thy detracting brain: Eat not thy dam, but laugh and sport with me At stranger's follies with a merry glee. Let's not malign our kin. Then Satirist I do salute thee with an open fist. satire. 4 parva magna, magna nulla. AMbitious Gorgon's, wide-mouthed Lamians, Shape-changing Proteans, damned Briareans, Is Minos dead? is Radamanth a sleep? That ye thus dare unto Ioues Palace creep? what, hath Ramnusia spent her knotted whip? That ye dare strive on Hebe's cup to sip? Yet know Apollo's quiver is not spent But can abate your daring hardiment. Python is slain, yet his accursed race, Dare look divine Astrea in the face: Chaos return, and with confusion Involve the world with strange disunion: For Pluto sits in that adored chair which doth belong unto Minerva's heir. O Hecatomb! Hue usque Xylinum. o Catastrophe! From Midas pomp, to Irus' beggary. Promethius, who celestial fire Did steal from heaven, therewith to inspire Our earthly bodies with a sencefull mind, whereby we might the depth of Nature find, Is dinged to hell, and vulture eats his heart which did such deep Philosophy impart To mortal men. when thieving Mercury That even in his new born infancy Stole fair Apollo's quiver, and Ioues mace, And would have filched the lightning from his place, But that he feared he should have burnt his wing And singed his downy feathers new come spring; He that in ghastly shade of night doth leads Our souls, unto the empire of the dead. When he that better doth deserve a rope Is a fair planet in our Horoscope. And now hath Caduceus in his hand Of life and death that hath the sole command. Thus petty thefts are paid, and sound whipped, But greater crimes are slightly overslipped: Nay he's a God that can do villainy with a good grace, and glib facility. The harmless hunter, with a venturous eye When unawares he did Diana spy, Naked in the fountain he became straightway Unto his greedy hounds a wished prey, His own delights taking away his breath, And all ungrateful forced his fatal death. (And ever since Hounds eat their masters clean, For so Diana cursed them in the stream.) When strong backed Hercules in one poor night With great, great ease, and wondrous delight In strength of lust and Venus' surquedry Robbed fifty wenches of virginity. far more than lusty Laurence. Yet poor soul He with Actaeon drinks of Nemis bowl, When Hercules lewd act, is registered, And for his fruitful labour Deified. And had a place in heaven him assigned When he the world, unto the world resigned. Thus little 'scapes are deeply punished, But mighty villains are for Gods adored. jove brought his sister to a nuptial bed, And hath an Hebe, and a Ganemede, A Leda, and a thousand more beside, His chaste Alcmene, and his sister bride: Who fore his face was odiously defiled And by Ixion grossly got with child. This thunderer, that right virtuously Thrust forth his father from his empery Is now the great Monarko of the earth, Whose awful nod, whose all commanding breath Shakes Europa's groundwork. And his title makes Rey●… mi●… De●… que As dread a noise, as when a Canon shakes The subtle air. Thus hellbred villainy Is still rewarded with high dignity. When Sisyphus that did but once reveal That this incestuous villain had to deal In I'll Phliunte with Egina fair, Is damned to hell, in endless black despair Ever to rear his tumbling stone upright Upon the steepy mountains lofty height. His stone will never now get greenish moss Since he hath thus encured so great a loss As Ioues high favour. But it needs must be whilst joves doth rule, and sway the empery And poor Astrea's fled into an isle And lives a poor and banished exile: And there penned up, sighs in her sad lament, wearing away in pining languishment. If that Sylenus Ass do chance to bray, And so the satires lewdness doth bewray, Let him for ever be a sacrifice, Prick, spur, beat, load, for ever tyranise Over the fool. But let some Cerberus Keep back the wife of sweet tongued Orpheus, Gnato applauds the Hound. Let that same child Of Night, and Sleep, (which hath the world defiled with odious railing) bark 'gainst all the work Of all the Gods, and find some error lurk In all the graces. Let his laver lip Speak in reproach of Nature's workmanship, Let him upbraid fair Venus if he list For her short heel. Let him with rage insist To snarl at Vulcan's man, because he was Not made with windows of transparent glass That all might see the passions of his mind. Let his all-blasting tongue great errors find In Pallas house, because if next should burn It could not from the sudden peril turn. Let him upbraid great jove with luxury Condemn the heavens Queen of jealousy. Yet this same Stygius Momus must be praised And to some Godhead at the least be raised. But if poor Orpheus sing melodiously, And strive with musics sweetest symphony To praise the Gods, and unadvisedly Do but ore-slip one drunken Deity, Forthwith the bousing Bacchus out doth send His furious Bacchides, to be revenged. And strait they tear the sweet Musician, And leave him to the dog's division. Hebrus, bear witness of their cruelty, For thou didst view poor Orpheus' tragedy. Thus slight neglects are deepest villainy, But blasting mouths deserve a deity. Since Gallus slept, when he was set to watch Lest Sol or Vulcan should Mavortius catch In using Venus: since the boy did nap, Whereby bright Phoebus did great Mars entrap. Poor Gallus now, (whilom to Mars so dear) Is turned to a crowing Chaunteclere; And ever since, sore that the sun doth shine, (Lest) Phoebus should with his all-peircing eyen Disery some Vulcan,) he doth crow full shrill, That all the air with Echoes he doth fill. Whilst Mars, though all the Gods do see his sin, And know in what lewd vice he lieuth in, Yet is adored still, and magnified, And with all honours duly worshipped. Fi●●e! small faults to mountains strait are raised, 'Slight 'scapes are whipped, but damned deeds are praised. Fie, fie, I am deceived all this while, A mist of errors doth my sense beguile; I have been long of all my wits bereaven, Heaven for hell taking, taking hell for heaven; Virtue for vice, and vice for virtue still, Sour for sweet, and good for passing ill. If not? would vice and odious villainy Be still rewarded with high dignity? Would damned jovians, be of all men praised, And with high honours unto heaven raised? 'tis so, 'tis so; Riot, and Luxury Are virtuous, meritorious chastity: That which I thought to be damned hellborn pride Is humble modesty, and nought beside; That which I deemed Bacchus' surquedry, Is grave, and stained, civil, Sobriety. O then thrice holy age, thrice sacred men! 'Mong whom no vice a Satire can discern, Since Lust, is turned into Chastity, And Riot, unto sad Sobriety. Nothing but goodness reigneth in our age, And virtues all are joined in marriage. Hear is no dwelling for Impiety, No habitation for base Villainy. Hear are no subjects for Reproofs sharp vain, Then hence rude Satire, make away amain; And seek a seat where more Impurity Doth lie and lurk in still security. Now doth my Satire stagger in a doubt, Whether to cease, or else to write it out. The subject is too sharp for my dull quill. Some son of Maya show thy riper skill. For I'll go turn my tub against the sun, And wistly mark how higher Planets run, Contemplating their hidden motion. Then on some Latmos with Endymion, I'll slumber out my time in discontent, And never wake to be malevolent, A beedle to the world's impurity; But ever sleep in still security. If this displease the world's wrong-iudging sight, It glads my soul, and in some better sprite I'll write again. But if that this do please, Hence, hence, satyric Muse, take endless ease. Hush now ye Band-doggs, bark no more at me, But let me slide away in secrecy. Epictetus' FINIS. Faults escaped. PAge 33, line 8, for Ass talk of, read Ass take of. page 34. for Pricks by, read Pricks him by. page 48 li. 2. for oft, read aught. & line 12. for say read sad. Also in page 46. l. 7. & 8. read thus. 'tis lose legged Lais, that same common Drab, For whom good Tubrio took the mortal stab. AT LONDON Printed by james Roberts. 1598.