A SCOURGE for Paper-Persecutors, OR  
Papers Complaint, compiled in ruthful Rhymes,  
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.  
By  
WITH  
A continued just Inquisition  
Of the same subject, fit for this season.  
Against PAPER-PERSECUTORS.  
By  Wit 
nay up with him if he were my brother  
if he will needs be a paper-spoyler  
Time  

O couldst Thou whip these Bedlams till they bleed  
Thou whippest in vain: we'll whip anon indeed.   
Printed at London for H. H. and G. G. and are to be sold at the Golden Flower Deluce in Popes-head Alley. 1625.   

A SCOURGE for Paper-Persecutors, OR  

Papers Complaint, compiled in ruthful Rhymes,  
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.   
by I. D. WITH A CONTINUED INQVISITION against Paper-Persecutors, By A. H.  
Printed at London for H. H. and G. G. and are to be sold at the Flower Deluce in Popes-head Alley. 1624.   

A Scourge for Paper-Persecutors, OR 
Papers Complaint compiled in ruthful Rhymes  
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.   

WHat heart so hard, that splits not when it hears,  
What ruthless Martyrdom my Body bears  
By rude Barbarians of these latter Times,  
Blotting my spotless Breast with Prose and Rhymes,  
That Impudence, itself, would blush to bear;  
It is such shameless Stuffe and irksome Gear?  
Though I (immaculate) be white as Snow,  
(Which Virgin Hue mine innocence doth show)  
Yet these remorseless Monsters on me piles  
A massy heap of blockish senseless Styles;  
That I ne wot (God wot) which of the twain  
do most torment me, heavy Shame, or Pain.   

No less than my whole Reams will some suffice,  
With madbrain stuff o'er them to tyrannize.  
Yea Ballet-mongers make my sheets to shake,  
To bear Rimes-doggrell making Dogs parbreak;  
Whereto (ayeme) gross Burdens still they add,  
And to that put again, light Notes and sad:  
O Man in desperation, what a deuce  
Meanest thou such filth in my white face to sluice?   

One rays me with course rhymes, and Chips them call,  
Offals of wit; a fire burn them all.  
And then to make the mischief more complete,  
He blotts my Brow with verse as black as jet,  
Wherein he shows where Ludlow hath her Scite,  
And how her Horse-high Market House is pight,  
Yet not so satisfied, but on he goes,  
And where one Berries mean house stands, he shows.   

An other comes with Wit, too costive then,  
Making a Glister-pipe of his rare pen:  
And through the same he all my breast becackes,  
And turns me so, to nothing but Aiax.  
Yet Aiax (I confess) was too supreme  
For Subject of my-his wit royalld Ream,  
Exposed to the rancour of the rude,  
And wasted by the witless Multitude.  
He so adorned me, that I shall ne'er  
More right, for kind, than in his Robes appear.  
Whose Lines shall circumscribe uncompast Times:  
And, past the wheeling of the Spheres, his Rhymes  
Shall run (as right) to immortality,  
And praised (as proper) of posterity.  
Yet sith his wit was then with Will annoyed,  
And I enforced to bear what wit did void,  
I cannot choose but say as I have said,  
His wit (made loose) defiled me his maid.   

Another (ah Lord help) me vilifies  
With Art of Love, and how to subtilise,  
Making lewd Venus, with eternal Lines,  
To tie Adonis to her love's designs:  
Fine wit is shown therein: but finer 'twere  
If not attired in such bawdy Gear.  
But be it as it will: the coyest Dames,  
In private read it for their Closset-games:  
For, soothe to say, the Lines so draw them on,  
To the venerean speculation,  
That will they, nill they (if of flesh they be)  
They will think of it, sith loose Thought is free.   

And thou (O Poet) that dost pen my Plaint,  
Thou art not scot-free from my just complaint,  
For, thou hast played thy part, with thy rude Pen,  
To make us both ridiculous to men.   

But O! my Soul is vexed to think how evil  
I was abused to bear suits to the Devil.  
Pierse-Pennilesse (a Pies eat such a patch)  
Made me (ay me) that business once dispatch.  
And having made me undergo the shame,  
Abused me further in the Devil's name:  
And made Dildo (dampened Dildo) bear,  
Till goodmen's hate did me in pieces tear.  
O they were merciful therein (God knows)  
It's ruth to rid condemned ones from woes.  
How many Quires (can any Stacioner tell)  
Were bandied then, 'twixt him and Gabriel?  
Who brutishly my beauty so did blot  
With Gaulie girds by pens pumped from th'ink pot,  
That I more ugly than a Satire seemed:  
Nay, for an hellish Monster was esteemed.  
Five groats (good Lord!) why what a rate was that,  
For one mere railing Pamphlet to be at?  
Well, God forgive them both, they did me wrong,  
To make me bear their choler spude, so long.  
Yet if, in judgement, I should spend my breath,  
The Doctor foiled him with his Dagger-sheath.   

The Coney-catcher now plays least in sight,  
That wont was on me to show that slight.  
And made more havoc of my Reams and Quires,  
Than all the necks are worth of such scald Squires.  
No Term could scape him, but he scraped me  
With Pens that spirtled me with villainy:  
And made me open a gap, unto each Gap,  
That leads to shame, to sorrow, and mishap.  
But let him go, he long since dead hath been,  
In body dead, but yet his name is Greene.   

What should I speak of infant- Rhymers now,  
That ply their Pens as Ploughmen do their Blow:  
And pester Posts with Titles of new books?  
For, none but blocks such wooden Titles brooks.  
Ay me, how ill-bested am I the while,  
To see, how at my carriage, Carters smile:  
And yet such Rascall-writers find a Press,  
(A mischief on't) to make me to confess  
I was in fault, for that I did not find  
A way to fly from such Gulls with the wind.   

Then to recount the volumes hugely written,  
Where I lie soiled as I were all be- ()  
Aiax, I le stand to't, did beseem me better,  
For all's unsweet Sense, Sentence, Line and Letter.  
The Sons of Aymon, Bevis, Gawen, Guy,  
Arthur, the worthy, writ unworthily;  
Mirror of Knighthood, with a number such,  
I might spend time (past time) them all to touch.   

And though I grieve, yet cannot choose but smile  
To see some modern Poet's seed my soil  
With mighty words that yield a monstrous Crop,  
Which they do spur-galled in a false-gallop.  
Embellish, 
* These words are good: but ill used: in overmuch use savouring of witless affectation.  Blandishment and Equipage  
Such Furies fly from their Muse holy rage.  
And if (perchance) one hit on Surquedry,  
O he writes rarely in sweet Poesy!  
But, he that (pointblank) hits Enueloped,  
He (Lord receive his Soul) strikes Poetry dead.   

O Poetry! that now (as stands thy case)  
Art the head game; and yet art out an Ace:  
An Ace? nay two: (for on thee Fortune frowns)  
That's out of Credit quite, and out of Crowns.  
Thou art a work of darkness, that dost damn  
Thy Soul (all Satire) in an Epigram.  
Thou art, in this world's reckoning, such a Botch  
As kills the English quite, how ere the Scotch  
Escape the mortal mischief: but, indeed,  
Their Stars are better; so, they better speed.  
Yet Poetry be blithe, hold up thy head,  
And live by Air till Earthly Lumps be dead.  
But, if Air fat not, as through thee it passes,  
Live upon Sentences 'gainst golden Asses.   

Some burden me, sith I oppress the Stage,  
With all the gross Abuses of this Age,  
And press me after, that the world may see  
(As in a soiled Glass) herself in me:  
Where each man in, and out of's humour pries  
Upon himself; and laughs until he cries.  
Untrussing humorous Poets, and such Stuff  
(As might put plainest Patience in a Ruff)  
I show men: so, they see in me and Elves  
Themselves scorned, & their Scorners scorn themselves.  
O wondrous Age! when Phoebus' Imps do turn  
Their Arms of Wit against themselves in scorn  
For lack of better use: alack, alack,  
That Lack should make them so their credit's crack!  
Is want of Wealth, or Wit the cause thereof,  
That they thus make themselves a public scoff?  
I wot not I, but yet I greatly fear,  
It is not with them as I would it were:  
I would it were; then Time should ne'er report  
That in these Times, Wit spoilt himself in sport.  
O poor Apollo's Priests (rich in reproach)  
Is't not enough the base your blame should broach?  
But you yourselves (unhappy as ye are)  
Must do't, as if your divine fury were  
Turned into Hellish; to excruciate none  
(To glad your Scorners) but yourselves alone.  
And make me bear, to my eternal shame,  
Th'immortal Records of your Rancours Blame.  
Can you teach men how they themselves should use,  
When you yourselves your selves do so abuse?  
Or set this Chaos of confusion  
(The World) in order by abusion?  
Alas ye cannot: For, Men will despise  
The precepts of great Clerks, if so unwise.  
Then Time redeem, and in time that amiss,  
And I past-time will bear the blame of this.  
For, pale-faced paper cannot blush a whit,  
Though still it bear the greatest blame of Wit.  
Yet, Poets love I, sith they make me wear  
(What wears out Time) my rich and gaudiest Gear.  
Yea, those I love that in too earnest Game  
(Or little spleen) did me no little shame.  
Sith I can witness to succeeding Times,  
They oft have me arrayed with royal Rhymes,  
That ravish Readers (though they) envious bee,  
Such sacred Raptures they have put on me.   

here give me leave (kind Reader) to digress;  
To speak of their unhappy happiness,  
Who can put words into the mouths of kings,  
That make them more than seem Celestial things.  
And can their deeds so fashion with their Pen,  
That, doing so, they should be Gods with men!  
Each Mood that moves the Mind, they so can move,  
As doth the Wit, the Will, or Beauty, Love..  
Yet, as they were accursed by the Fates,  
They can move none to better their estates:  
Who do not only hurt themselves alone,  
But Fortune (that still hurts them) do enthrone  
Among the Senate of those Deities  
That hisse (like Geese) at their kind Gulleries.  
What boots the Brains to have a wit divine,  
To make what ere it touch, in Glory shine?  
If (Midas like) it famished be with store  
Of golden Morsels set the same before:  
And for an hungerstaruen Fee (alas)  
To make an Idol of a Golden Ass.  
It's the worst way that wit can use his trade,  
For Fee so light, with rich praise Blocks to lad.  
Yet will I not so wrong myself and you,  
To bid you quite your thriftless Trade eschew.  
For, then, in time, I might want change (perchance)  
Of Robes, that do my glory most advance.  
No: write (kind Patrons) but let Patrons such  
Be praised as they deserve, a little's much:  
Because that little good in such is found,  
That give but little to be much renowned.  
Yet write (dear Gracers, that do make me fair)  
And live the while (Chameleon like) by air.  
Your lines (like shadows) set my Beauty forth,  
Shadowing the life of Art, Wit's dearest worth.  
When you are gone (for, long you cannot stay,  
Whose Brains your Pens pick out, to throw away)  
I will remember you, and make you live  
A life (without world's charge) which Fame doth give:  
For, should that life cost this Age more than breath,  
It soon would gnaw your dearest Fames to death.  
Man's life is but a dream; Nay, less than so;  
A shadow of a Dream; that's scarce a show:  
Then, in this Shadow, shadow out that Shade,  
That may the world substantially persuade  
You are half Gods, and more: so, cannot die  
By reason of your Wit's Divinity!   

How am I plagued with perifogging Scribes,  
That load me with foul lies for Fees and Bribes?  
And though wide Lines upon my sheets they put,  
Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shut:  
Which there in mystery obscurely lies  
That those which see it need have Eagles eyes,  
So I a Labyrinth am made thereby  
Where men oft lose themselves until they die:  
Or else a Traitorous trap, and subtle Snare,  
To crush rash fools which run in unaware.   

But that which most my soul excruciates,  
Some Chroniclers that write of Kingdom's States,  
Do so absurdly sableize my White  
With Masks and Interludes by day and night:  
Balld May-games, Beare-baytings, and poor Orations  
Made to some Prince by some poor Corporations:  
And if a Brick-bat from a Chimney falls  
When puffing Boreas ne'er so little bralls:  
Or else a Knave be hanged by justice doom  
For cutting of a Purse in selfsame room:  
Or wanton Rig, or lecher dissolute  
Do stand at Pauls-Crosse in a Sheeten Suit;  
All these, and thousand such like toys as these  
They clap in Chronicles like Butterflees,  
Of which there is no use; but spotteth me  
With Medley of their Motly Livery.  
And so confound grave Matters of estate  
With plays of Poppets, and I wot not what:  
Which make the Volume of her Greatness boast  
To put the Buyer to a needless Cost.  
Ah good Sir Thomas Moor, (Fame be with thee)  
Thy Hand did bless the English History,  
Or else (God knows) it had been as a Pray  
To brutish Barbarism until this Day.  
Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse  
At her unruly Matters much to muse:  
For (ah!) that ever any should record  
And Chronicle the Sedges of a Lord:  
Seiges of Towns, or Castles? No, (alas!)  
That were too well, but sedges that do pass  
Into the Draught, which none can well survey  
Without he turn his face another way.  
Yet where that is, I may not well disclose:  
But you may find it, follow but your Nose.  
As also when the Weathercock of Paul's  
Amended was, this Chronicler enroles.  
And O (alas!) that ere I was created  
Of Rags, to be thus rudely lacerated:  
With such most ragged wild, and childish Stuff  
As might put plainest Patience in a Ruff:  
For, this says one: There was, on such a day,  
A disputation (that's a Grammar fray)  
Between Paul's Scholars, and Saint Anthony's,  
Saint Bartholomew's among; and, the best Prize  
A Pen was of five shillings price; Alas!  
That ere this Doteherd made me such an Ass  
To bear such Trash; and that in such a Thing  
Which we call Chronicle: so, on me bring  
A world of shame: a shame upon them all  
That make mine injuries Historical  
To wear out Time, that, ever (without end)  
My shame may last, without some one it mend.  
And then, like an Historian for the nonce,  
He tells how two Knights here were feasted once,  
At monsieur Doysels lodging ('mong the rest)  
With a whole powdered Palfrey (at the least)  
That roasted was: so he (without remorse)  
Tells us a Tale but of a roasted Horse.  
Good God who can endure, but silly I,  
To bear the burden of such Trumpery,  
As, could I blush, my face no ink would bear:  
For blushing Flames would burn it coming there?  
But, Fame reports, there's one (forth coming yet)  
That's coming forth with Notes of better Set:  
And of this Nature; Who both can, and will  
With descant, more in tune, me fairly fill.  
And if a senseless creature (as I am;  
And, so am made, by those whom thus I blame)  
May judgement give, from those that know it well,  
His Notes for Art and judgement do excel.  
Well fare thee man of Art, and World of wit,  
That by supremest Mercy livest yet:  
Yet, dost but live; yet, livest thou to the end:  
But so thou payest for Time, which thou dost spend,  
That the dear Treasure of thy precious Skills  
The World with pleasure, and with profit fills.  
Thy long-wingd, active, and ingenious Spirit  
Is ever Towering to the highest height  
Of Wit, and Art; to beautify my face:  
So, dearly gracest life, for life's dear Grace.   

Another in the Chronicle as great  
As some old Church-book (that would make one sweat  
To turn it twice) at large (good man) doth show  
How his good Wife, good Beer, and Ale doth brew.  
With which (lest Readers foully might mistake)  
He many Leaves, in Folio, up doth take,  
To make them brew good Beer, and Ale aswell  
As his good wife; and all the Art doth tell.  
So, for a book of Cookery one would take  
That Chronicle that shows to brew and bake.  
here is strong Stuffe, a Chronicle to line;  
Wort varnish will; then doth the Story shine:  
Wherein Historians still may see the face  
Of Wit, and Art, their Histories to grace.   

I must endure all this: but God forgive them;  
I can no more commend them then believe them.  
I scarce would venture Malt, a Pennies price;  
To try the virtue of this Story's vice:  
For, as it marred the Chronicle before,  
So might it mar the malt, what ever more.  
With rank Redundance being thus oppressed,  
I (as for speaking nought) to death am pressed.   

But now (ah now) ensues a pinching pang,  
A villain vile, that sure in hell doth hang  
Height Mach-evill, that evil none can match,  
Daubed me with deu'llish Precepts souls to catch,  
And made me so (poor silly Innocent)  
Of good souls wracks, the cursed instrument.  
Now not a Groom (whose wits erst soared no higher  
Than how to pile the Logs on his Lord's fire)  
But plays the Machiavillian (with a pox)  
And, in a Sheepskin clad, the Wolf or Fox.   

I could here speak what havoc still is made  
Of my fair Reams which quarrels over-lade  
In right Religion's cause, as all pretend,  
Though ne'er so wrongly some her right defend.  
What never ending Strife they make me stir:  
For, I am made the Trumpet of their war.   

I pellmell put together by the ears  
All Nations that the Earth turmoiled bears;  
While wounded Consciences in such conflicts,  
Damnation's terror evermore afflicts  
In desperate doubts; with Winds of Doctrine tossed,  
Still likely in Faith's Shipwreck to be lost:  
While learned Pilots strive which Course is best,  
God's tempest-beaten Ark can take no rest,  
But up and down on Discords Billows borne  
In dismal plight, and fares as quite forlorn.  
But thou sweet Concord's cause, who with thy hand  
Dost tune the Deeps, and highest winds command,  
Look down from thine eternal Seat (secure)  
Upon thy Church Storme-tossed every hour;  
And factious men inspire with better grace  
Than with defence of Sects to stain my face.   

But wretched I (unhappy that I am)  
None, no not one, a'Pistle now can frame,  
T'address their Works to any Personage,  
But they (ay me) must crave their Patronage,  
To be protected from the bitter blow  
Of Momus, Zoilus, and I wot not who.  
O Momus, Momus, Zoilus, Zoilus, ye  
In these Epistles too much pester me:  
For, under Lords wings Metaphorical  
All Authors creep, a shame upon them all.  
And men you have alas so much bewitched  
That with your Names (like Needles) must be stitched:  
All dedicating 'Pistles in my sheets:  
For, first of all with you the Reader meets.  
And now that fashion is so stale become,  
That he in hate, crosse-wounds me with his Thumb,  
And ready is to tear my tender sides  
To make me Scavenger for their Back-sides.  
Good gentle Writers for the Lord sake, for the Lord sake,  
Like Ludgate Prisoner, lo, I (begging) make  
My moan to you; O listen to my moan,  
Let Zoile and Momus (for God's love) alone;  
Meddle not with them, Mome's a biting beast;  
And men for his name sake your Books detest,  
And makes me shake for fear lest in a rage  
They should enforce me wear their Buttocks badge.  
Leave off, leave off your Tokens of good will;  
The Poesies of old Rings new 'Pistles spill.  
Away with Patronage, a plague upon't,  
That hideous word is worse than Termagant.  
Call for no aid where none is to be found;  
Protect my Book: such Books O fates confound.  
To show my grateful mind: That's stinking stale;  
Yet in new 'Pistles such geare's set to sale.  
The poor man's present to the Emperor;  
O that in 'Pistles keeps a stinking stir.  
And not the Gift, but giver's poor good will:  
This, this, (O this) my vexed Soul doth kill!  
This is a Pill (in deed) to give more stools  
Than Mouths will fill of forty such fine-fooles.  
This heavy Sentence which I oft sustain,  
Makes me to groan, it puts me to such pain.  
Therefore I pray such Writers, write no more;  
Or if you do, write better than before.  
Doth Nature new Heads bring forth every day?  
And can those new heads no new Wit bewray?  
Unhappy Nature or unhappy Heads,  
Its time for one or both to take your Beads.  
The World and most men's Writs are at an end,  
Pray for increase of faith, than Wit will mend▪  
For sure the cause why men too foolish are,  
They faint in search of Wisdom through despair.  
Hath Aristotle left his wit behind;  
To help those Wits that seek, yet cannot find?  
Hath Socrates and Plato broke the ice  
To many a Skill and most divine Device?  
And cannot After-commers to't arrive?  
And with those Helps not equal Skill achieve?  
Did they (poor Men) out of mere Industry  
Attain to so great singularity,  
Having no Ground, or if Ground had but little  
Whereon their lofty buildings sure to settle:  
And can no Workman of this hapless Time,  
Add no Stone to it, nor no Dabbe of Lyme?  
I wrong them now, that Word I countermand;  
They add much Lime, but neither stone, nor sand.  
And that's the cause (as some good Authors say)  
Their Works, with Wind and Raine do dance the Hay;  
For, they fall downright; but the Rain and Wind  
Makes them run in and out as they're inclined:  
And could the weather speak, it would commend  
Such toward works as towards it do bend;  
And praise (beyond the Moon) their muddy Brain  
That builds with mud to sport the wind and rain.  
Plato and Socrates (the Mason free)  
With Stone and Lime built too substantially.  
And Aristotle (like a musing fool)  
Would lay no stone without good Reason's rule;  
What boot such BVILDINGS to wear Ages out?  
A goodly piece of Work it is no doubt:  
I'faith, i'faith, their Wits were much misled,  
To build for others now themselves are dead.  
The wind may now go whistle while it will,  
These weighty works for all that stand do still.  
The Rain, by soaking showers, may fall amain;  
Yet sure they stand for all such Showers of rain.  
Yea, let all Wethers join their force in one,  
They all unable are to stir one stone.  
A mischief on the Fools, what did they mean,  
To waste their Brains and make their Bodies lean,  
To profit others which they never knew,  
And build for Sots which after should ensue?  
Who gape upon it with great admiration;  
But dare not stir a foot from the foundation.  
Ye need not fear to climb, the work is sure,  
Else could it not so many Ages dure.  
And, if a Flaw be found, through Bvilder's blame,  
Now mother-wit (some say) can mend the same.  
And sith ye have such steadfast footing there,  
And yet will sink through sloth or faint through fear,  
O Heavens increase your faith, and make it strong;  
For ye, through weakness, do your wisdom's wrong.  
The Soul of Man is like that Pour Divine  
That in himself all wisdom doth contain:  
Which Simile in Wisdoms faculty  
Doth hold, or else there is no Simile.  
Man's Reason (if stirred up) can mount as high  
As Souls themselves, and they to heaven can fly,  
And from thence view what that Circumference  
Doth circumscribe, if subject unto sense.  
Homer (though blind) yet saw with his Souls eye,  
The Secret hid in deep'st Philosophy;  
In State-affairs, and in the highest Designs;  
All which he measures with immortal Lines;  
Whereat we rather ever do admire  
Than feel least fervour of his divine fire.  
What Country, Marches, Navy; nay, what Host  
Yea what Mindes-motions (both of man, and Ghost)  
Are by Him, so expressed, that he (we wot)  
Makes us to see that he himselefe saw not!  
His Illiads describes the Body's worth;  
The Mind, his Odyssea setteth forth,  
For which seven Cities strove, when he was gone,  
Which of them all should hold him as their own.   

Then gentle Writers, be not so employed  
In writing everlastingly, (uncloid)  
And let your reason idle be the while,  
Let Reason work, and spare your Writings toil,  
Till by degrees, she lifted hath your Spirit  
Unto the top of Humane-Wisdomes height.  
And when ye have aspired above your Sires  
Then write a Gods-name, fill my Reams and Quires,  
And with huge Volumes build a Babel▪ Tower  
As high as Heaven (that shall the Heaven's out-dure)  
For your Son's Sons to climb; if so they please,  
From Errors Floods and Perturbations Seas.  
And flatter nor, (alas) O flatter not  
Yourselves as wise; for, you are wide (God wot.)  
And though ye knew what Aristotle holds,  
Think not, therefore, your Brain all truth infolds:  
For, there are Truths (beside the Truth of Truth)  
That ne'er came near his Brain, much less his mouth.  
All which (when Powers of the Intelligence,  
In their pursuit use all their violence)  
May well be apprehended, though black Clouds  
Of utter-darkenesse their abiding shrowds:  
Which cannot be when Bounds are set to Wit  
In Plato his Plus Vltra, touched not yet:  
Or Aristotle's utmost travels reach,  
Whose Muse made, through the Marble Heavens a breach  
And past th'inferior Orbs, until he came  
Unto the highest Sphere of that huge Frame  
That whoorles the lower with repugnant sway,  
Yet had not power his mounting Muse to stay;  
But it would pry into th'imperial PLACE,  
Where Glory sits enthroned in greatest grace.  
Yet these be not true Wisdoms Bounds, whose scope,  
Do far extend above the Heavenly Cope;  
And more profound than the infernal Deep,  
Heaven earth, and Hell, her Greatness cannot keep:  
And though such Wisdom properly with God,  
And not with mortal men doth make abode,  
Yet he imparts of his unbounded grace  
So much as may Heaven, Earth, and Hell embrace  
With Contemplation's Arms, that all enfold  
Whose uncomprised reach no limits hold:  
But if, through sloth, those Arms be not extended,  
In Earth's Circumference then, their Circuits ended.   

Now, you that seek by wisdom to aspire,  
With study, imp the wings of your Desire,  
And you thereby shall scale the highest Height,  
Although your Minds be clogged with Body's weight:  
So may ye grace me with eternal lines,  
That compass can, and gage the deep'st Designs.   Omnia sapientibus facilia.  

A CONTINUED INQVISITION against Paper-Persecutors.  By A. H. 

ANd shall it still be so? norist more hard  
To repair Paul's then to mend Pauls-Churchyard?  
Shall still the Youths that walk the Middle-Ile,  
To whet their stomaches before meals, compile  
Their sudden volumes, and be never barred  
From scattering their Bastards through the Yard?  
Shall still such foppery fill up each Stall,  
And never come to a due Funeral?  
In so convenient a place? It is no wonder  
That Paul's so often hath been struck with Thunder:  
'Twas aimed at these Shops, in which there lie  
Such a confused World of Trumpery,  
Whose Titles each Term on the Posts are reared,  
In such abundance, it is to be feared  
That they in time, if thus they go on, will  
Not only Little but Great Britain fill,  
With their infectious Swarms; whose guilty sheets,  
I have observed walking in the streets:  
Still lurking near some Church, as if hereby  
They had retired to a Sanctuary,  
For murdering Paper so: as in old time  
Persons that had committed some foul crime  
Thus saved their lives: Each drivelling Lozel now  
That hath but seen a College, and knows how  
To put a number to john Seton's Prose,  
Starts up a sudden Muse-man, and straight throws  
A Pack of Epigrams into the light,  
Whose undigested mish-mash would affright  
The very Ghost of Marshal, and make  
Th'author's of th'Anthology to quake.   

Others dare venture a diviner strain, 
〈…〉   
And 
* The Bible rimed in a petty volume like the Battle of Troy.  Rhyme the Bible, whose foul Feet profane  
That holy ground, that wisemen may decide,  
The Bible ne'er was more Apochryphide,  
Than by their bold Excursions: (Bartas, thee,  
And thy Translatours, I absolve thee free  
From this my imputation: who in lines,  
(Deserving to be studied by Divines,)  
Didst mask thy Sacred Fury, whose rare wit,  
Did make the same another Holy Writ,  
Who, be it spoken to thy lasting praise,  
gav'st Sunday raiment to the Working Days.   

Others that ne'er searched new borne Vice at all,  
But the seven deadly Sins in general,  
Drawn from the Tractate of some cloistered Friar,  
Will needs write Satyrs, and in raging fire  
Exasperate their sharp Poetic strain,  
And think they have touched it, if they rail at Spain,  
The Pope and Devil; and while thus they urge  
Their stingless gall, there's none deserve the scourge  
More than themselves, whose weakness might suffice▪  
To furnish Satyrs and poor Elegies.   

To run through all the Pamphlets and the Toys  
Which I have seen in hands of Victoring Boys,  
To rail at all the merry Wherrie-Bookes,  
Which I have found in Kitchen-cobweb-nookes:  
To reckon up the very Titles, which  
Do please new Prentices, the Maids, and rich  
Wealth witt●'d Loobies, would require a Mass  
And Volume, bigger than would load an Ass:  
Nor ist their fault alone, they wisely poise,  
How the blind world doth only like such Toys.  
A general Folly reigneth, and harsh Fate  
Hath made the World itself insatiate:  
It hugs these Monsters and deformed things,  
Better than what johnson or Drayton sings:  
As in North-Villages, where every line  
Of Plumpton Park is held a work divine.  
If o'er the Chimney they some Ballads have  
Of Chevy-Chase, or of some branded slave  
Hanged at Tyburn, they their Matins make it,  
And Vespers too, and for the Bible take it.  
If a Choise-Piece should come into their hand,  
'T would be as hateful as a yellow-band  
Was at the first; so if upon the Wall  
They see an Antique in base Postures fall:  
As, a Friar blowing wind into the tail  
Of a Baboon, or an Ape drinking Ale,  
They admire that, when to their view perhaps  
If ye should set one of Mercators' Maps  
Or a rare Piece of Albert Durer, they  
Would hardly stick to throw the toy away,  
And curse the botching Painter; see, alas,  
The doting world is come unto this pass,  
England is all turned Yorkshire, and the Age  
Extremely sortish, or too nicely sage.   

To pass a thousand other, do but look  
Of late how they abused the Noble 
* O 〈…〉 etc.  Duke.  
What steeled patience could behold those Daws  
Prevaricate the Muse's sacred Laws,  
And blabber forth His Funeral, in Rhymes,  
I needs must say, much like these wretched Times?  
To hear the noseless Ballad-woman raise  
Her snuffling throat to His ill-penned praise:  
Or the oft beaten fellow make his moan,  
Who in the streets is wont to read Pope joan:  
To see each Wall and public Post defiled  
With diverse deadly Elegies, compiled  
By a foul swarm of Cuckoos of our Times,  
In Lamentable Lachrymentall Rhymes:  
By this I hope, y'have wronged him what you can  
By those abortive Brood's of Barbican,  
And such like Magazines of woeful things  
Such as I nor the sober Poet sings.  
Have you yet not to soil His spotless life  
Ended those begging Cartels to His 
* The  Wife?  
Who, could She but have raised her woeful Eyes,  
Had thought them Libels and not Elegies.  
And ye who with more secrecy did write  
Lines which you thought too precious for the light,  
In reserved Manuscripts, for shame give o'er  
Your hard-strained numbers, and disperse no more  
Your heavy Rhymes, which seem by quicker Eye  
Would make one quite abjure all Poetry,  
And study Stow and Hollinshed, and make  
Tractates of Travels, or an Almanac:  
But sure the names were falsified, nor can  
I think a Scholar or a Gentleman,  
Would do His Memory so foul abuse:  
Sure 'twas some Ballad-broker did traduce  
Their Fame, or th' one-leggd varlet who doth sing  
His roaring Nonsense, to a trivial Ring  
Of Prentices, about some arrant sent,  
Or Boys, who, than leave jack a Lent  
To hear the noise, or women who stand there,  
And at O-Hone ring forth a ready tear.  
Touching the State, Ambassadors or Kings,  
My Satire shall not touch such sacred things:  
Nor list I purchase penance at that rate,  
As some Spoile-Papers have dearly done of late.  
And such as these, whose names are justly spread.  
Unto their shame, are to be pitied,  
Rather than blamed; But to behold the walls  
Buttered with weekly News composed in Paul's,  
By some Decayed Captain, or those Rooks,  
Whose hungry brains compile prodigious Books,  
Of Bethlem Gabor's preparations, and  
How terms betwixt him and th' Emperor stand:  
Of Denmark, Swede, Poland, and of this and that,  
Their Wars, jars, Stirs, and I wot not what:  
The Duke of Brunswick, Mansfield, and Prince Maurice,  
Their Expeditions, and what else but true is,  
Yea of the Belgic state, yet scarcely know,  
Whether Brabant be in Christendom or no:  
To see such Batter every week besmear  
Each public post, and Church door, and to hear  
These shameful lies, would make a man in spite  
Of Nature, turn Satirist, and write  
Revenging lines, against these shameless men,  
Who thus torment both Paper, Press, and Pen.   

Th'Impostors that these Trumperies do utter,  
Are, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, and (—)  
Who if they do not soon these matters mend,  
I'll shortly into th'world, a Satire send,  
Who shall Them lash with dierie rods of Steel,  
That ever after They my jerks may feel.   Mysteria mea mihi.