Chapter XIII: Act V: Scene I (3)

I cannot hold, I cannot, I, endure
To view a big-womb'd foggy cloud immure
The radiant tresses of the quick'ning sun:
Let custards quake,[442] my rage must freely run.
Preach not the Stoic's patience to me;
I hate no man, but men's impiety.
My soul is vex'd; what power will resist,
Or dares to stop a sharp-fang'd satirist?
Who'll cool my rage? who'll stay my itching fist?
But I will plague and torture whom I list. 10
If that the threefold walls of Babylon
Should hedge my tongue, yet I should rail upon
This fusty world, that now dare put in ure[443]
To make JEHOVA but a coverture
To shade rank filth. Loose conscience is free
From all conscience, what else hath liberty?
As't please the Thracian Boreas to blow,
So turns our airy conscience to and fro.
What icy Saturnist, what northern pate,
But such gross lewdness would exasperate? 20
I think the blind doth see the flame-god rise
From sister's couch, each morning to the skies,
Glowing with lust. Walk but in dusky night
With Lynceus' eyes, and to thy piercing sight
Disguisèd gods will show, in peasants' shape,
Prest[444] to commit some execrable rape.
Here Jove's lust-pander, Maia's juggling son,
In clown's disguise, doth after milkmaids run;
And, 'fore he'll lose his brutish lechery,
The trulls shall taste sweet nectar's surquedry. 30
There Juno's brat forsakes Neries' (?) bed
And like a swaggerer, lust-firèd,
Attended only with his smock-sworn page,
Pert Gallus, slyly slips along, to wage
Tilting encounters with some spurious seed
Of marrow pies and yawning oysters' breed.
O damn'd!
Who would not shake a satire's knotty rod,
When to defile the sacred seat of God
Is but accounted gentlemen's disport? 40
To snort in filth, each hour to resort
To brothel-pits; alas! a venial crime,
Nay, royal, to be last in thirtieth slime!
Ay me! hard world for satirists begin
To set up shop, when no small petty sin
Is left unpurged! Once to be pursy fat,
Had wont because that life did macerate.
Marry, the jealous queen of air doth frown,
That Ganymede is up, and Hebe down.
Once Albion lived in such a cruel age 50
That[445] men did hold by servile villenage:
Poor brats were slaves of bondmen that were born,
And marted, sold: but that rude law is torn
And disannull'd, as too too[446] inhumane,
That lords o'er peasants should such service strain.
But now (sad change!) the kennel sink of slaves,
Peasant great lords, and servile service craves.
Bond-slave sons had wont be bought and sold;
But now heroës' heirs (if they have not told
A discreet number[447] 'fore their dad did die) 60
Are made much of: how much from merchandie?
Tail'd, and retail'd, till to the pedlar's pack
The fourth-hand ward-ware comes; alack, alack![448]
Would truth did know I lied: but truth and I
Do know that sense is born to misery.
Oh would to God this were their worst mischance,
Were not their souls sold to dark ignorance!
Fair godness is foul ill, if mischief's wit
Be not repress'd from lewd corrupting it.
O what dry brain melts not sharp mustard rhyme, 70
To purge the snottery of our slimy time!
Hence, idle "_Cave_," vengeance pricks me on,
When mart is made of fair religion.
Reform'd bald Trebus swore, in Romish quire,
He sold God's essence for a poor denier.[449]
The Egyptians adorèd onions,
To garlic yielding all devotions.
O happy garlic, but thrice happy you,
Whose scenting gods in your large gardens grew!
Democritus, rise from thy putrid slime, 80
Sport at the madness of that hotter clime,
Deride their frenzy, that for policy
Adore wheat dough as real deity.
Almighty men, that can their Maker make,
And force his sacred body to forsake
The cherubins, to be gnawn actually,
Dividing _individuum_ really;
Making a score of gods with one poor word.
Ay, so I thought, in that you could afford
So cheap a pennyworth. O ample field, 90
In which a satire may just weapon wield
But I am vex'd, when swarms of Julians
Are still manured by lewd precisians,
Who, scorning Church-rites, take the symbol up
As slovenly as careless courtiers slup
Their mutton gruel! Fie! who can withhold,
But must of force make his mild muse a scold,
When that he grievèd sees, with red vex'd eyes,
That Athens' ancient large immunities
Are eyesores to the Fates! Poor cells forlorn! 100
Is't not enough you are made an abject scorn
To jeering apes, but must the shadow too
Of ancient substance be thus wrung from you!
O split my heart, lest it do break with rage,
To see th' immodest looseness of our age!
Immodest looseness? fie, too gentle word,
When every sign can brothelry afford:
When lust doth sparkle from our females' eyes,
And modesty is roosted in the skies!
Tell me, Galliottæ, what means this sign, 110
When impropriate gentles will turn Capuchine?
Sooner be damn'd! O, stuff satirical!
When rapine feeds our pomp, pomp ripes our fall;
When the guest trembles at his host's swart look;
The son doth fear his stepdame, that hath took
His mother's place for lust; the twin-born brother
Maligns his mate, that first came from his mother;
When to be huge, is to be deadly sick;
When virtuous peasants will not spare to lick
The devil's tail for poor promotion; 120
When for neglect, slubber'd Devotion
Is wan with grief; when Rufus yawns for death
Of him that gave him undeservèd breath;
When Hermus makes a worthy question,
Whether of right,[450] as paraphernalion,
A silver piss-pot[451] fits his lady dame,
Or it's too good--a pewter best became;
When Agrippina poisons Claudius' son,
That all the world to her own brat might run;
When the husband gapes that his stale wife would die
That he might once be in by courtesy; 131
The big-paunch'd wife longs for her loath'd mate's death,
That she might have more jointures here on earth;
When tenure for short years (by many a one)
Is thought right good be[452] turn'd forth Littleton,
All to be heady, or freehold at least,
When 'tis all one, for long life be a beast,
A slave, as have a short-term'd tenancy;
When dead's the strength of England's yeomanry;
When inundation of luxuriousness 140
Fats all the world with such gross beastliness:--
Who can abstain? What modest brain can hold,
But he must make his shame-faced muse a scold?

[442] Ridiculed in _The Poetaster_, v. i.; but we have the
expression _quaking custard_ in the prologue to _Volpone_.

[443] Use.

[444] _i.e._, intent on committing.

[445] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "Than."

[446] See note 1, vol. ii. p. 328.

[447] _i.e._, if they have not attained their majority.

[448] Dekker, on the other hand, tells us in _The Seven Deadly
Sins of London_, 1606, that orphans were nowhere more carefully
guarded than in London. "For what city in the world," he writes,
"does more dry up the tears of the widow and gives more warmth to
the fatherless than this ancient and reverend grandame of cities?
Where hath the orphan (that is to receive great portions) less
cause to mourn the loss of parents? He finds four and twenty
grave senators to be his father instead of one; the city itself
to be his mother; her officers to be his servants, who see that
he want nothing; her laws to suffer none to do him wrong; and
though he be never so simple in wit or so tender in years, she
looks as warily to that wealth which is left him as to the apple
of her own eye."

[449] A small French coin.

[450] Old eds. "Whether of _Wright_, as _Paraphonalion_."

[451] It would appear from old inventories that these articles
were occasionally made of the precious metals.

[452] The text is evidently corrupt.

SATIRE III.

_Redde, age, quæ deinceps risisti._

It's good be wary, whilst the sun shines clear
(Quoth that old chuff that may dispend by year
Three thousand pound), whilst he of good pretence
Commits himself to Fleet, to save expense.
No country's Christmas--rather tarry here,
The Fleet is cheap, the country hall too dear.
But, Codrus, hark! the world expects to see
Thy bastard heir rot there in misery.
What! will Luxurio keep so great a hall
That he will prove a bastard in his fall? 10
No; "Come[453] on five! St. George, by Heaven, at all!"
Makes his catastrophe right tragical!
At all? till nothing's left! Come on, till all comes off,
Ay, hair and all! Luxurio, left a scoff
To leprous filths! O stay, thou impious slave,
Tear not the lead from off thy father's grave
To stop base brokeage!--sell not thy father's sheet--
His leaden sheet, that strangers' eyes may greet
Both putrefaction of thy greedy sire
And thy abhorrèd viperous desire! 20
But wilt thou needs, shall thy dad's lacky brat
Wear thy sire's half-rot finger in his hat?
Nay, then, Luxurio, waste in obloquy,
And I shall sport to hear thee faintly cry,
"A die, a drab, and filthy broking knaves,
Are the world's wide mouths, all-devouring graves."
Yet Samus keeps a right good house, I hear--
No, it keeps him, and free'th him from chill fear
Of shaking fits. How, then, shall his smug wench,
How shall her bawd (fit time) assist her quench 30
Her sanguine heat? Lynceus, canst thou scent?
She hath her monkey and her instrument
Smooth fram'd at Vitrio. O grievous misery!
Luscus hath left his[454] female luxury;
Ay, it left him! No, his old cynic dad
Hath forc'd him clean forsake his Pickhatch[455] drab.
Alack, alack! what peace of lustful flesh
Hath Luscus left, his Priape to redress?
Grieve not, good soul, he hath his Ganymede,
His perfumed she-goat, smooth-kemb'd and high fed. 40
At Hogson[456] now his monstrous love he feasts,
For there he keeps a bawdy-house of beasts.
Paphus, let Luscus have his courtezan,
Or we shall have a monster of a man.
Tut! Paphus now detains him from that bower,
And clasps him close within his brick-built tower.
Diogenes,[457] thou art damn'd for thy lewd wit,
For Luscus now hath skill to practise it.
Faith, what cares he for fair Cinædian boys,
Velvet-caped[458] goats, Dutch mares? Tut! common toys!
Detain them all on this condition, 51
He may but use his cynic friction.
O now, ye male stews, I can give pretence
For your luxurious incontinence.
Hence, hence, ye falsèd seeming patriots,
Return not with pretence of salving spots,
When here ye soil us with impurity,
And monstrous filth of Doway seminary.
What, though Iberia yield you liberty,
To snort in sauce of Sodom villainy? 60
What, though the blooms of young nobility,
Committed to your Rhodon's custody,
Ye, Nero-like, abuse? yet ne'er approach
Your new St. Omer's[459] lewdness here to broach;
Tainting our towns and hopeful academes
With your lust-baiting, most abhorrèd means.
Valladolid, our Athens, 'gins to taste
Of thy rank filth. Camphire and lettuce chaste[460]
Are clean cashier'd; now Sophi ringoes eat,
Candied potatoes are Athenians' meat. 70
Hence, holy thistle, come sweet marrow-pie,
Enflame our backs to itching luxury.
A crab's[461] baked guts, a lobster's butter'd thigh,
I hear them swear is blood for venery.
Had I some snout-fair[462] brats, they should endure
The new-found Castilion calenture
Before some pedant tutor, in his bed,
Should use my frie like Phrygian Ganymede.
Nay, then, chaste cells, when greasy Aretine,
For his rank fico,[463] is surnamed divine; 80
Nay, then, come all ye venial scapes to me,
I dare well warrant you'll absolvèd be.
Rufus, I'll term thee but intemperate--
I will not once thy vice exaggerate--
Though that each hour thou lewdly swaggerest,
And at the quarter-day pay'st interest
For the forbearance of thy chalkèd score;
Though that thou keep'st a tally with thy whore:
Since Nero keeps his mother Agrippine,
And no strange lust can satiate[464] Messaline. 90
Tullus, go scotfree; though thou often bragg'st
That, for a false French crown thou vaulting hadst;
Though that thou know'st, for thy incontinence,
Thy drab repaid thee true French pestilence.
But tush! his boast I bear, when Tegeran
Brags that he foists his rotten courtezan
Upon his heir, that must have all his lands,
And them hath join'd in Hymen's sacred bands.
I'll wink at Robrus, that for vicinage
Enters common on his next neighbour's stage; 100
When Jove maintains his sister and his whore,
And she incestuous, jealous evermore
Lest that Europa on the bull should ride;
Woe worth, when beasts for filth are deified!
Alack, poor rogues! what censor interdicts
The venial scapes of him that purses picks?
When some sly golden-slopp'd Castilio
Can cut a manor's strings at primero?
Or with a pawn shall give a lordship mate,
In statute-staple[465] chaining fast his state? 110
What academic starved satirist
Would gnaw reez'd[466] bacon, or, with ink-black fist,
Would toss each muck-heap for some outcast scraps
Of half-dung bones, to stop his yawning chaps?
Or, with a hungry, hollow, half-pined jaw
Would once a thrice-turn'd bone-pick'd subject gnaw,
When swarms of mountebanks and banditti,
Damn'd Briareans, sinks of villainy,
Factors for lewdness, brokers for the devil,
Infect our souls with all-polluting evil? 120
Shall Lucia scorn her husband's lukewarm bed
(Because her pleasure, being hurrièd
In jolting coach, with glassy instrument,
Doth far exceed the Paphian blandishment),
Whilst I (like to some mute Pythagoran)
Halter my hate, and cease to curse and ban
Such brutish filth? Shall Matho raise his fame
By printing pamphlets in another's name,
And in them praise himself, his wit, his might,
All to be deem'd his country's lanthorn-light? 130
Whilst my tongue's tied with bonds of blushing shame,
For fear of broaching my concealèd name?
Shall Balbus, the demure Athenian,
Dream of the death of next vicarian,
Cast his nativity, mark his complexion,
Weigh well his body's weak condition,
That, with gilt sleight, he may be sure to get
The planet's place when his dim shine shall set?
Shall Curio streak[467] his limbs on his day's couch,
In summer bower, and with bare groping touch 140
Incense his lust, consuming all the year
In Cyprian dalliance, and in Belgic cheer?
Shall Faunus spend a hundred gallions
Of goat's pure milk to lave his stallions,
As much rose-juice? O bath! O royal, rich,
To scour Faunus and his salt-proud bitch.
And when all's cleans'd, shall the slave's inside stink
Worse than the new cast slime of Thames ebb'd brink,
Whilst I securely let him over-slip,
Ne'er yerking him with my satiric whip? 150
Shall Crispus with hypocrisy beguile,
Holding a candle to some fiend a while--
Now Jew, then Turk, then seeming Christian,
Then Atheist, Papist, and straight Puritan;
Now nothing, anything, even what you list,
So that some gilt[468] may grease his greedy fist?
Shall Damas use his third-hand ward as ill
As any jade that tuggeth in the mill?
What, shall law, nature, virtue be rejected,
Shall these world-arteries be soul-infected 160
With corrupt blood, whilst I shall Martia task,
Or some young Villius all in choler ask
How he can keep a lazy waiting-man,
And buy a hood, and silver-handled fan,
With forty pound? Or snarl at Lollius' son,
That with industrious pains hath harder won
His true-got worship and his gentry's name
Than any swineherd's brat that lousy came
To luskish[469] Athens and, with farming pots,
Compiling beds, and scouring greasy spots, 170
By chance (when he can, like taught parrot, cry
"Dearly belov'd," with simpering gravity)
Hath got the farm of some gelt[470] vicary,
And now, on cock-horse, gallops jollily;
Tickling, with some stol'n stuff, his senseless cure,
Belching lewd terms 'gainst all sound literature?
Shall I with shadows fight, task bitterly
Rome's filth, scraping base channel roguery,
Whilst such huge giants shall affright our eyes
With execrable, damn'd inpieties? 180
Shall I find trading Mecho never loath
Frankly to take a damning perjured oath?
Shall Furia broke her sister's modesty,
And prostitute her soul to brothelry?
Shall Cossus make his well-faced wife a stale,[471]
To yield his braided[472] ware a quicker sale?
Shall cock-horse, fat-paunch'd Milo stain whole stocks
Of well-born souls with his adultering spots?
Shall broking panders suck nobility,
Soiling fair stems with foul impurity? 190
Nay, shall a trencher-slave extenuate
Some Lucrece rape, and straight magnificate
Lewd Jovian lust, whilst my satiric vein
Shall muzzled be, not daring out to strain
His tearing paw? No, gloomy Juvenal,
Though to thy fortunes I disastrous fall.

[453] "Come on five," "at all,"--old terms in dice-playing.

[454] Ed. 1599 "her."

[455] A low part of Clerkenwell.

[456] Hoxton,--in Elizabethan times a favourite resort for
pleasure-seekers. See particularly the opening of _The Passionate
Morrice_ (pt. ii. of _Tell-Trothes New Yeares Gift_), 1593.

[457] There is an allusion to a scandalous story told of Diogenes
the Cynic. See Plutarch's _De Stoicorum Repugnantiis_, cap. xxi.,
and Diogenes Laertius' _Philosophorum Vitæ_, vi. 2, 46.

[458] So I understand the "Velvet-cap't" of the old eds.

[459] Old eds. "S. Homers."

[460] So Hall in _Virgidem_., iv. 4:--
"Virginius vow'd to keep his maidenhead,
And eats _chaste lettuce_ and drinks poppy head,
And smells on camphire fasting."

[461] See vol. i. p. 239.

[462] Hall has this word in _Virgidem._, iv. 1.

[463] The name of a disease (Gr. sukon, Lat. _ficus_).--Aretine
was styled _Il divino_.

[464] Juvenal, _Sat._ vi. 130.

[465] See Cowell's _Interpreter_.

[466] Rusty, rancid. Hall has the expression "reez'd bacon" in
_Virgidem_., iv. 2.

[467] Stretch. So Hall in _Virgidem._ vi. 1. 207: "When Lucan
_streakèd_ on his marble bed, &c."

[468] "Gilt" (or gelt)--money.--Old eds. "guilt."

[469] Clownish.--"Maudolé. Misshapen, ill-framed, ill-favoured,
_luskish_, without proportion."--_Cotgrave._ Athens is evidently
Cambridge; and Marston is again glancing at Hall.

[470] It seems to have been too common a practice for the patron
of a living to pocket the best part of the incumbent's income--to
"geld" the vicarage. Cf. _Jack Drum's Entertainment_:--
"Sir, it were good you got a benefice,
Some eunuch'd vicarage or some fellowship"
(Simpsons's _School of Shakspere_, ii. 172); Hall's _Virgidem._,
iv. 2, 105-6:--
"plod at a patron's tail
To get a _gelded chapel's_ cheaper sale."

[471] See note, vol. ii. p. 60.

[472] Faded.

SATIRE IV.

_Cras._

Ay, marry, sir, here's perfect honesty,
When Martius will forswear all villainy
(All damn'd abuse of payment in the wars,
All filching from his prince and soldiers),
When once he can but so much bright dirt glean
As may maintain one more Whitefriars quean,
One drab more; faith, then farewell villainy,
He'll cleanse himself to Shoreditch purity.
As for Stadius, I think he hath a soul;
And if he were but free from sharp control 10
Of his sour host, and from his tailor's bill,
He would not thus abuse his rhyming skill;
Jading our tirèd ears with fooleries,
Greasing great slaves with oily flatteries.
Good faith, I think he would not strive to suit
The back of humorous Time (for base repute
'Mong dunghill peasants), botching up such ware
As may be saleable in Sturbridge fair,
If he were once but freed from specialty;
But sooth, till then, bear with his balladry. 20
I ask'd lewd Gallus when he'll cease to swear,
And with whole-culverin, raging oaths to tear
The vault of heaven--spitting in the eyes
Of Nature's nature loathsome blasphemies.
To-morrow, he doth vow, he will forbear.
Next day I meet him, but I hear him swear
Worse than before. I put his vow in mind.
He answers me "To-morrow;" but I find
He swears next day far worse than e'er before,
Putting me off with "morrow" evermore. 30
Thus, when I urge him, with his sophistry
He thinks to salve his damnèd perjury.
Silenus now is old, I wonder, I,
He doth not hate his triple venery.
Cold, writhled[473] eld, his life-sweat[474] almost spent,
Methinks a unity were competent.
But, O fair hopes! he whispers secretly,
When it leaves him he'll leave his lechery.
When simp'ring Flaccus (that demurely goes
Right neatly tripping on his new-black'd toes) 40
Hath made rich use of his religion,
Of God himself, in pure devotion;
When that the strange ideas in his head
(Broachèd 'mongst curious sots, by shadows led)
Have furnish'd him, by his hoar auditors,
Of fair demesnes and goodly rich manors;
Sooth, then, he will repent when's treasury
Shall force him to disclaim his heresy.
What will not poor need force? But being sped,
God for us all! the gurmond's[475] paunch is fed; 50
His mind is changed. But when will he do good?
To-morrow,--ay, to-morrow, by the rood!
Yet Ruscus swears he'll cease to broke a suit,
By peasant means striving to get repute
'Mong puffy sponges, when the Fleet's defrayed,
His revel tire, and his laundress paid.
There is a crew which I too plain could name,
If so I might without th' Aquinians'[476] blame,
That lick the tail of greatness with their lips--
Labouring with third-hand jests and apish skips, 60
Retailing others' wit, long barrellèd,
To glib some great man's ears till paunch be fed--
Glad if themselves, as sporting fools, be made
To get the shelter of some high-grown shade.
To-morrow yet these base tricks they'll cast off,
And cease for lucre be a jeering scoff.
Ruscus will leave when once he can renew
His wasted clothes, that are ashamed to view
The world's proud eyes; Drusus will cease to fawn
When that his farm, that leaks in melting pawn, 70
Some lord-applauded jest hath once set free:
All will to-morrow leave their roguery.
When fox-furr'd Mecho (by damn'd usury,
Cut-throat deceit, and his craft's villainy)
Hath raked together some four thousand pound,
To make his smug girl bear a bumming sound
In a young merchant's ear, faith, then (may be)
He'll ponder if there be a Deity;
Thinking, if to the parish poverty,
At his wish'd death, be doled a halfpenny, 80
A work of supererogation,
A good filth-cleansing strong purgation.
Aulus will leave begging monopolies
When that, 'mong troops of gaudy butterflies,
He is but able jet it jollily
In piebald suits of proud court bravery.
To-morrow doth Luxurio promise me
He will unline himself from bitchery;
Marry, Alcides thirteenth act must lend
A glorious period, and his lust-itch end, 90
When once he hath froth-foaming Ætna past,
At one-and-thirty,[477] being always last.
If not to-day (quoth that Nasonian),
Much less to-morrow. "Yes," saith Fabian,
"For ingrain'd habits, dyed with often dips,
Are not so soon discolourèd. Young slips,
New set, are easily mov'd and pluck'd away;
But elder roots clip faster in the clay."
I smile at thee, and at the Stagyrite,[478]
Who holds the liking of the appetite, 100
Being fed with actions often put in ure,[479]
Hatcheth the soul in quality impure
Or pure; may be in virtue: but for vice,
That comes by inspiration, with a trice.
Young Furius, scarce fifteen years of age,
But is, straightways, right fit for marriage--
Unto the devil; for sure they would agree,
Betwixt their souls there is such sympathy.
O where's your sweaty habit, when each ape,
That can but spy the shadow of his shape, 110
That can no sooner ken what's virtuous,
But will avoid it, and be vicious!
Without much do or far-fetch'd habiture,
In earnest thus:--It is a sacred cure
To salve the soul's dread wounds; omnipotent
That Nature is, that cures the impotent,
Even in a moment. Sure, grace is infused
By Divine favour, not by actions used,
Which is as permanent as heaven's bliss,
To them that have it; then no habit is. 120
To-morrow, nay, to-day, it may be got,
So please that gracious power cleanse thy spot.
Vice, from privation of that sacred grace
Which God withdraws, but puts not vice in place.
Who says the sun is cause of ugly night?
Yet when he veils our eyes from his fair sight,
The gloomy curtain of the night is spread.
Ye curious sots, vainly by Nature led,
Where is your vice or virtuous habit now?
For _Sustine_[480] _pro nunc_ doth bend his brow, 130
And old crabb'd Scotus, on the Organon,
Pay'th me with snaphance,[481] quick distinction.
"Habits, that intellectual termèd be,
Are got or else infused from Deity."
Dull Sorbonist, fly contradiction!
Fie! thou oppugn'st the definition;
If one should say, "Of things term'd rational,
Some reason have, others mere sensual,"
Would not some freshman, reading Porphyry,
Hiss and deride such blockish foolery? 140
"Then vice nor virtue have from habit place;
The one from want, the other sacred grace;
Infused, displaced; not in our will or force,
But as it please Jehovah have remorse."
I will, cries Zeno. O presumption!
I can. Thou mayst, doggèd opinion
Of thwarting cynics. To-day vicious;
List to their precepts, next day virtuous.
Peace, Seneca, thou belchest blasphemy!
"To live from God, but to live happily" 150
(I hear thee boast) "from thy philosophy,
And from thyself." O ravening lunacy!
Cynics, ye wound yourselves; for destiny,
Inevitable fate, necessity,
You hold, doth sway the acts spiritual,
As well as parts of that we mortal call.
Where's then _I will_? Where's that strong deity
You do ascribe to your philosophy?
Confounded Nature's brats! can _will_ and _fate_
Have both their seat and office in your pate? 160
O hidden depth of that dread secrecy,
Which I do trembling touch in poetry!
To-day, to-day, implore obsequiously;
Trust not to-morrow's will, lest utterly
Ye be attach'd with sad confusion,
In your grace-tempting lewd presumption.
But I forget. Why sweat I out my brain
In deep designs to gay boys, lewd and vain?
These notes were better sung 'mong better sort;
But to my pamphlet, few, save fools, resort. 170

[473] Writhed, crooked.

[474] Old eds. "_liues-wet_."

[475] "Gourmand. A glutton, _gormand_, bellie-god,
greedy-gut."--_Cotgrave._

[476] Juvenal was a native of Aquinum: hence Aquinians =
satirists.

[477] There was a game at cards called "one-and-thirty."

[478] heni di logo ek ton homoion energeion ai hexeis ginontai.
Arist. _Eth. Nicom._ ii. 1, 7.

[479] Use.

[480] _I.e._, maintain the thesis for the occasion.

[481] See note, p. 269. [Transcriber's note: Footnote 364].

PROEMIUM IN LIBRUM SECUNDUM.

I cannot quote a mott[482] Italionate,
Or brand my satires with some Spanish term;
I cannot with swoll'n lines magnificate
Mine own poor worth, or as immaculate
Task others' rhymes, as if no blot did stain,
No blemish soil, my young satiric vein.

Nor can I make my soul a merchandise,
Seeking conceits to suit these artless times;
Or deign for base reward to poetise,
Soothing the world with oily flatteries. 10
Shall mercenary thoughts provoke me write--
Shall I for lucre be a parasite?

Shall I once pen for vulgar sorts applause,
To please each hound, each dungy scavenger;
To fit some oyster-wench's yawning jaws
With tricksey tales of speaking Cornish daws?[483]
First let my brain (bright-hair'd Latona's son)
Be clean distract with all confusion.

What though some John-à-Stile will basely toil,
Only incited with the hope of gain: 20
Though roguey thoughts do force some jade-like moil;
Yet no such filth my true-born muse will soil.
O Epictetus, I do honour thee,
To think how rich thou wert in poverty!

[482] Motto.

[483] "Cornish daws"--jackdaws.

_Ad rhythmum._

Come, pretty pleasing symphony of words,
Ye well-match'd twins (whose like-tuned tongues affords
Such musical delight), come willingly
And dance lavoltas in my poesy.
Come all as easy as spruce Curio will,
In some court-hall, to show his cap'ring skill;
As willingly come, meet and jump together
As new-join'd loves, when they do clip each other;
As willingly as wenches trip around
About a May-pole after bagpipe's sound; 10
Come, rhyming numbers, come and grace conceit,
Adding a pleasing close, with your deceit
Enticing ears. Let not my ruder hand
Seem once to force you in my lines to stand;
Be not so fearful (pretty souls) to meet
As Flaccus is the sergeant's face to greet;
Be not so backward, loth to grace my sense,
As Drusus is to have intelligence
His dad's alive; but come into my head
As jocundly as (when his wife was dead) 20
Young Lælius to his home. Come, like-faced rhyme,
In tuneful numbers keeping music's time;
But if you hang an arse, like Tubered,
When Chremes dragg'd him from his brothel bed,
Then hence, base ballad-stuff, my poetry
Disclaims you quite; for know my liberty
Scorns rhyming laws. Alas, poor idle sound!
Since I first Phoebus knew I never found
Thy interest in sacred poesy;
Thou to invention add'st but surquedry, 30
A gaudy ornature, but hast no part
In that soul-pleasing high infusèd art.
Then if thou wilt clip kindly in my lines,
Welcome, thou friendly aid of my designs:
If not, no title of my senseless change
To wrest some forcèd rhyme, but freely range.
Ye scrupulous observers, go and learn
Of Æsop's dog; meat from a shade discern.

SATIRE V.

_Totum in toto._

Hang thyself, Drusus: hast nor arms nor brain?
So Sophi say, "The gods sell all for pain."
Not so.
Had not that toiling Theban's[484] steelèd back
Dread poisoned shafts, lived he now, he should lack
Spite of his farming ox-stalls. Themis' self
Would be cashier'd from one poor scrap of pelf.
If that she were incarnate in our time,
She might lusk,[485] scornèd in disdainèd slime,
Shaded from honour by some envious mist 10
Of wat'ry fogs, that fill the ill-stuff'd list
Of fair Desert, jealous even of blind dark,
Lest it should spy, and at their lameness bark.
"Honour's shade thrusts honour's substance from his place."
'Tis strange, when shade the substance can disgrace.
"Harsh lines!" cries Curus, whose ears ne'er rejoice
But at the quavering of my lady's voice.
Rude limping lines fits this lewd halting age:
Sweet-scenting Curus, pardon then my rage,
When wisards[486] swear plain virtue never thrives, 20
None but Priapus by plain dealing wives.
Then, subtile Hermes, are the destinies
Enamour'd on thee! Then up, mount the skies,
Advance, depose, do even what thou list,
So long as fates do grace thy juggling fist.
Tuscus, hast Beuclerc's arms and strong sinews,
Large reach, full-fed veins, ample revenues?
Then make thy markets by thy proper arm;
O brawny strength is an all-canning[487] charm!
Thou dreadless Thracian![488] hast Hallirhothius slain? 30
What, is't not possible thy cause maintain
Before the dozen Areopagites?
Come, Enagonian,[489] furnish him with sleights.
Tut, Pluto's wrath Proserpina can melt,
So that thy sacrifice be freely felt.
What! cannot Juno force in bed with Jove,
Turn and return a sentence with her love?--
Thou art too dusky.--Fie, thou shallow ass!
Put on more eyes, and mark me as I pass.
Well, plainly thus: "Sleight, force are mighty things, 40
From which much (if not most) earth's glory springs.
If virtue's self were clad in human shape,
Virtue without these might go beg and scrape.
The naked truth is, a well-clothèd lie,
A nimble quick pate mounts to dignity;
By force or fraud, that matters not a jot,
So massy wealth may fall unto thy lot."
I heard old Albius swear Flavus should have
His eldest girl, for Flavus was a knave,
A damn'd deep-reaching villain, and would mount 50
(He durst well warrant him) to great account;
What, though he laid forth all his stock and store
Upon some office, yet he'll gain much more,
Though purchased dear; tut, he will treble it
In some few terms, by his extorting wit.
When I, in simple meaning, went to sue
For tongue-tied Damus, that would needs go woo,
I prais'd him for his virtuous honest life.
"By God," cries Flora, "I'll not be his wife!
He'll ne'er come on." Now I swear solemnly, 60
When I go next I'll praise his villainy:
A better field to range in nowadays.
If vice be virtue, I can all men praise.
What, though pale Maurus paid huge simonies
For his half-dozen gelded vicaries,[490]
Yet, with good honest cut-throat usury,
I fear he'll mount to reverent[491] dignity.
"O sleight, all-canning sleight, all-damning sleight,
The only gally-ladder unto might."
Tuscus is trade-fall'n; yet great hope he'll rise, 70
For now he makes no count of perjuries;
Hath drawn false lights[492] from pitch-black loveries,[493]
Glazed his braided[494] ware, cogs, swears, and lies;
Now since he hath the grace, thus graceless be,
His neighbours swear he'll swell with treasury.
Tut, who maintains such goods, ill-got, decay?
No, they'll stick by thy[495] soul, they'll ne'er away.
Luscus, my lord's perfumer, had no sale
Until he made his wife a brothel-stale.
Absurd, the gods sell all for industry, 80
When what's not got by hell-bred villainy!
Codrus, my well-faced lady's tail-bearer
(He that sometimes play'th Flavia's usherer),
I heard one day complain to Lynceus
How vigilant, how right obsequious,
Modest in carriage, how true in trust,
And yet (alas!) ne'er guerdon'd with a crust.
But now I see he finds by his accounts
That sole Priapus, by plain-dealing, mounts.
How now? What, droops the new Pegasian inn? 90
I fear mine host is honest. Tut, begin
To set up whorehouse; ne'er too late to thrive;
By any means, at Porta Rich arrive;
Go use some sleight, or live poor Irus' life;
Straight prostitute thy daughter or thy wife,
And soon be wealthy; but be damn'd with it.
Hath not rich Milo then deep-reaching wit?
Fair age!
When 'tis a high and hard thing t' have repute
Of a complete villain, perfect, absolute; 100
And roguing virtue brings a man defame,
A packstaff[496] epithet, and scornèd name.
Fie, how my wit flags! How heavily
Methinks I vent dull sprightless poesy!
What cold black frost congeals my numbèd brain!
What envious power stops a satire's vein!
O now I know the juggling god of sleights,
With Caduceus nimble Hermes fights,
And mists my wit; offended that my rhymes
Display his odious world-abusing crimes. 110
O be propitious, powerful god of arts!
I sheathe my weapons, and do break my darts.
Be then appeased; I'll offer to thy shrine
An hecatomb of many spotted kine.
Myriads of beasts shall satisfy thy rage,
Which do profane thee in this apish age.
Infectious blood, ye gouty humours quake,
Whilst my sharp razor doth incision make.

[484] Hercules.

[485] Lie in idleness.

[486] _i.e._, wise men.

[487] _i.e._, all-powerful.

[488] Ares.--See Apollodorus' _Bibl._, iii. 14.

[489] A term (coined from Gr. enagonios) for a rhetorician.

[490] See note, p. 324. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [470]]

[491] Frequently used by Marston in the sense of _reverend_.

[492] It was a common device with dishonest tradesmen to darken
their shops in order to palm off inferior goods on their
customers. Middleton, i. 247.

[493] Loovers,--openings in the roof to let in light.

[494] Faded.

[495] Ed. 1599 "the."

[496] Fitting a pedlar.--See note 1, p. 310.
[Transcriber's Note: Footnote [436]]

SATIRE VI.

_Hem, nosti'n?_

Curio, know'st me? Why, thou bottle-ale,[497]
Thou barmy[498] froth! O stay me, lest I rail
Beyond _Nil ultra_! to see this butterfly,
This windy bubble, task my balladry
With senseless censure. Curio, know'st my sprite?
Yet deem'st that in sad[499] seriousness I write
Such nasty stuff as is _Pygmalion_?
Such maggot-tainted, lewd corruption!
Ha, how he glavers[500] with his fawning snout,
And swears he thought I meant but faintly flout 10
My fine smug rhyme. O barbarous dropsy-noul![501]
Think'st thou that genius that attends my soul,
And guides my fist to scourge magnificos,
Will deign my mind be rank'd in Paphian shows?
Think'st thou that I, which was create to whip
Incarnate fiends, will once vouchsafe to trip
A pavin's[502] traverse, or will lisp "Sweet love,"
Or pule "Aye me," some female soul to move?
Think'st thou that I in melting poesy
Will pamper itching sensuality 20
(That in the body's scum all fatally
Entombs the soul's most sacred faculty)?
Hence, thou misjudging censor: know I wrot
Those idle rhymes to note the odious spot
And blemish that deforms the lineaments
Of modern poesy's habiliments.
O that the beauties of invention,
For want of judgment's disposition,
Should all be spoil'd![503] O that such treasury,
Such strain of well-conceited poesy, 30
Should moulded be in such a shapeless form,
That want of art should make such wit a scorn!
Here's one must invocate some loose-legg'd dame,
Some brothel drab, to help him stanzas frame,
Or else (alas!) his wits can have no vent,
To broach conceit's industrious intent.
Another yet dares tremblingly come out;
But first he must invoke good Colin Clout.
Yon's one hath yean'd a fearful prodigy,
Some monstrous misshapen balladry; 40
His guts are in his brains, huge jobbernoul,[504]
Right gurnet's-head;[505] the rest without all soul.
Another walks, is lazy, lies him down,
Thinks, reads, at length some wonted sleep doth crown
His new-fall'n lids, dreams; straight, ten pound to one,
Out steps some fairy with quick motion,
And tells him wonders of some flow'ry vale;
Awakes, straight rubs his eyes, and prints his tale.
Yon's one whose strains have flown so high a pitch,
That straight he flags and tumbles in a ditch. 50
His sprightly hot high-soaring poesy
Is like that dreamèd of imagery,
Whose head was gold, breast silver, brassy thigh,
Lead legs, clay feet;[506] O fair-framed poesy!
Here's one, to get an undeserved repute
Of deep deep learning, all in fustian suit
Of ill passed, far-fetch'd words attiereth
His period, that sense forsweareth.
Another makes old Homer Spenser cite,
Like my _Pygmalion_, where, with rare[507] delight, 60
He cries, "O Ovid!" This caus'd my idle quill,
The world's dull ears with such lewd stuff to fill,
And gull with bumbast lines the witless sense
Of these odd nags, whose pates' circumference
Is fill'd with froth. O these same buzzing gnats
That sting my sleeping brows, these Nilus' rats,[508]
Half dung, that have their life from putrid slime--
These that do praise my loose lascivious rhyme!
For these same shades, I seriously protest,
I slubbered up that chaos indigest, 70
To fish for fools that stalk in goodly shape;
"What, though in velvet cloak, yet still an ape."
Capro reads, swears, scrubs, and swears again,
"Now by my soul an admirable strain;"
Strokes up his hair, cries, "Passing passing good;"
O, there's a line incends his lustful blood!
Then Muto comes, with his new glass-set face,
And with his late-kiss'd hand my book doth grace,
Straight reads, then smiles, and lisps, "'Tis pretty good,"
And praiseth that he never understood. 80
But room for Flaccus, he'll my Satires read;
O how I trembled straight with inward dread!
But when I saw him read my fustian,
And heard him swear I was a Pythian,
Yet straight recall'd, and swears I did but quote
Out of Xylinum[509] to that margent's note,
I could scarce hold and keep myself conceal'd,
But had well-nigh myself and all reveal'd.
Then straight comes Friscus, that neat gentleman,
That new-discarded academian, 90
Who, for he could cry _Ergo_ in the school,
Straightway with his huge judgment dares control
Whatsoe'er he views: "That's pretty, pretty[510] good;
That epithet hath not that sprightly blood
Which should enforce it speak; that's Persius' vein;
That's Juvenal's; here's Horace' crabbèd strain;"
Though he ne'er read one line in Juvenal,
Or, in his life, his lazy eye let fall
On dusky Persius. O, indignity
To my respectless free-bred poesy! 100
Hence, ye big-buzzing little-bodied gnats,
Ye tattling echoes, huge-tongued pigmy brats:
I mean to sleep: wake not my slumb'ring brain
With your malignant, weak, detracting vein.
What though the sacred issue of my soul
I here expose to idiots' control;
What though I bare to lewd opinion,
Lay ope to vulgar profanation,
My very genius,--yet know, my poesy
Doth scorn your utmost, rank'st indignity; 110
My pate was great with child, and here 'tis eased;
Vex all the world, so that thyself be pleased.

[497] So Doll Tearsheet to Pistol:--"Away, you _bottle-ale_
rascal, you basket-hilt juggler you."--2 _Henry IV._, ii. 4.

[498] See note, p. 305. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [427]]

[499] "Sad seriousness"--sober earnestness.

[500] See note, p. 263. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [348]]

[501] "Dropsy-noul"--grouthead.

[502] Old eds. "Paunis."--Pavin was the name of an old dance.

[503] So. ed. 1599.--Ed. 1598 "soyl'd."

[504] See note 2, p. 301. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [417]]

[505] A term of contempt for a stupid empty-headed person.

[506] See the second chapter of _The Book of Daniel_.

[507] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "rage."

[508] Rats were supposed to be bred from the slime of the Nile
when the river had shrunk.

[509] For the "margent's note," see p. 288. [Transcriber's Note:
Footnote [402]] Flaccus is represented as misunderstanding the
meaning of "Huc usque xyl[)i]num" ("bombast up to this point")
and as supposing that Marston in his marginal note was
acknowledging his indebtedness to a work entitled _Xyl[=i]num_.

[510] In ed. 1599 the word "pretty" is not repeated.

SATIRE VII.

_A Cynic Satire._

A man,[511] a man, a kingdom for a man!
Why, how now, currish, mad Athenian?
Thou Cynic dog, see'st not the[512] streets do swarm
With troops of men? No, no: for Circe's charm
Hath turn'd them all to swine. I never shall
Think those same Samian[513] saws authentical:
But rather, I dare swear, the souls of swine
Do live in men. For that same radiant shine--
That lustre wherewith Nature's nature decked
Our intellectual part--that gloss is soiled 10
With staining spots of vile impiety,
And muddy dirt of sensuality.
These are no men, but apparitions,
Ignes fatui, glowworms, fictions,[514]
Meteors, rats of Nilus, fantasies,
Colosses, pictures, shades, resemblances.
Ho, Lynceus!
Seest thou yon gallant in the sumptuous clothes,
How brisk, how spruce, how gorgeously he shows?
Note his French herring-bones:[515] but note no more, 20
Unless thou spy his fair appendant whore,
That lackies him. Mark nothing but his clothes,
His new-stamp'd compliment, his cannon oaths;
Mark those: for naught but such lewd viciousness
E'er gracèd him, save Sodom beastliness.
Is this a man? Nay, an incarnate devil,
That struts in vice and glorieth in evil.
A man, a man! Peace, Cynic, yon is one:
A complete soul of all perfection.
What, mean'st thou him that walks all open-breasted, 30
Drawn through the ear, with ribands,[516] plumy-crested;
He that doth snort in fat-fed luxury,
And gapes for some grinding monopoly;
He that in effeminate invention,
In beastly source of all pollution,
In riot, lust, and fleshly seeming sweetness,
Sleeps sound, secure, under the shade of greatness?
Mean'st thou that senseless, sensual epicure--
That sink of filth, that guzzel[517] most impure--
What, he? Lynceus, on my word thus presume, 40
He's nought but clothes, and scenting sweet perfume;
His very soul, assure thee, Lynceus,
Is not so big as is an atomus:
Nay, he is spriteless, sense or soul hath none,
Since last Medusa turn'd him to a stone.
A man, a man! Lo, yonder I espy
The shade of Nestor in sad gravity.
Since old Silenus brake his ass's back,
He now is forc'd his paunch and guts to pack
In a fair tumbrel.[518] Why, sour satirist, 50
Canst thou unman him? Here I dare insist
And soothly say, he is a perfect soul,
Eats nectar, drinks ambrosia, sans control;
An inundation of felicity
Fats him with honour and huge treasury.
Canst thou not, Lynceus, cast thy searching eye,
And spy his imminent[519] catastrophe?
He's but a sponge, and shortly needs must leese[520]
His wrong-got juice, when greatness' fist shall squeeze
His liquor out. Would not some shallow[521] head, 60
That is with seeming shadows only fed,
Swear yon same damask-coat, yon garded[522] man,
Were some grave sober Cato Utican?
When, let him but in judgment's sight uncase,
He's naught but budge,[523] old gards, brown fox-fur face;
He hath no soul the which the Stagyrite
Term'd rational: for beastly appetite,
Base dunghill thoughts, and sensual action,
Hath made him lose that fair creation.
And now no man, since Circe's magic charm 70
Hath turn'd him to a maggot that doth swarm
In tainted flesh, whose foul corruption
Is his fair food: whose generation
Another's ruin. O Canaan's dread curse,
To live in people's sins! Nay, far more worse,
To muck rank hate! But, sirra Lynceus,
Seest thou that troop that now effronteth us?
They are naught but eels,[524] that never will appear
Till that tempestuous winds or thunder tear
Their slimy beds. But prithee stay a while; 80
Look, yon comes John-a-Noke and John-a-Stile;
They are nought but slow-paced, dilatory pleas,
Demure demurrers, still striving to appease
Hot zealous love. The language that they speak
Is the pure barbarous blacksaunt[525] of the Gete;
Their only skill rests in collusions,
Abatements, stoppels, inhibitions.
Heavy-paced jades, dull-pated jobbernouls,
Quick in delays, checking with vain controls
Fair Justice' course; vile necessary evils, 90
Smooth-seeming saints, yet damn'd incarnate devils.
Far be it from my sharp satiric muse,
Those grave and reverent[526] legists to abuse,
That aid Astræa, that do further right;
But these Megeras that inflame despite,
That broach deep rancour, that study still
To ruin right, that they their paunch may fill
With Irus' blood--these furies I do mean,
These hedgehogs, that disturb Astrea's scene.
A man, a man! Peace, Cynic, yon's a man; 100
Behold yon sprightly dread Mavortian;
With him I stop thy currish barking chops.--
What, mean'st thou him that in his swaggering slops
Wallows unbracèd, all along the street;
He that salutes each gallant he doth meet
With "Farewell, sweet captain, kind heart, adieu;"
He that last night, tumbling thou didst view
From out the great man's head,[527] and thinking still
He had been sentinel of warlike Brill,[528]
Cries out, "Que va la? zounds, que?" and out doth draw 110
His transform'd poniard, to a syringe straw,
And stabs the drawer? What, that ringo-root![529]
Mean'st thou that wasted leg, puff bumbast boot;
What, he that's drawn and quarterèd with lace;
That Wesphalian gammon clove-stuck[530] face?
Why, he is nought but huge blaspheming oaths,
Swart snout, big looks, misshapen Switzers'[531] clothes;
Weak meagre lust hath now consumèd quite,
And wasted clean away his martial sprite;
Enfeebling riot, all vices' confluence, 120
Hath eaten out that sacred influence
Which made him man.
That divine part is soak'd away in sin,
In sensual lust, and midnight bezelling,[532]
Rank inundation of luxuriousness[533]
Have tainted him with such gross beastliness,
That now the seat of that celestial essence
Is all possess'd with Naples' pestilence.[534]
Fat peace, and dissolute impiety,
Have lullèd him in such security, 130
That now, let whirlwinds and confusion tear
The centre of our state; let giants' rear
Hill upon hill; let western termagant
Shake heaven's vault: he, with his occupant,[535]
Are cling'd so close, like dew-worms in the morn,
That he'll not stir till out his guts are torn
With eating filth. Tubrio, snort on, snort on,
Till thou art waked with sad confusion.
Now rail no more at my sharp cynic sound,
Thou brutish world, that in all vileness drown'd 140
Hast lost thy soul: for nought but shades I see--
Resemblances of men inhabit thee.
Yon tissue slop, yon holy-crossèd pane,[536]
Is but a water-spaniel that will fawn,
And kiss the water, whilst it pleasures him;
But being once arrivèd at the brim,
He shakes it off.
Yon in the cap'ring cloak, a mimic ape,
That only strives to seem another's shape.
Yon's Æsop's ass; yon sad civility 150
Is but an ox that with base drudgery
Ears up the land, whilst some gilt ass doth chaw
The golden wheat, he well apaid with straw.
Yon's but a muckhill overspread with snow,
Which with that veil doth even as fairly show
As the green meads, whose native outward fair[537]
Breathes sweet perfumes into the neighbour air.
Yon effeminate sanguine Ganymede
Is but a beaver,[538] hunted for the bed.
Peace, Cynic; see, what yonder doth approach; 160
A cart? a tumbrel? No, a badged[539] coach.
What's in't? Some man. No, nor yet womankind,
But a celestial angel, fair, refined.
The devil as soon! Her mask so hinders me,
I cannot see her beauty's deity.
Now that is off, she is so vizarded,
So steep'd in lemon's[540] juice, so surphulèd,
I cannot see her face. Under one hood
Two faces; but I never understood
Or saw one face under two hoods till now: 170
'Tis the right resemblance of old Janus' brow.
Her mask, her vizard, her loose-hanging gown
(For her loose-lying body), her bright-spangled crown,
Her long slit sleeve,[541] stiff busk, puff verdingal,
Is all that makes her thus angelical.
Alas! her soul struts round about her neck;
Her seat of sense is her rebato[542] set;
Her intellectual is a feignèd niceness,
Nothing but clothes and simpering preciseness.
Out on these puppets, painted images, 180
Haberdashers' shops, torchlight maskeries,
Perfuming-pans, Dutch ancients,[543] glow-worms bright,
That soil our souls, and damp our reason's light!
Away, away, hence, coachman, go enshrine
Thy new-glazed puppet in port Esquiline![544]
Blush, Martia, fear not, or look pale, all's one;
Margara keeps thy set complexion.
Sure I ne'er think those axioms to be true,
That souls of men from that great soul ensue,
And of his essence do participate 190
As 'twere by pipes; when so degenerate,
So adverse is our nature's motion
To his immaculate condition,
That such foul filth from such fair purity,
Such sensual acts from such a Deity,
Can ne'er proceed. But if that dream were so,
Then sure the slime, that from our souls do flow,
Have stopp'd those pipes by which it was convey'd,
And now no human creatures, once disray'd
Of that fair gem. 200
Beasts' sense, plants' growth, like being as a stone;
But out, alas! our cognisance is gone.

[511] See note 2, vol. ii. p. 349.

[512] Omitted in ed. 1598.

[513] Samos--the birthplace of Pythagoras.

[514] "Fictions ... rats of Nilus."--Cf. Shirley's _School of
Compliment_, ii. 1:--"Sirrah clothes, _rat of Nilus,
fiction_, monster, golden calf."

[515] The name of a particular kind of stitch.

[516] See note, vol. ii. p. 391.

[517] See note 1, p. 308. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [429]]

[518] Dung-cart.

[519] Ed. 1599, "eminent."

[520] Lose.

[521] Omitted in ed. 1599.

[522] _i.e._, whose garments are ornamented with _gards_ or
fringes.

[523] Lamb's fur.

[524] Thunder is supposed to rouse eels from the mud. So
Shakespeare--"Thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels." I
suppose that Mr. Browning was giving us a piece of Italian
folk-lore when he wrote (in _Old Pictures in Florence_):--
"The morn _when first it thunders in March_,
The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say."

[525] A corruption of _black sanctus_, which seems to have been a
burlesque hymn set to a harsh tune, "in ridicule of the _Sanctus_
or Holy, Holy, Holy, of the Romish Missal" (Nares); hence used to
express any discordant noise,--as the rude speech of the
Scythians.

[526] So ed. 1598; and I have kept the form "reverent" (though
ed. 1599 reads "reverend"), as it was constantly used for
"reverend."

[527] "The great man's head"--evidently the name of a tavern.
Quy. the Saracen's Head?

[528] One of the cautionary towns pledged to the English crown by
the States of Holland.

[529] Sink of lechery.

[530] His face, I suppose, is stuck with plaster, to lead people
to imagine that he has been scarred in the wars.

[531] Switzers--mercenary soldiers.

[532] Tippling.

[533] Lust.

[534] The pox.

[535] See note 2, p. 300. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [414]]

[536] See note 2, vol. ii. p. 337.

[537] Fairness.

[538] "Rugs or covers were made of 'beever skins,' which Batman
calls 'very precious.'"--_Grosart._

[539] _i.e._, exhibiting armorial bearings.

[540] In Guilpin's _Skialetheia_, 1598, there is a long list
of cosmetics. Juice of lemons is mentioned:--
"They [the gallants] were plain asses if they did not know
Quicksilver, _juice of lemons_, borax too,
Alum, oil tartar, whites of eggs, and galls.
Are made the bawds to morphew, scurfs, and scalls."

[541] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "sleeves."

[542] See note 2, vol. 1. p. 31.

[543] Ancient was the name for the (1) standard, (2) the
standard-bearer. Here it has the first meaning; but I cannot find
that Dutch standards were particularly tawdry.

[544] "Port Esquiline"--the jakes.

PROEMIUM IN LIBRUM TERTIUM.

In serious jest, and jesting seriousness,
I strive to scourge polluting beastliness;
I invocate no Delian deity,
No sacred offspring of Mnemosyne;
I pray in aid of no Castalian[545] muse,
No nymph, no female angel, to infuse
A sprightly wit to raise my flagging wings,
And teach me tune these harsh discordant strings.
I crave no sirens of our halcyon times,
To grace the accents of my rough-hew'd rhymes; 10
But grim Reproof, stern hate of villainy,
Inspire and guide a Satire's poesy.
Fair Detestation of foul odious sin,
In which our swinish times lie wallowing,
Be thou my conduct and my genius,
My wits-inciting sweet-breath'd Zephyrus.
O that a Satire's hand had force to pluck
Some floodgate up, to purge the world from muck!
Would God I could turn Alpheus river in,
To purge this Augean oxstall from foul sin! 20
Well, I will try; awake, Impurity,
And view the veil drawn from thy villainy!

[545] Ed. 1598 "Castalia."

SATIRE VIII.

_Inamorato, Curio._

Curio, aye me! thy mistress' monkey's dead;
Alas, alas, her pleasure's burièd!
Go, woman's slave, perform his exequies,
Condole his death in mournful elegies.
Tut, rather pæans sing, hermaphrodite;
For that sad death gives life to thy delight.
Sweet-faced Corinna, deign the riband tie
Of thy cork-shoe, or else thy slave will die:
Some puling sonnet tolls his passing bell,
Some sighing elegy must ring his knell, 10
Unless bright sunshine of thy grace revive
His wambling stomach, certes he will dive
Into the whirlpool of devouring death,
And to some mermaid sacrifice his breath.
Then oh, oh then, to thy eternal shame,
And to the honour of sweet Curio's name,
This epitaph, upon the marble stone,
Must fair be graved of that true-loving one:

"Here lieth he, he lieth here,
That bounced and pity cried: 20
The door not oped, fell sick, alas,
Alas, fell sick and died!"