Chapter XIV: Act V: Scene I (4)

What Myrmidon, or hard Dolopian,
What savage-minded rude Cyclopian,
But such a sweet pathetic Paphian
Would force to laughter? Ho, Amphitrion,
Thou art no cuckold. What, though Jove dallièd,
During thy wars, in fair Alcmena's bed,
Yet Hercules, true born, that imbecility
Of corrupt nature, all apparently 30
Appears in him. O foul indignity!
I heard him vow himself a slave to Omphale,
Puling "Aye me!" O valour's obloquy!
He that the inmost nooks of hell did know,
Whose ne'er-crazed[546] prowess all did overthrow,
Lies streaking[547] brawny limbs in weak'ning bed;
Perfumed, smooth-kemb'd, new glazed, fair surphulèd.
O that the boundless power of the soul
Should be subjected to such base control!
Big-limb'd Alcides, doff thy honour's crown, 40
Go spin, huge slave, lest Omphale should frown.
By my best hopes, I blush with grief and shame
To broach the peasant baseness of our name.
O, now my ruder hand begins to quake,
To think what lofty cedars I must shake;
But if the canker fret, the barks of oaks,
Like humbler shrubs, shall equal bear the strokes
Of my respectless rude satiric hand.
Unless the Destin's adamantine band
Should tie my teeth, I cannot choose, but bite, 50
To view Mavortius metamorphos'd quite,
To puling sighs, and into "Aye me's" state,
With voice distinct, all fine articulate,
Lisping, "Fair saint, my woe compassionate;
By heaven! thine eye is my soul-guiding fate."
The god of wounds had wont on Cyprian couch
To streak himself, and with incensing touch
To faint his force, only when wrath had end;
But now, 'mong furious garboils,[548] he doth spend
His feebled valour, in tilt and tourneying, 60
With wet turn'd kisses, melting dallying.
A pox upon't that Bacchis'[549] name should be
The watchword given to the soldiery!
Go, troop to field, mount thy obscurèd fame,
Cry out St. George, invoke thy mistress' name;
Thy mistress and St. George, alarum cry!
Weak force, weak aid, that sprouts from luxury!
Thou tedious[550] workmanship of lust-stung Jove,
Down from thy skies, enjoy our females' love:
Some fifty more Beotian girls will sue 70
To have thy love, so that thy back be true.
O, now me thinks I hear swart Martius cry,
Swooping[551] along in wars' feign'd maskery;
By Lais' starry front he'll forthwith dye
In clutter'd[552] blood, his mistress' livery;
Her fancy's colours waves upon his head.
O, well-fenced Albion, mainly manly sped,
When those that are soldadoes[553] in thy state
Do bear the badge of base, effeminate,
Even on their plumy crests; brutes sensual, 80
Having no spark of intellectual!
Alack! what hope, when some rank nasty wench
Is subject of their vows and confidence?
Publius hates vainly to idolatrise[554]
And laughs that Papists honour images;
And yet (O madness!) these mine eyes did see
Him melt in moving plaints, obsequiously
Imploring favour; twining his kind arms,
Using enchantments, exorcisms, charms;
The oil of sonnets, wanton blandishment, 90
The force of tears, and seeming languishment,
Unto the picture of a painted lass!
I saw him court his mistress' looking-glass,
Worship a busk-point, which, in secresy,
I fear was conscious of strange villainy;
I saw him crouch, devote his livelihood,
Swear, protest, vow peasant servitude
Unto a painted puppet; to her eyes
I heard him swear his sighs to sacrifice.
But if he get her itch-allaying pin, 100
O sacred relic! straight he must begin
To rave outright,--then thus: "Celestial bliss,
Can Heaven grant so rich a grace as this?
Touch it not (by the Lord! sir), 'tis divine!
It once beheld her radiant eye's bright shine!
Her hair embraced it. O thrice-happy prick,
That there was throned, and in her hair didst stick!"
Kiss, bless, adore it, Publius, never lin;
Some sacred virtue lurketh in the pin.
O frantic, fond, pathetic passion! 110
Is't possible such sensual action
Should clip the wings of contemplation?
O can it be the spirit's function,
The soul, not subject to dimension,
Should be made slave to reprehension
Of crafty nature's paint? Fie! can our soul
Be underling to such a vile control?
Saturio wish'd himself his mistress' busk,
That he might sweetly lie, and softly lusk[555]
Between her paps; then must he have an eye 120
At either end, that freely might descry
Both hills and dales. But, out on Phrigio,
That wish'd he were his mistress' dog, to go
And lick her milk-white fist! O pretty grace!
That pretty Phrigio begs but Pretty's place.
Parthenophil,[556] thy wish I will omit,
So beastly 'tis I may not utter it.
But Punicus, of all I'll bear with thee,
That fain wouldst be thy mistress' smug monkey.
Here's one would be a flea[557] (jest comical!); 130
Another, his sweet lady's verdingal,
To clip her tender breech; another, he
Her silver-handled fan would gladly be;
Here's one would be his mistress' necklace, fain
To clip her fair, and kiss her azure vein.
Fond fools, well wish'd, and pity but ['t] should be;
For beastly shape to brutish souls agree.
If Laura's painted lip do deign a kiss
To her enamour'd slave, "O Heaven's bliss!"
(Straight he exclaims) "not to be match'd with this!"
Blaspheming dolt! go threescore sonnets write 141
Upon a picture's kiss, O raving sprite!
I am not sapless, old, or rheumatic,
No Hipponax, misshapen stigmatic,[558]
That I should thus inveigh 'gainst amorous sprite
Of him whose soul doth turn hermaphrodite;
But I do sadly grieve, and inly vex,
To view the base dishonour of our sex.
Tush! guiltless doves, when gods, to force foul rapes,
Will turn themselves to any brutish shapes; 150
Base bastard powers, whom the world doth see
Transform'd to swine for sensual luxury!
The son of Saturn is become a bull,
To crop the beauties of some female trull.
Now, when he hath his first wife Metis[559] sped,
And fairly choked,[560] lest foul[561] gods should be bred
Of that fond mule; Themis, his second wife,
Hath turn'd away, that his unbridled life
Might have more scope; yet, last, his sister's love
Must satiate the lustful thoughts of Jove. 160
Now doth the lecher in a cuckold's shape,
Commit a monstrous and incestuous rape.
Thrice sacred gods! and O thrice blessèd skies,
Whose orbs include such virtuous deities!
What should I say? Lust hath confounded all;
The bright gloss of our intellectual
Is foully soil'd. The wanton wallowing
In fond delights, and amorous dallying,
Hath dusk'd the fairest splendour of our soul;
Nothing now left but carcass, loathsome, foul; 170
For sure, if that some sprite remainèd still,
Could it be subject to lewd Lais' will?
Reason, by prudence in her function,
Had wont to tutor all our action,
Aiding, with precepts of philosophy,
Our feeblèd natures' imbecility;
But now affection, will, concupiscence,
Have got o'er reason chief pre-eminence.
'Tis so; else how should such vile baseness taint
As force it be made slave to nature's paint? 180
Methinks the spirit's Pegase, Fantasy,
Should hoise the soul from such base slavery;
But now I see, and can right plainly show
From whence such abject thoughts and actions grow.
Our adverse body, being earthly, cold,
Heavy, dull, mortal, would not long enfold
A stranger inmate, that was backward still
To all his dungy, brutish, sensual will:
Now hereupon our intellectual,
Compact of fire all celestial, 190
Invisible, immortal, and divine,
Grew straight to scorn his landlord's muddy slime;
And therefore now is closely slunk away
(Leaving his smoky house of mortal clay),
Adorn'd with all his beauty's lineaments
And brightest gems of shining ornaments,
His parts divine, sacred, spiritual,
Attending on him; leaving the sensual
Base hangers-on lusking at home in slime,
Such as wont to stop port Esquiline.[562] 200
Now doth the body, led with senseless will
(The which, in reason's absence, ruleth still),
Rave, talk idly, as 'twere some deity,
Adoring[563] female painted puppetry;
Playing at put-pin,[564] doting on some glass
(Which, breath'd but on, his falsèd gloss doth pass);
Toying with babies,[565] and with fond pastime,
Some children's sport, deflow'ring of chaste time;
Employing all his wits in vain expense,
Abusing all his organons of sense. 210
Return, return, sacred Synderesis!
Inspire our trunks! Let not such mud as this
Pollute us still. Awake our lethargy,
Raise us from out our brain-sick foolery!

[546] Broken, cracked, impaired.

[547] Stretching.

[548] "Garboil"--tumult, commotion.

[549] The name of a Terentian _meretrix_.

[550] Jupiter made the night of thrice its ordinary length when
he begot Hercules.

[551] Old eds. "Souping."

[552] Clotted.

[553] Soldiers (_Span._).

[554] Old eds. "idolatries."

[555] See note 1, p. 335. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [485]]

[556] An allusion to the closing lines of Barnabe Barnes'
sixty-third sonnet.

[557] Donne has some verses _On a Flea on his Mistress' Bosom_,
beginning:--
"Madam, that flea which crept between your breast
I envied that there he should make his rest."

Whether these verses of Donne had been written (and circulated in
MS.) so early, I do not know; but the conceit was certainly out
of the common.

[558] A deformed person; literally, one who has been branded with
a hot iron. The very words "_misshapen stigmatic_" occur in
3 _Henry VI._, ii. 2. (The Greek satirist Hipponax was an
ill-looking fellow.)

[559] Old eds. "Metim."

[560] When Jupiter discovered that he had got Metis with child,
he swallowed her; for it had been foretold that he would be
dethroned if Metis had a son.--Apollod. _Bibl._ i. 6.

[561] Old eds. "foole."

[562] See note 4, p. 351. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [544]]

[563] So ed. 1598.--Ed. 1599 "adorning."--The confusion between
"adore" and "adorn" is common.

[564] Commonly called "push-pin," a childish game described by
Strutt.

[565] Children's toys,--particularly dolls.

SATIRE IX.

_Here's_[566] _a Toy to mock an Ape indeed._

Grim-faced Reproof, sparkle with threatening eye!
Bend thy sour brows in my tart poesy!
Avaunt! ye curs, howl in some cloudy mist,
Quake to behold a sharp-fang'd satirist!
O how on tip-toes proudly mounts my muse!
Stalking a loftier gait than satires use.
Methinks some sacred rage warms all my veins,
Making my sprite mount up to higher strains
Than well beseems a rough-tongu'd satire's part;
But Art curbs Nature, Nature guideth[567] Art. 10
Come down, ye apes, or I will strip you quite,
Baring your bald tails to the people's sight!
Ye mimic slaves, what, are you perch'd so high?
Down, Jackanapes, from thy feign'd royalty!
What! furr'd with beard--cast in a satin suit,
Judicial Jack? How hast thou got repute
Of a sound censure? O idiot times,
When gaudy monkeys mow o'er spritely rhymes!
O world of fools! when all men's judgment's set,
And rests[568] upon some mumping marmoset! 20
Yon Athens' ape (that can but simp'ringly
Yaul "_Auditores humanissimi!_"
Bound to some servile imitation,
Can, with much sweat, patch an oration)
Now up he comes, and with his crookèd eye
Presumes to squint on some fair poesy;
And all as thankless as ungrateful Thames,
He slinks away, leaving but reeking steams
Of dungy slime behind. All as ingrate
He useth it as when I satiate 30
My spaniel's paunch, who straight perfumes the room
With his tail's filth: so this uncivil groom,
Ill-tutor'd pedant, Mortimer's[569] numbers
With muck-pit Esculine filth bescumbers.[570]
Now the ape chatters, and is as malcontent
As a bill-patch'd door, whose entrails out have sent
And spewed their tenant.
My soul adores judicial scholarship;
But when to servile imitatorship
Some spruce Athenian pen is prenticèd, 40
'Tis worse than apish. Fie! be not flatterèd
With seeming worth! Fond affectation
Befits an ape, and mumping babion.[571]
O what a tricksy, learnèd, nicking strain
Is this applauded, senseless, modern vein![572]
When late I heard it from sage Mutius' lips,
How ill, methought, such wanton jigging skips
Beseem'd his graver speech. "Far fly thy fame,
Most, most of me beloved! whose silent name
One letter bounds. Thy true judicial style 50
I ever honour; and, if my love beguile
Not much my hopes, then thy unvalued worth
Shall mount fair place, when apes are turnèd forth."
I am too mild. Reach me my scourge again;
O yon's a pen speaks in a learned vein,
Deep, past all sense. Lanthorn and candle-light![573]
Here's all invisible--all mental sprite!
What hotch-potch gibberidge doth the poet bring?
How strangely speaks, yet sweetly doth he sing?
I once did know a tinkling pewterer, 60
That was the vilest stumbling stutterer
That ever hack'd and hew'd our native tongue,
Yet to the lute if you had heard him sung,
Jesu! how sweet he breath'd! You can apply.
O senseless prose, judicial poesy,
How ill you're link'd! This affectation,
To speak beyond men's apprehension,
How apish 'tis, when all in fustian suit
Is cloth'd a huge nothing, all for repute
Of profound knowledge, when profoundness knows 70
There's naught contain'd but only seeming shows!
Old Jack of Paris-garden, canst thou get
A fair rich suit, though foully run in debt?
Look smug, smell sweet, take up commodities,[574]
Keep whores, fee bawds, belch impious blasphemies,
Wallow along in swaggering disguise,
Snuff up smoke-whiffs, and each morn, 'fore she rise,
Visit thy drab? Canst use a false-cut die
With a clean grace and glib facility?
Canst thunder cannon-oaths, like th' rattling 80
Of a huge, double, full-charg'd culvering?[575]
Then Jack, troop 'mong our gallants, kiss thy fist,
And call them brothers; say a satirist
Swears they are thine in near affinity,
All cousin-germans, save in villainy;
For (sadly, truth to say) what are they else
But imitators of lewd beastliness?
Far worse than apes; for mow or scratch your pate,
It may be some odd ape will imitate;
But let a youth that hath abused his time 90
In wrongèd travel, in that hotter clime,
Swoop by old Jack, in clothes Italianate,
And I'll be hang'd if he will imitate
His strange fantastic suit-shapes:
Or let him bring o'er beastly luxuries,
Some hell-devisèd lustful villanies,
Even apes and beasts would blush with native shame,
And think it foul dishonour to their name,
Their beastly name, to imitate such sin
As our lewd youths do boast and glory in. 100
Fie! whither do these monkeys carry me?
Their very names do soil my poesy.
Thou world of marmosets and mumping apes,
Unmask, put off thy feignèd, borrowed shapes!
Why looks neat Curus all so simp'ringly?
Why babblest thou of deep divinity,
And of that sacred testimonial,
Living voluptuous like a bacchanal?
Good hath thy tongue; but thou, rank Puritan,
I'll make an ape as good a Christian; 110
I'll force him chatter, turning up his eye,
Look sad, go grave; demure civility
Shall seem to say, "Good brother, sister dear!"
As for the rest, to snort in belly-cheer,[576]
To bite, to gnaw, and boldly intermel
With sacred things, in which thou dost excel,
Unforced he'll do. O take compassion
Even on your souls! Make not Religion
A bawd to lewdness. Civil Socrates,
Clip not the youth of Alcibiades 120
With unchaste arms. Disguisèd Messaline,
I'll tear thy mask, and bare thee to the eyn
Of hissing boys, if to the theatres
I find thee once more come for lecherers,
To satiate (nay, to tire) thee with the use
Of weak'ning lust. Ye feigners, leave t' abuse
Our better thoughts with your hypocrisy;
Or, by the ever-living verity!
I'll strip you nak'd, and whip you with my rhymes,
Causing your shame to live to after-times. 130

[566] An old proverbial saying.

[567] Ed. 1598 "guildeth."

[568] Ed. 1599 "rest."

[569] The allusion is to Drayton's _Mortimeriados_ originally
published in 1596 (and republished in 1603, with many
alterations, under the title of the _Baron's Wars_).

[570] Befouls. The word is ridiculed in _The Poetaster_.

[571] Baboon.--Old eds. "Babilon."

[572] "Non lædere, sed ludere: non lanea, sed linea: non ictus,
sed nictus potius."--Marginal note in old eds.

[573] See note, vol. i. p. 35.

[574] Get goods on credit.

[575] A piece of ordnance.

[576] Gluttony.--The word is not uncommon.

SATIRE X.[577]

_Satira Nova._

_Stultorum plena sunt omnia._

TO HIS VERY FRIEND, MASTER E. G.

From out the sadness of my discontent,
Hating my wonted jocund merriment
(Only to give dull time a swifter wing),
Thus scorning scorn, of idiot fools I sing.
I dread no bending of an angry brow,
Or rage of fools that I shall purchase now;
Who'll scorn to sit in rank of foolery,
When I'll be master of the company?
For prithee, Ned, I prithee, gentle lad,
Is not he frantic, foolish, bedlam mad, 10
That wastes his sprite, that melts his very brain
In deep designs, in wit's dark gloomy strain?
That scourgeth great slaves with a dreadless fist,
Playing the rough part of a satirist,
To be perused by all the dung-scum rabble
Of thin-brain'd idiots, dull, incapable,
For mimic apish scholars, pedants, gulls,
Perfumed inamoratos, brothel-trulls?
Whilst I (poor soul) abuse chaste virgin time,
Deflow'ring her with unconceived rhyme. 20
"Tut, tut; a toy of an idle empty brain,
Some scurril jests, light gewgaws, fruitless, vain,"
Cries beard-grave Dromus; when, alas! God knows
His toothless gums ne'er chaw but outward shows.
Poor budge-face,[578] bowcase sleeve: but let him pass;
"Once fur and beard shall privilege an ass."
And tell me, Ned, what might that gallant be,
Who, to obtain intemperate luxury,
Cuckolds his elder brother, gets an heir,
By which his hope is turnèd to despair? 30
In faith (good Ned), he damn'd himself with cost;
For well thou know'st full goodly land was lost.
I am too private. Yet methinks an ass
Rhymes well with _viderit utilitas_;
Even full as well, I boldly dare aver,
As any of that stinking scavenger
Which from his dunghill be dedaubèd on
The latter page of old _Pygmalion_.
O that this brother of hypocrisy
(Applauded by his pure fraternity) 40
Should thus be puffèd, and so proud insist
As play on me the epigrammatist!
"Opinion mounts this froth unto the skies,
Whom judgment's reason justly vilifies."
For (shame to the poet) read, Ned, behold
How wittily a master's hood can scold!

_An_ EPIGRAM _which the_ Author Vergidemiarum _caused to be pasted
to the latter page of every_ Pygmalion _that came to the
Stationers of Cambridge_.

_I ask'd Physicians what their counsel was_
_For a mad dog, or for a mankind ass?_
_They told me, though there were confections' store_
_Of poppy-seed and sovereign hellebore,_ 50
_The dog was best cured by cutting and kinsing,_[579]
_The ass must be kindly whipped for winsing._
_Now then, S. K., I little pass._
_Whether thou be a mad dog or a mankind ass._

Smart[580] jerk of wit! Did ever such a strain
Rise from an apish schoolboy's childish brain?
Dost thou not blush, good Ned, that such a scent
Should rise from thence, where thou hadst nutriment?
"Shame to Opinion, that perfumes his dung,
And streweth flowers rotten bones among! 60
Juggling Opinion, thou enchanting witch!
Paint not a rotten post[581] with colours rich."
But now this juggler, with the world's consent,
Hath half his[582] soul; the other, compliment;
Mad world the whilst. But I forget me, I,
I am seducèd with this poesy,
And, madder than a bedlam, spend sweet time
In bitter numbers, in this idle rhyme.
Out on this humour! From a sickly bed,
And from a moody mind distemperèd, 70
I vomit forth my love, now turn'd to hate,
Scorning the honour of a poet's state.
Nor shall the kennel rout of muddy brains
Ravish my muse's heir, or hear my strains,
Once more. No nitty[583] pedant shall correct
Enigmas to his shallow intellect
Enchantment, Ned, have ravishèd my sense
In a poetic vain circumference.
Yet thus I hope (God shield I now should lie),
Many more fools, and most more wise than I. 80
VALE.

[577] This satire was added in ed. 1599.--I suspect that "Master
E. G." was Edward Guilpin, author of _Skialetheia_, 1598, a
collection of epigrams.

[578] See note 6, p. 346. [Transcriber's Note: Footnote [523]]

[579] "Mark the witty allusion to my name."--Marginal note in old
ed. (See Introduction to vol. i.)

[580] The heading of the page in old ed. is changed from
"_Stultorum plena sunt omnia_" to "_Medice cura
tripsum_."

[581] An allusion to the posts that stood at the doors of
sheriffs. These posts were repainted when new sheriffs came into
office.--Middleton, v. 149.

[582] _i.e._, the world's.

[583] Lousy.

SATIRE XI.

_Humours._

Sleep, grim Reproof; my jocund muse doth sing
In other keys, to nimbler fingering.
Dull-sprighted Melancholy, leave my brain--
To hell,[584] Cimmerian night! in lively vein
I strive to paint, then hence all dark intent
And sullen frowns! Come, sporting Merriment,
Cheek-dimpling Laughter, crown my very soul
With jouisance, whilst mirthful jests control
The gouty humours of these pride-swoll'n days,
Which I do long until my pen displays. 10
O, I am great with Mirth! some midwif'ry,
Or I shall break my sides at vanity.
Room for a capering mouth, whose lips ne'er stir
But in discoursing of the graceful slur.[585]
Who ever heard spruce skipping Curio
E'er prate of ought but of the whirl on toe,
The turn-above-ground, Robrus' sprawling kicks,
Fabius' caper, Harry's tossing tricks?
Did ever any ear e'er hear him speak
Unless his tongue of cross-points did entreat? 20
His teeth do caper whilst he eats his meat,
His heels do caper whilst he takes his seat;
His very soul, his intellectual
Is nothing but a mincing capreal.[586]
He dreams of toe-turns; each gallant he doth meet
He fronts him with a traverse in the street.
Praise but Orchestra,[587] and the skipping art,
You shall command him, faith you have his heart
Even cap'ring in your fist. A hall, a hall![588]
Room for the spheres, the orbs celestial 30
Will dance Kempe's[589] jig: they'll revel with neat jumps;
A worthy poet hath put on their pumps.
O wit's quick traverse, but _sance ceo's_ [?] slow;
Good faith 'tis hard for nimble Curio.
"Ye gracious orbs, keep the old measuring;
All's spoil'd if once ye fall to capering."
Luscus, what's play'd to-day? Faith now I know
I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow
Naught but pure Juliet and Romeo.
Say who acts best? Drusus or Roscio? 40
Now I have him, that ne'er of ought did speak
But when of plays or players he did treat--
Hath made a common-place[590] book out of plays,
And speaks in print: at least what e'er he says
Is warranted by Curtain plaudities.
If e'er you heard him courting Lesbia's eyes,
Say (courteous sir), speaks he not movingly,
From out some new pathetic tragedy?
He writes, he rails, he jests, he courts (what not?),
And all from out his huge long-scraped stock 50
Of well-penn'd plays.
Oh come not within distance! Martius speaks,
Who ne'er discourseth but of fencing feats,
Of _counter times_,[591] _finctures_, sly _passatas_,
_Stramazones_, resolute _stoccatas_,
Of the quick change with wiping _mandritta_,
The _carricada_, with the _embrocata_.
"Oh, by Jesu, sir!" methinks I hear him cry,
"The honourable fencing mystery
Who doth not honour?" Then falls he in again, 60
Jading our ears, and somewhat must be sain
Of blades and rapier-hilts, of surest guard,
Of Vincentio,[592] and the Burgonian's ward.[593]
This bombast foil-button I once did see,
By chance, in Livia's modest company;
When, after the god-saving ceremony,
For want of talk-stuff, falls to foinery;
Out goes his rapier, and to Livia
He shows the ward by _puncta reversa_,
The _incarnata_. Nay, by the blessed light! 70
Before he goes, he'll teach her how to fight
And hold her weapon. Oh I laugh amain,
To see the madness of this Martius' vein!
But room for Tuscus, that jest-mounging youth
Who ne'er did ope his apish gerning mouth
But to retail and broke another's wit
Discourse of what you will, he straight can fit
Your present talk, with "Sir, I'll tell a jest"
(Of some sweet lady, or grand lord at least).
Then on he goes, and ne'er his tongue shall lie 80
Till his engrossèd jests are all drawn dry;
But then as dumb as Maurus, when at play
Hath lost his crowns, and pawn'd his trim array.
He doth nought but retail jests: break but one,
Out flies his table-book; let him alone,
He'll have it i'faith. Lad, hast an epigram,
Wilt have it put into the chaps of fame?
Give Tuscus copies; sooth, as his own wit
(His proper issue) he will father it.
O that this echo, that doth seek, spet, write 90
Nought but the excrements of others sprite,
This ill-stuff'd trunk of jests (whose very soul
Is but a heap of gibes) should once enroll
His name 'mong creatures termed rational!
Whose chief repute, whose sense, whose soul and all
Are fed with offal scraps, that sometimes fall
From liberal wits in their large festival.
Come aloft, Jack! room for a vaulting skip,
Room for Torquatus, that ne'er oped his lip
But in prate of _pommado reversa_,[594] 100
Of the nimble, tumbling Angelica.
Now, on my soul, his very intellect
Is nought but a curvetting sommerset.
"Hush, hush," cries honest Philo, "peace, desist!
Dost thou not tremble, sour satirist,
Now that[595] judicial Musus readeth thee?
He'll whip each line, he'll scourge thy balladry,
Good faith he will." Philo, I prithee stay
Whilst I the humour of this dog display.
He's nought but censure; wilt thou credit me, 110
He never writ one line in poesy,
But once at Athens in a theme did frame
A paradox in praise of virtue's name;
Which still he hugs and lulls as tenderly
As cuckold Tisus his wife's bastardy?
Well, here's a challenge: I flatly say he lies
That heard him ought but censure poesies;
'Tis his discourse, first having knit the brow,
Stroke up his fore-top, champèd every row,
Belcheth his slavering censure on each book 120
That dare presume even on Medusa look.
I have no artist's skill in symphonies,
Yet when some pleasing diapason flies
From out the belly of a sweet-touch'd lute,
My ears dare[596] say 'tis good: or when they suit
Some harsher sevens for variety,
My native skill discerns it presently.
What then? Will any sottish dolt repute,
Or ever think me Orpheus absolute?
Shall all the world of fidlers follow me, 130
Relying on my voice in musickry?
Musus, here's Rhodes; let's see thy boasted leap,
Or else avaunt, lewd cur, presume not speak,
Or with thy venom-sputtering chaps to bark
Gainst well-penn'd poems, in the tongue-tied dark.
O for a humour, look, who yon doth go,
The meagre lecher, lewd Luxurio!
'Tis he that hath the sole monopoly,
By patent, of the suburb lechery;
No new edition of drabs comes out, 140
But seen and allow'd by Luxurio's snout.
Did ever any man e'er hear him talk,
But of Pick-hatch,[597] or of some Shoreditch balk,
Aretine's filth, or of his wand'ring whore;[598]
Of some Cinædian, or of Tacedore;
Of Ruscus' nasty, loathsome brothel rhyme,
That stinks like A-jax[599] froth, or muck-pit slime?
The news he tells you is of some new flesh,
Lately broke up, span new, hot piping fresh.
The courtesy he shows you is some morn 150
To give you Venus 'fore her[600] smock be on.
His eyes, his tongue, his soul, his all, is lust,
Which vengeance and confusion follow must.
Out on this salt humour, letcher's dropsy,
Fie! it doth soil my chaster poesy!
O spruce! How now, Piso, Aurelius' ape,
What strange disguise, what new deformèd shape,
Doth hold thy thoughts in contemplation?
Faith say, what fashion art thou thinking on?
A stitch'd taffeta cloak, a pair of slops 160
Of Spanish leather? O, who heard his chops
E'er chew of ought but of some strange disguise?
This fashion-monger, each morn 'fore he rise,
Contemplates suit-shapes, and once from out his bed,
He hath them straight full lively portrayèd.
And then he chucks, and is as proud of this
As Taphus when he got his neighbour's bliss.
All fashions, since the first year of this queen,
May in his study fairly drawn be seen;
And all that shall be to his day of doom; 170
You may peruse within that little room;
For not a fashion once dare show his face,
But from neat Piso first must take his grace:
The long fool's coat, the huge slop, the lugg'd[601] boot,
From mimic Piso all do claim their root.
O that the boundless power of the soul
Should be coop'd up in fashioning some roll!
But O, Suffenus! (that doth hug, embrace
His proper self, admires his own sweet face;
Praiseth his own fair limbs' proportion, 180
Kisseth his shade, recounteth all alone
His own good parts) who envies him? Not I,
For well he may, without all rivalry.
Fie! whither's fled my sprite's alacrity?
How dull I vent this humorous poesy!
In faith I am sad, I am possess'd with ruth,
To see the vainness of fair Albion's youth;
To see their richest time even wholly spent
In that which is but gentry's ornament;
Which, being meanly done, becomes them well; 190
But when with dear time's loss they do excell,
How ill they do things well! To dance and sing,
To vault, to fence, and fairly trot[602] a ring
With good grace, meanly done, O what repute
They do beget! But being absolute,
It argues too much time, too much regard
Employ'd in that which might be better spar'd
Than substance should be lost. If one should sue
For Lesbia's love, having two days to woo,
And not one more, and should employ those twain 200
The favour of her waiting-wench to gain,
Were he not mad? Your apprehension,
Your wits are quick in application.
Gallants,
Methinks your souls should grudge and inly scorn
To be made slaves[603] to humours that are born
In slime of filthy sensuality.
That part not subject to mortality
(Boundless, discursive apprehension
Giving it wings to act his function), 210
Methinks should murmur when you stop his course,
And soil his beauties in some beastly source
Of brutish pleasures; but it is so poor,
So weak, so hunger-bitten, evermore
Kept from his food, meagre for want of meat,
Scorn'd and rejected, thrust from out his seat,
Upbraid[604] by capons' grease, consumèd quite
By eating stews, that waste the better sprite,
Snibb'd[605] by his baser parts, that now poor soul
(Thus peasanted to each lewd thought's control) 220
Hath lost all heart, bearing all injuries,
The utmost spite and rank'st indignities,
With forcèd willingness; taking great joy,
If you will deign his faculties employ
But in the mean'st ingenious quality.
(How proud he'll be of any dignity!)
Put it to music, dancing, fencing-school,
Lord, how I laugh to hear the pretty fool,
How it will prate! His tongue shall never lie,
But still discourse of his spruce quality, 230
Egging his master to proceed from this,
And get the substance of celestial bliss.
His lord straight calls his parliament of sense;
But still the sensual have pre-eminence.
The poor soul's better part so feeble is,
So cold and dead is his Synderesis,
"That shadows, by odd chance, sometimes are got;
But O the substance is respected not!"
Here ends my rage. Though angry brow was bent,
Yet I have sung in sporting merriment. 240

[584] _i.e._ "Melancholy, get you to hell!"

[585] Seemingly a term for some sliding dance-movement.

[586] "Intellectual ... mincing capreal."--These words are
ridiculed by Ben Jonson in _Every Man out of his Humour_,
iii. 1. See Introduction, vol. i.

[587] Sir John Davies' excellent poem.

[588] "A hall, a hall!"--The cry raised when an open space was
wanted for the dancers.

[589] There is no allusion to Will Kempe's famous dance from
London to Norwich, as that feat was performed in 1600. _Kempe's
jig_ was the name of a popular dance; and there was a ballad
that bore the same title.

[590] So in the Induction to the _Malcontent_:--"I am one
that hath seen this play often: I have most of the jests here in
my table-book."--Dekker, in the _Gull's-Horn Book_, advises
a gallant to "hoard up the finest play-scraps you can get, upon
which your lean wit may most savourly feed for want of other
stuff, when the Arcadian and Euphuized gentlewomen have their
tongues sharpened to set upon you!"

[591] The italicised words are technical terms in fencing. I
cannot find the term _finctures_, but it doubtless has the
meaning _feints_(otherwise called _falses_).

[592] The reference is to Vincentio Saviolo, a famous Italian
master of fence, author of _Vincentio Saviolo his Practise in
two Bookes. The first intreating of the use of the Rapier and
Dagger. The Second of Honor and Honorable Quarrels_, 1595,
4to.

[593] In _Every Man in his Humour_ Cob speaks of Bobadil as
a "_Burgullian_ fencer"; and Dekker in the Preface to
_Satiromastix_ says that "Horace [Jonson] questionless made
himself believe that his _Burgonian_ wit might desperately
challenge all comers, and that none durst take up the foils
against him." In each case the allusion is to the Bastard of
Burgundy who was overthrown at Smithfield in 1467 by Anthony
Woodville. There is doubtless the same allusion in the present
passage.

[594] The _pommado_ was the vaulting on a horse (without
touching the stirrups) and the _pommado reversa_ was the
vaulting off again.

[595] Omitted in ed. 1598.

[596] Ed. 1598 "dares."

[597] Pick-hatch (in Clerkenwell) and Shoreditch were the
head-quarters of whores.

[598] _Puttana Errante_ is the title of a poem (by Lorenzo
Veniero) falsely ascribed to Aretino. The same title was
sometimes given to _Dialoghi di Rosana e Ginevra_. See
Preface to vol. i. of _Les Ragionamenti ou Dialogues du divin
Pietro Aretino_, Paris, 1882.

[599] (1) Ajax; (2) A jakes.--The joke is of constant occurrence.

[600] Ed. 1599 "his."

[601] _i.e._, with long ears, or tags.

[602] "Trot a ring."--See note 1, vol. i. p. 111.

[603] Ed. 1598 "slave."

[604] "Remors de l'estromac, _The upbraiding of the
stomacke_."--_Cotgrave._

[605] Snubbed.

TO EVERLASTING OBLIVION.[606]

Thou mighty gulf, insatiate cormorant!
Deride me not, though I seem petulant
To fall into thy chops. Let others pray
For ever their fair poems flourish may;
But as for me, hungry Oblivion,
Devour me quick, accept my orison,
My earnest prayers, which do importune thee,
With gloomy shade of thy still empery,
To veil both me and my rude poesy.
Far worthier lines, in silence of thy state, 10
Do sleep securely, free from love or hate;
From which this living ne'er can be exempt,
But whilst it breathes will hate and fury tempt:
Then close his eyes with thy all-dimming hand,
Which not right glorious actions can withstand.
Peace, hateful tongues, I now in silence pace,
Unless some hound do wake me from my place,
I with this sharp, yet well-meant poesy,
Will sleep secure, right free from injury
Of canker'd hate, or rankest villainy. 20

[606] Compare "The Author's Charge to his Satires" prefixed to
Hall's _Virgedemiarum, The three last Books_.

TO HIM THAT HATH PERUSED ME.

Gentle or ungentle hand that holdest me, let not thine eye be cast upon privateness, for I protest I glance not on it. If thou hast perused me, what lesser favour canst thou grant than not to abuse me with unjust application? Yet, I fear me, I shall be much, much injuried[607] by two sorts of readers: the one being ignorant, not knowing the nature of a satire (which is, under feigned private names to note general vices), will needs wrest each feigned name to a private unfeigned person: the other, too subtile, bearing a private malice to some greater personage than he dare, in his own person, seem to malign, will strive, by a forced application of my general reproofs, to broach his private hatred,--than the which I know not a greater injury can be offered to a satirist. I durst presume, knew they how guiltless and how free I were from prying into privateness, they would blush to think how much they wrong themselves in seeking to injure me. Let this protestation satisfy our curious searchers; so may I obtain my best hopes, as I am free from endeavouring to blast any private man's good name. If any one (forced with his own guilt) will turn it home and say, "'Tis I," I cannot hinder him; neither do I injure him. For other faults of poesy, I crave no[608] pardon, in that I scorn all penance the bitterest censurer can impose upon me. Thus (wishing each man to leave inquiring whom I am, and learn to know himself) I take a solemn congee of this fusty world.

THERIOMASTIX.

[607] The verb _injury_ is frequently found.

[608] Ed. 1598 "me."

ENTERTAINMENT

OF

ALICE, DOWAGER-COUNTESS OF
DERBY.

_The noble Lorde & Lady of Huntingdons Entertainement of theire
right Noble Mother Alice: Countesse Dowager of Darby the first
night of her honors arrivall att the house of Ashby._

The MS. of this Entertainment is preserved at Bridgewater House. Extracts were printed in Halliwell's _Marston_, vol. iii.; but the Entertainment was first printed in full by Dr. Grosart. I have not seen the MS.: it seemed unnecessary to go over the ground again, for Dr. Grosart's transcript was evidently made with great care.[609] "The MS.," he observes, "fills fifteen leaves. The first leaf, which contains the address to the dowager-duchess of Derby, and leaves fourteen and fifteen, which contain the 'Epilogue' (never before printed), are in Marston's own handwriting. The rest of the MS. is in two hands.... Throughout the MS. there are several corrections made in a darker ink, and apparently by Marston himself. On leaf two is a small blank space and the following words by Marston: 'as this lame figure demonstrates'--a sketch being evidently intended. But, spite of the author's supervision, various mistakes of the scribe are left."

[609] At the close of his Introduction to Hall's _Satires_,
Dr. Grosart corrects a few errors that had crept into his
transcript of Marston's Entertainment. These corrections I have
silently adopted.

TO THE

RIGHT NOBLE LADY ALICE,

COUNTESS-DOWAGER OF DERBY.

MADAM,
If my slight Muse may suit your noble merit,
My hopes are crown'd, and I shall cheer my spirit;
But if my weak quill droops or seems unfit,
'Tis not your want of worth, but mine of wit.
The servant of your honour'd virtues,
JOHN MARSTON.

When her Ladyship approached the Park corner, a full noise of cornets winded; and when she entered into the Park, treble cornets reported one to another, as giving warning of her Honour's nearer approach; when presently her eye was saluted with an antique gate, which suddenly was erected in this form. Upon the gate did hang many silver scrolls with this word in them, _Tantum uni_. Upon the battlements over the gate three gilt shields in diamond-figure, impaled on the top with three coronets purfled with gold, and severally inscribed with silver words; in the first shield, _Venisti tandem_; in the second, _Nostra sera_; in the third, _Et sola voluptas_. Over these, upon a half sphere, stood embossed an antique figure gilt; the slight tower[s] to this gate, which were only raised for show, were set out with battlements, shields, and coronets suitable to the rest. When the Countess came near the gate an old enchantress in crimson velvet, with pale face, black hair, and disliking countenance, affronted her Ladyship, and thus rudely saluted her:--

Woman, Lady, Princess, Nymph, or Goddess,
For more you are not, and you seem no less;
Stay, and attempt not passage through this port,
Here the pale Lord of Sadness keep[s] his court,
Rough-visag'd Saturn, on whose bloodless cheeks,
Dull Melancholy sits, who straightly seeks
To seize on all that enter through this gate.
Grant gracious listening, and I shall relate
The means, the manner, and of all the sense,
Whilst your fair eye enforceth eloquence.
There was a time (and since that time the sun
Hath not yet through nine signs of heaven run)
When the high Sylvan, that commands these woods,
And his bright Nymph, fairer than Queen of Floods,
With most impatient longings hoped to view
Her face to whom their hearts' dear'st zeal was due.
Youth's joys to love, sweet light unto the blind,
Beauty to virgins, or what wit can find
Most dearly wished, was not so much desired
As she to them; O my dull soul is fired
To tell their longings, but it is a piece
That would o'erload the famous tongues of Greece.
Yet long they hop'd, till Rumour struck Hope dead,
And showed their wishes were but flatterèd;
For scarce her chariot cut the easy earth,
And journeyed on, when Winter with cold breath
Crosseth her way, her borrowed hair doth shine
With glittering icicles all crystalline;
Her brows were periwigg'd with softer snow,
Her russet mantle, fringed with ice below,
Sat[610] stiffly on her back; she thus came forth,
Ushered with tempest of the frosty North;
And seeing her, she thought she sure had seen
The sweet-breath'd Flora, the bright Summer's Queen.
So full of cheerful grace she did appear,
That Winter feared her face recalled the year,
And forced untimely springs to seize her right,
Whereat with anger and malicious spite
She vows revenge; straight with tempestuous wings,
From Taurus, Alps, and Scythian rocks she flings
Their covering off, and here their thick fur spread,
That patient earth was almost smotherèd.
Up Boreas mounts, and doth so strongly blow
Athwart her way huge drifts of blinding snow,
That mountain-like, at length heaps rose so high,
Man's sight might doubt whether Heaven or Earth were sky.
Hereat she turnèd back, and left her way
(Necessity all mortals must obey);
Which was no sooner voiced and hither flown,
It sads me but to think what grief was shown;
Which to augment (mishap ne'er single falls),
The God of Sadness and of Funerals,
Of heavy pensiveness and discontent,
Cold and dull Saturn hither straight was sent.
Myself, Merimna, who still wait upon
Pale Melancholy and Desolation,
Usher'd him in, when straight we strongly seize
All this sad house, and vowed no means should ease
These heavy bands which pensive Saturn tied,
Till with wish'd grace this house was beautified.
Pace then no further, for vouchsafe to know,
Till her approach here can no comfort grow;
'Tis only one can their sad bondage break,
Whose worth I may admire, not dare to speak.
She's so complete, that her much honoured state
Gives Fortune Virtue, makes Virtue fortunate;
As one in whom three rare mix'd virtues sit
Seen seldom joinèd, Fortune, Beauty, Wit;
To this choice Lady and to her dear state
All hearts do open, as alone this gate;
She only drives away dull Saturn hence,
She whom to praise I need her eloquence!

This speech thus ended, presently Saturn issued from forth the port, and curiously beholding the Countess, spake thus:--

Peace! stay, it is, it is, it is even she!
Hail happy honours of Nobility!
Did never Saturn see, or ne'er see such?
What should I style you? what choice phrase may touch,
Or hopes in words such wondrous grace to suit,
Whose worth doth want an equal attribute.
Let never mortal wondering silence break,
Since to express you Gods themselves must speak.
Sweet glories of your sex, know that your eyes
Makes mild the roughest planet of the skies.
Even we, the Lord that sits on ebon thrones,
Circled with sighs and discontented groans,
Are forced at your fair presence to relent,
At your approach all Saturn's force is spent.
Now breaks my bands, now sadness leaves their towers,
Now all are turn'd to Flora's smiling bowers;
Then now give way, now is my bondage due
Only to those who safely envy you.
Hence, solitary Beldam, sink to-night,
I give up all to joy, and to delight.
And now pass on, all-happy-making dame!
O could you but imagine what a flame
Of many joys now in their bosoms shine
Who count it their dear'st honour to be thine,
You would aver, to number[611] them who seeks
Must sure invent some new arithmetics,
For who to cast their reckoning takes in hand
Had need for counters take the ocean-sand.
Their service is your right, your love their due
Who only love themselves for loving you.
Their palace waits you with so hearty gate
Men cannot utter nor Gods scarce relate.

Then passed the whole troop to the house, until the Countess had mounted the stairs to the great chamber; on the top of which, Merimna, having changed her habit all to white, met her, and, whilst a consort softly played, spake thus:--

Madam,
See what a change the spirit of your eyes
Hath wrought in us. Hence dull Saturn flies,
And we that were the ghost of woe and earth
Are all transform'd unto the soul of mirth.
O we are full of joy, no breast more light
But those who owe you theirs by nature's right;
From whom vouchsafe this present,--'tis a work
Wherein strange miracles and wonders lurk.
For, know, that Lady whose ambition towers
Only to this, to be term'd worthy yours;
Whose forehead I could crown with clearest rays,
But that her praise is she abhors much praise;
Not long since thought she saw in slumb'ring trances
The Queen of Fairies and of moonlight dances
Come tripping in; and with a fairy kiss
She chastely touch'd her and straight gave her this
With this strange charge:--"This piece alone was made
For her in whom no graces e'er shall fade;
For her whose worth is such I dare aver
It fears not satire nor the flatterer;
For her who gave you first most gracing name,
Who loveth goodness for itself, not fame;
For her whom modest virtue doth enfold[612] so
That she had rather be much graced than told so;
For her for whom, had you the whole world's breast
And of it all gave her sole interest,
You'd judge it slight." This said, hence straight she flew,
And left it her who only vows it you.
Then whilst our breast with secret welcomes ring,
Vouchsafe acceptance of this offering.

Thus with a song Merimna presented her[613] honour with a very curious and rich waistcoat; which done, the Countess passed on to her chamber.

_The Masque presented by four knights and four gentlemen at the
right noble Earl of Huntingdon's house of Ashby in honour of his
Lady's most worthy mother's arrival, Alice Countess Dowager of
Derby._

The form was thus:--

At the approach of the countesses into the great chamber the hoboys played until the room was marshalled; which once ordered, a traverse[614] slided away; presently a cloud was seen move up and down almost to the top of the great chamber, upon which Cynthia was discovered riding; her habit was blue satin, fairly embroidered with stars and clouds: who looking down and earnestly surveying the ladies, spake thus:--

_Cynth._ Are not we Cynthia? and shall earth display
Brighter than us and force untimely day?
What daring flames beam such illustrious light,
Enforcing darkness from the claim of night?
Up, Ariadne, thy clear beauty rouse,
Thou Northern Crown to lusty Bacchus' spouse,
Let's mix our glories to outblaze your flame;
To be outshone is Heaven's and great hearts' shame.
Look down; know'st them? See how their fronts rebate
Splendour like Jove and beauty worth our state!
Hath our bright brother, the fair Lord of days,
Into their eyes shed his us-dark'ning rays?
Or hath some daring spirit forgot Jove's ire
And to grace them stol'n his celestial fire?
We are not Phoebe, this is not Heaven's story;
Place gives not worth, but worth gives place his glory.

In the midst of this speech Ariadne rose from the bottom of the room, mounted upon a cloud which waved up until it came near Cynthia, where resting Ariadne spake thus:--

_Ariad._ Can our chaste queen, searching Apollo's sister,
Not know those stars that in yon valley glister?
Is virtue strange to heaven? Can Cynthia
Not know the goodly-form'd Pasithea?
She who loves greatness to be greatly good,
Knowing fair'st worth from virtue springs, not blood;
Whose graceful just proportion is held such
That what may be judge[d] beauty must have touch
And proof from hers: yet this her least of grace
(Which is the most in most)--her beauty's but the case
Of fairest mind: when Fortune gave her eyes,
Her worth made Fortune judge she once had eyes.
But see a piece that would strike envy blind,
Whose face would Furies tame, make monsters kind.
He gave her mighty praise and yet no other
But that in mind and form she's like her mother:
Up, raisèd passion, and with pæans follow
Grace of the Muses, daughter of Apollo!
O precious selahs' praise thy worth is under;
He that would limn thy grace must only wonder.
Then views not Cynthia sweet Sophrosyne,
Long honour of most rare virginity,
But now much happy in her noble choice?
In well-link'd nuptials all the gods rejoice.
Next learn'd Eulogia, bright in gracious rays,
Whose merit faster springeth than my praise;
For whoso strives to give her worth fair due,
Shall find his praise straight old, her merit new.

_Cynth._ But, look, whose eyes are those that shine more clear
Than lightning thrown from shield of Jupiter?
See, see, how quick fire leaps from forth her eyes
Which burn all hearts and warm the very skies.
Is't not bright Euthera?

_Ariad._ The very same,
But her mind's splendour hath a nobler flame.
But let the gods Eurythia behold,
And let them envy her, face nobly bold,
Proportion all proportion, with a mind
But like itself, no epithet can find.

_Cynth._ Let's visit them and slide from our abode:
Who loves not virtue leaves to be a god.
Sound, spheres, spread your harmonious breath,
When mortals shine in worth gods grace the earth.

The clouds descend: while soft music soundeth, Cynthia and Ariadne dismount from their clouds, and, pacing up to the ladies, Cynthia, perceiving Ariadne wanting her crown of stars, speaks thus:--

_Cynth._ But where is Ariadne's wreath of stars,
Her eight pure fires that stud with golden bars
Her shining brows? hath sweet-tongued Mercury
Advanced his sons to station of the sky
And throned them in thy wreath? [or] dost thou leave
Thy splendour off and trust of gods deceive?

_Ariad._ Queen of chaste dew, they will not be confined
Or fix themselves where Mercury assign'd,
But every night upon a forest-side,
On which an eagle percheth, they abide,
And honour her with their most raisèd light,
Chaste sports, just praises, and all soft delight,
Vowing their beams to make her presence heaven:
Thus is the glory of my front bereaven.

_Cynth._ Tell them they err, and say that we, the Queen
Of night's pale lamps, have now the substance seen
Whose shadow they adore. Go, bring those eight
At mighty Cynthia's summons hither straight.
Let us behold, that mount whilst we salute,
Their faces, 'fore whom no dullness can be mute.

Presently Ariadne sings this short call:--

Music and gentle night,
Beauty, youth's chief delight,
Pleasures all full invite
Your due attendance to this glorious room;
Then, if you have or wit or virtue, come,
Oh, come! oh, come!

Suddenly, upon this song, the cornets were winded, and the traverse that was drawn before the masquers sank down. The whole show presently appeareth, which presented itself in this figure: the whole body of it seemed to be the side of a steeply ascending wood, on the top of which, in a fair oak, sat a golden eagle, under whose wings sat, in eight several thrones, the eight masquers, with visards like stars, their helms like Mercury's, with the addition of fair plumes of carnation and white, their antique doublets and other furniture suitable to those colours, the place full of shields, lights, and pages all in blue satin robes, embroidered with stars. The masquers, thus discovered, sat still until Ariadne pronounced this invocation, at which they descended:--

_Ariad._ Mercurian issue, sons of son of Jove,
By the Cyllenian rod, and by the love
Devotely chaste you vow Pasithea,
Descend: first thou more bright of these
That givest my crown her name, clear Dolopes,
Whose brave descent lets not thy fair heart fall
As born of parents most heroical,
Who vows himself, his life, his sword and fortune
To her whose constant goodness doth importune
More than he is: descend! Next him, Auctolius,
Of nimble spirit slide to honour us;
Faithfull'st Evander; clear-soul'd Erythus;
The hopeful Prilis and sweet Polybus;
And thou, true son of quick-brain'd Mercury,
Dear-loved Myrtillus, with that bright soul mix'd,
Experienced Lares, that at last is fix'd
After much danger in securer sphere.
Here all with wishèd easiness appear,
And O, if ever you were worth the grace
Of viewing majesty in mortal's face,
If e'er to perfect worth you vow'd heart's duty,
Show spirit worth your virtues and their beauty.

The violins upon this played a new measure, to which the masquers danced; and ceasing, Cynthia spake:--

Stay a little, and now breathe ye,
Whilst these ladies grace bequeath ye;
Then mix fair hands, and gently ease ye,
Cynthia charms hence what may displease ye.
From ladies that are rudely coy,
Barring their loves from modest joy,
From ignorant silence, and proud looks,
From those that answer out of books,
From those that hate our chaste delight,
I bless the fortune of each starry Knight.
From gallants who still court with oaths,
From those whose only grace is clothes,
From bumbast stockings, vile leg-makers,
From beards and great tobacco-takers,
I bless the fortune of each starry dame.
Sing, that my charm may be more strong;
The gods are bound by verse and song.

_The Song_

Audacious night makes bold the lip,
Now all court chaster pleasure,
Whilst to Apollo's harp you trip,
And tread the gracing measure.
_Cynth._ Now meet, now break, then feign a warlike sally;
So Cynthia sports, and so the gods may dally.