Chapter XVI: Epilogue: Gentlemen, (7)

Still it did gape for more, and still more had, 16
Like greedy avarice without content;
Like to Avernus, which is never glad
Before the dead-liv’d wicked souls be sent:
Pull in thy head, thou sorrow’s tragedy,
And leave to practice thy old cruelty.

The merry shepherd cannot walk alone,
Tuning sweet madrigals of harvest’s joy,
Carving love’s roundelays on every stone,
Hanging on every tree some amorous toy,
But thou with sorrow interlines his song,
Opening thy jaws of death to do him wrong.

O, now I know thy chain, thy clog, thy fetter, 17
Thy free-chain’d prison and thy cloggèd walk!
’Tis gloomy darkness, sin’s eternal debtor,
’Tis poison’d buds from Acherontic stalk;
Sometime ’tis hissing winds which are their bands,
Sometime enchanting birds which bind[500] their hands;

Sometime the foaming rage of waters’ stream, 18
Or clattering down of stones upon a stone,
Or skipping beasts at Titan’s gladsome beam,
Or roaring lion’s noise at one alone,
Or babbling Echo, tell-tale of each sound,
From mouth to sky, from sky unto the ground.

Can such-like fears follow man’s mortal pace, 19
Within dry wilderness of wettest woe?
It was God’s providence, his will, his grace,
To make midnoon midnight in being so;
Midnight with sin, midnoon where virtue lay;
That place was night, all other places day.

The sun, not past the middle line of course, 20
Did clearly shine upon each labour’s gain,
Not hindering daily toil of mortal force,
Nor clouding earth with any gloomy stain;
Only night’s image was apparent there,
With heavy, leaden appetite of fear.

CHAP. XVIII.

You know the eagle by her soaring wings, 1
And how the swallow takes a lower pitch;
Ye know the day is clear and clearness brings,
And how the night is poor, though gloomy-rich:
This eagle virtue is, which mounts on high;
The other sin, which hates the heaven’s eye.

This day is wisdom, being bright and clear;
This night is mischief, being black and foul;
The brightest day doth wisdom’s glory wear,
The pitchy night puts on a blacker rowl:[501]
Thy saints, O Lord, were at their labour’s hire!
At whose heard voice the wicked did admire.

They thought that virtue had been cloth’d in night, 2
Captive to darkness, prisoner unto hell;
But it was sin itself, vice, and despite,
Whose wishèd harbours do in darkness dwell:
Virtue’s immortal soul had mid-day’s light,
Mischief’s eternal foul had mid-day’s night.

For virtue is not subject unto vice,
But vice is subject unto virtue’s seat;
One mischief is not thaw’d with other’s ice,
But more adjoin’d to one, makes one more great:
Sin virtue’s captive is, and kneels for grace,
Requesting pardon for her rude-run race.

The tongue of virtue’s life cannot pronounce 3
The doom of death, or death of dying doom;
’Tis merciful, and will not once renounce
Repentant tears, to wash a sinful room;
Your sin-shine was not sun-shine of delight,
But shining sin in mischief’s sunny night.

Now by repentance you are bath’d in bliss,
Blest in your bath, eternal by your deeds;
Behold, you have true light, and cannot miss
The heavenly food which your salvation feeds:
True love, true life, true light, your portions true;
What hate, what strife, what night can danger you?

O happy, when you par’d your o’ergrown faults! 4
Your sin, like eagle’s claws, past growth of time,
All underminèd with destruction’s vaults,
Full of old filth, proceeding from new slime;
Else had you been deformèd, like to those
Which were your friends, but now become your foes.

Those which are worthy of eternal pain,
Foes which are worthy of immortal hate,
Dimming the glory of thy children’s gain
With cloudy vapours set at darkness’ rate;
Making new laws, which are too old in crime,
Making old-wicked laws serve a new time.

Wicked? no, bloody laws; bloody? yea, worse, 5
If any worse may have a worser name:
Men? O no, murderers, not of men’s remorse![502]
For they are shameful, these exempt from shame:
What? shall I call them slaughter-drinking hearts?
Too good a word for their too-ill deserts.

Murder was in their thoughts, they thought to slay;
And who? poor infants, harmless innocents;
But murder cannot sleep, it will betray
Her murderous self, with self-disparagements:
One child, poor remnant, did reprove their deeds,
And God destroy’d the bloody murderers’ seeds.

Was God destroyer then? no, he was just, 6
A judge severe, yet of a kind remorse;
Severe to those in whom there was no trust,
Kind to the babes which were of little force;
Poor babes, half murder’d in whole murder’s thought,
Had not one infant their escaping wrought.

’Twas God which breath’d his spirit in the child,
The lively image of his self-like face;
’Twas God which drown’d their children, which defil’d
Their thoughts with blood, their hearts with murder’s
place:
For that night’s tidings our old fathers joy’d,
Because their foes by water were destroy’d.

Was God a murderer in this tragedy? 7
No, but a judge how blood should be repaid:
Was’t he which gave them unto misery?
No, ’twas themselves which miseries obey’d:
Their thoughts did kill and slay within their hearts,
Murdering themselves, wounding their inward parts.

When shines the sun but when the moon doth rest?
When rests the sun but when the moon doth shine?
When joys the righteous? when their foes are least;
And when doth virtue live? when vice doth pine:
Virtue doth live when villany doth die,
Wisdom doth smile when misery doth cry.

The summer-days are longer than the nights, 8
The winter-nights are longer than the days;
They shew both virtue’s loves and vice’s spites,
Sin’s lowest fall, and wisdom’s highest raise:
The night is foe to day, as naught to good;
The day is foe to night, as fear to food.

A king may wear a crown, but full of strife,
The outward show of a small-lasting space;
Mischief may live, but yet a deadly life;
Sorrow may grieve in heart and joy in face;
Virtue may live disturb’d with vice’s pain;
God sends this virtue a more better reign.

She doth possess a crown, and not a care, 9
Yet cares, in having none but self-like awe;
She hath a sceptre without care or fear,
Yet fears the Lord, and careth for the law:
As much as she doth rise, so much sin falls,
Subject unto her law, slave to her calls.

Now righteousness bears sway, and vice put down,
Virtue is queen, treading on mischief’s head;
The law of God sancited[503] with renown,
Religion plac’d in wisdom’s quiet bed;
Now joyful hymns are tunèd by delight,
And now we live in love, and not in spite.

Strong-hearted vice’s sobs have pierc’d the
ground, 10
In the deep cistern of the centre’s breast,
Wailing their living fortunes with dead sound,
Accents of grief and actions of unrest;
It is not sin herself, it is her seed,
Which, drown’d in sea, lies there for sea’s foul weed.

It is the fruit of murder’s bloody womb,
The lost fruition of a murderous race;
A little stone, which would have made a tomb
To bury virtue, with a sin-bold face:
Methinks I hear the echoes of the vaults,
Sound and resound their old-new-weeping faults.

View the dead carcasses of human state, 11
The outside of the soul, case of the hearts;
Behold the king, behold the subject’s fate;
Behold each limb and bone of earthen arts;
Tell me the difference then of every thing,
And who a subject was, and who a king.

The self-same knowledge lies in this dead scene,
Vail’d[504] to the tragic cypress of lament;
Behold that man, which hath a master been,
That king, which would have climb’d above content;
Behold their slaves, by them upon the earth,
Have now as high a seat, as great a birth.

The ground hath made all even which were odd, 12
Those equal which had inequality;
Yet all alike were fashionèd by God,
In body’s form, but not in heart’s degree:
One difference had, in sceptre, crown, and throne,
Yet crown’d, rul’d, plac’d in care, in grief, in moan.

For it was care to wear a crown of grief,
And it was grief to wear a crown of care;
The king death’s subject, death his empire’s thief,
Which makes unequal state and equal fare;
More dead than were alive, and more to die
Than would be buried with a mortal eye.

O well-fed earth with ill-digesting food! 13
O well-ill food! because both flesh and sin;
Sin made it sick, which never did it good;
Sin made it well, her well doth worse begin:
The earth, more hungry than was Tantal’s jaws,
Had flesh and blood held in her earthen paws.

Now could belief some quiet harbour find,
When all her foes were mantled in the ground,
Before their sin-enchantments made it blind,
Their magic arts, their necromantic sound:
Now truth hath got some place to speak and hear,
And whatsoe’er she speaks she doth not fear.

When Phœbe’s axletree was limn’d with pale, 14, 15
Pale, which becometh night, night which is black,
Hemm’d round about with gloomy-shining veil,
Borne up by clouds, mounted on silence’ back;
And when night’s horses, in the running wain,
O’ertook the middest of their journey’s pain;

Thy word, O Lord! descended from thy throne, 16
The royal mansion of thy power’s command,
As a fierce man of war in time of moan,
Standing in midst of the destroyèd land,
And brought thy precept, as a burning steven,[505]
Reaching from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.

Now was the night far spent, and morning’s wings 17
Flew th[o]rough sleepy thoughts, and made them dream,
Hieing apace to welcome sunny springs,
And give her time of day to Phœbus’ beam:
No sooner had she flown unto the east,
But dreamy passage did disturb their rest:

And then like sleepy-waking hearts and eyes,
Turn’d up the fainting closures of their faces,
Which between day and night in slumber lies,
Keeping their waky and their sleepy places;
And, lo, a fearing dream and dreaming fear
Made every eye let fall a sleepy tear!

A tear half-wet from they themselves half-liv’d, 18
Poor dry-wet tear to moist a wet-dry face;
A white-red face, whose red-white colour striv’d
To make anatomy of either place;
Two champions, both resolv’d in face’s field,
And both had half, yet either scorn’d to yield.

They which were wont to mount above the ground 19
Have[506] leaden, quick-glued sinews, forc’d to lie,
One here, one there, in prison, yet unbound,
Heart-striving life and death to live and die;
Nor were they ignorant of fate’s decree,
In being told before what they should be.

There falsest visions shew’d the truest cause; 20
False, because fantasies, true, because haps;
For dreams, though kindled by sleep-idle pause,
Sometime true indices of danger’s claps,
As well doth prove in these sin-sleeping lines,
That dreams are falsest shews and truest signs.

By this time death had longer pilgrimage,
And was encagèd in more living breasts;
Now every ship had fleeting anchorage,
Both good and bad were punish’d with unrests:
But yet God’s heavy plague endur’d not long,
For anger quench’d herself with her self wrong.

Not so; for heat can never cool with heat, 21
Nor cold can warm a cold, nor ice thaw ice;
Anger is fire, and fire is anger’s meat,
Then how can anger cool her hot device?
The sun doth thaw the ice with melting harm,
Ice cannot cool the sun which makes it warm.

It was celestial fire, terrestrial cold;
It was celestial cold, terrestrial fire;
A true and holy prayer, which is bold
To cool the heat of anger’s hot desire,
Pronouncèd by a servant of thy word,
To ease the miseries which wraths afford.

Weapons and wit are double links of force; 22
If one unknit, they both have weaker strength;
The longer be the chain, the longer course,
If measur’d by duplicity of length:
If weapons fail, wit is the better part;
Wit failing, weapons have the weaker heart.

Prayer is weak in strength, yet strong in wit,
And can do more than strength, in being wise;
Thy word, O Lord, is wisdom, and in it
Doth lie more force than forces can surprise!
Man did not overcome his foes with arms,
But with thy word, which conquers greater harms.

That word it was with which the world was fram’d, 23
The heavens made, mortality ordain’d;
That word it was with which all men were nam’d,
In which one word there are all words contain’d;
The breath of God, the life of mortal state,
The enemy to vice, the foe to hate.

When death press’d down the sin-dead living souls,
And draw’d the curtain of their seeing day,
This word was virtue’s shield and death’s controls,
Which shielded those which never went astray;
For when the dead did die and end in sin,
The living had assurance to begin.

Are all these deeds accomplish’d in one word? 24
O sovereign word, chief of all words and deeds!
O salve of safety! wisdom’s strongest sword,
Both food and hunger, which both starves and feeds;
Food unto life, because of living power,
Hunger to those whom death and sins devour.

For they which liv’d were those which virtue lov’d,
And those which virtue lov’d did love to live;
Thrice happy these whom no destruction mov’d,
She present there which love and life did give:
They bore the mottoes of eternal fame
On diapasons of their father’s name.

Here death did change his pale to purple hue, 25
Blushing, against the nature of his face,
To see such bright aspècts, such splendent view,
Such heavenly paradise of earthly grace,
And hid with life’s quick force his ebon dart
Within the crannies of his meagre heart.

Descending to the place from whence he came,
With rich-stor’d chariot of fresh-bleeding wounds,
Sore-grievèd bodies from a soul’s sick name,
Sore-grievèd souls in bodies’ sin-sick sounds;
Death was afraid to stay where life should be;
For they are foes, and cannot well agree.

CHAP. XIX.

Avaunt, destroyer, with thy hungry jaws, 1
Thy thirsty heart, thy longing ashy bones!
The righteous live, they be not in thy laws,
Nor subjects to thy deep-oppressing moans:
Let it suffice that we have seen thy show,
And tasted but the shadow of thy woe.

Yet stay, and bring thy empty car again, 2
More ashy vessels do attend thy pace;
More passengers expect thy coming wain,
More groaning pilgrims long to see thy face:
Wrath now attends the passage of misdeeds,
And thou shalt still be stor’d with souls that bleeds.

Some lie half-dead, while others dig their graves 3
With weak-forc’d tears, to moist a long-dry ground;
But tears on tears in time will make whole waves
To bury sin with overwhelming sound;
Their eyes for mattocks serve, their tears for spades,
And they themselves are sextons by their trades.

What is their fee? lament; their payment? woe;
Their labour? wail; their practice? misery:
And can their conscience serve to labour so?
Yes, yes, because it helpeth villany:
Though eyes did stand in tears and tears in eyes,
They did another foolishness devise.

So that what prayer did, sin did undo; 4
And what the eyes did win, the heart did lose;
Whom virtue reconcil’d, vice did forego;
Whom virtue did forego, that vice did choose:
O had their hearts been just, eyes had been winners!
Their eyes were just, but hearts new sin’s beginners.

They digg’d true graves with eyes, but not with
hearts; 5
Repentance in their face, vice in their thought;
Their delving eyes did take the sexton’s parts;
The heart undid the labour which eyes wrought:
A new strange death was portion for their toil,
While virtue sate as judge to end the broil.

Had tongue been join’d with eyes, tongue had not
stray’d; 6
Had eyes been join’d to heart, heart then had seen;
But O, in wanting eyesight, it betray’d
The dungeon of misdeeds, where it had been!
So, many living in this orb of woe,
Have heav’d-up eyes, but yet their hearts are low.

This change of sin did make a change of feature,
A new strange death, a misery untold,
A new reform of every old-new creature,
New-serving offices which time made old:
New-living virtue from an old-dead sin,
Which ends in ill what doth in good begin.

When death did reap the harvest of despite, 7
The wicked ears of sin, and mischief’s seed,
Filling the mansion of eternal night
With heavy, leaden clods of sinful breed,
Life sow’d the plants of immortality,
To welcome old-made new felicity.

The clouds, the gloomy curtains of the air,
Drawn and redrawn with the four wingèd winds,
Made all of borrow’d vapours, darksome fair,
Did overshade their tents, which virtue finds;
The Red Sea’s deep was made a dry-trod way,
Without impediment, or stop, or stay.

The thirsty winds, with overtoiling puffs, 8
Did drink the ruddy ocean’s water dry,
Tearing the zone’s hot-cold, whole-raggèd ruffs
With ruffling conflicts in the field of sky;
So that dry earth did take wet water’s place,
With sandy mantle and hard-grounded face.

That way which never was a way before, 9
Is now a trodden path which was untrod,
Through which the people went as on a shore,
Defended by the stretch’d-out arm of God;
Praising his wondrous works, his mighty hand,
Making the land of sea, the sea of land.

That breast where anger slept is mercy’s bed, 10
That breast where mercy wakes is anger’s cave;
When mercy lives, then Nemesis is dead,
And one for either’s corse makes other’s grave:
Hate furrows up a grave to bury love,
And love doth press down hate, it cannot move.

This breast is God, which ever wakes in both;
Anger is his revenge, mercy his love:
He sent them flies instead of cattle’s growth,
And multitudes of frogs for fishes strove;
Here was his anger shewn; and his remorse,[507]
When he did make dry land of water-course.

The sequel proves what actor is the chief; 11
All things beginning know,[508] but none their end;
The sequel unto mirth is weeping grief,
As do[509] mishaps with happiness contend;
For both are agents in this orb of weeping,
And one doth wake when other falls a-sleeping.

Yet should man’s eyes pay tribute every hour
With tributary tears to sorrow’s shrine,
He would all drown himself with his own shower,
And never find the leaf of mercy’s line:
They in God’s anger wail’d, in his love joy’d;
Their love brought lust ere love had lust destroy’d.

The sun of joy dried up their tear-wet eyes, 12
And sate as lord upon their sobbing heart;
For when one comfort lives, one sorrow dies,
Or ends in mirth what it begun in smart:
What greater grief than hunger-starvèd mood?
What greater mirth than satisfying food?

Quails from the fishy bosom of the sea
Came to their comforts which were living-starv’d;
But punishments fell in the sinners’ way,
Sent down by thunderbolts which they deserv’d:
Sin-fed these sinners were, hate-cherishèd;
According unto both they perishèd.

Sin-fed, because their food was seed of sins, 13
And bred new sin with old-digested meat;
Hate-cherishèd in being hatred’s twins,
And sucking cruelty from tiger’s teat:
Was it not sin to err and go astray?
Was it not hate to stop a stranger’s way?

Was it not sin to see, and not to know?
Was it not sin to know, and not receive?
Was it not hate to be a stranger’s foe,
And make them captives which did them relieve?
Yes, it was greatest sin first for to leave them,
And it was greatest hate last to deceive them.

O hungry cannibals! which know no fill, 14
But still do starving feed, and feeding starve,
How could you so deceive? how could you spill[510]
Their loving selves which did yourselves preserve?
Why did you suck your pelican to death,
Which fed you too, too well with his own breath?

O, say that cruelty can have no law,
And then you speak with a mild-cruel tongue;
Or say that avarice lodg’d in your jaw,
And then you do yourselves but little wrong:
Say what you will, for what you say is spite
’Gainst ill-come strangers, which did merit right.

You lay in ambush,—O deceitful snares, 15
Enticing baits, beguiling sentinels!—
You added grief to grief and cares to cares,
Tears unto weeping eyes where tears did dwell:
O multitudes of sin, legions of vice,
Which thaw[511] with sorrow sorrow’s frozen ice!

A banquet was prepar’d, the fare deceit,
The dishes poison, and the cup despite,
The table mischief, and the cloth a bait,
Like spinner’s web t’ entrap the strange fly’s flight;
Pleasure was strew’d upon the top of pain,
Which, once digested, spread through every vein.

O ill conductors of misguided feet, 16
Into a way of death, a path of guile!
Poor pilgrims, which their own destruction meet
In habitations of an unknown isle:
O, had they left that broad, deceiving way,
They had been right, and never gone astray!

But mark the punishment which did ensue
Upon those ill-misleading villanies;
They blinded were themselves with their self view,
And fell into their own-made miseries;
Seeking the entrance of their dwelling-places
With blinded eyes and dark misguided faces.

Lo, here was snares ensnar’d and guiles beguil’d, 17
Deceit deceiv’d and mischief was misled,
Eyes blinded sight and thoughts the hearts defil’d,
Life living in aspècts was dying dead;
Eyes thought for to mislead, and were misled,
Feet went to make mistreads, and did mistread.

At this proud fall the elements were glad,
And did embrace each other with a kiss,
All things were joyful which before were sad;
The pilgrims in their way, and could not miss:
As when the sound of music doth resound
With changing tune, so did the changèd ground.

The birds forsook the air, the sheep the fold; 18
The eagle pitchèd low, the swallow high;
The nightingale did sleep, and uncontroll’d
Forsook the prickle of her nature’s eye;
The seely[512] worm was friends with all her foes,
And suck’d the dew-tears from the weeping rose.

The sparrow tun’d the lark’s sweet melody,
The lark in silence sung a dirge of dole,
The linnet help’d the lark in malady;
The swans forsook the quire of billow-roll;
The dry-land fowl did make the sea their nest,
The wet-sea fish did make the land their rest.

The swans, the quiristers which did complain 19
In inward feeling of an outward loss,
And fill’d the quire of waves with laving pain,
Yet dancing in their wail with surge’s toss,
Forsook her[513] cradle-billow-mountain bed,
And hies her unto land, there to be fed:

Her sea-fare now is land-fare of content;
Old change is changèd new, yet all is change;
The fishes are her food, and they are sent
Unto dry land, to creep, to feed, to range:
Now coolest water cannot quench the fire,
But makes it proud in hottest hot desire.

The evening of a day is morn to night, 20
The evening of a night is morn to day;
The one is Phœbe’s clime which is pale-bright,
The other Phœbus’ in more light array;
She makes the mountains limp in chill-cold snow,
He melts their eyes and makes them weep for woe.

His beams, ambassadors of his hot will
Through the transparent element of air,
Do[514] only his warm ambassage fulfil,
And melt[515] the icy jaw of Phœbe’s hair;
Yet those, though fiery flames, could not thaw cold,
Nor break the frosty glue of winter’s mould.

Here nature slew herself, or, at the least, 21
Did tame the passage of her hot aspècts;
All things have nature to be worst or best,
And must incline to that which she affects;
But nature miss’d herself in this same part,
For she was weak, and had not nature’s heart.

’Twas God which made her weak and makes her strong,
Resisting vice, assisting righteousness,
Assisting and resisting right and wrong,
Making this epilogue in equalness;
’Twas God, his people’s aid, their wisdom’s friend,
In whom I did begin, with whom I end.

_A Jove surgit opus; de Jove finit opus._

MICRO-CYNICON,

SIX SNARLING SATIRES.

_Micro-cynicon. Sixe Snarling Satyres._

{ _Insatiat_ _Cron_. }
{ _Prodigall_ _Zodon_. }
{ _Insolent_ _Superbia_. }
{ _Cheating_ _Droone_. }
{ _Ingling_ _Pyander_. }
{ _Wise_ _Innocent_. }

_Adsis pulcher homo canis hic tibi pulcher emendo.
Imprinted at London by Thomas Creede, for Thomas
Bushell, and are to be sold at his shop at the North
doore of Paules Church._ 1599. 8vo.

“In 1599,” says Warton, “appeared ‘MICRO-CYNICON sixe
snarling satyres by T. M. Gentleman,’ perhaps Thomas
Middleton.” _Hist. of English Poetry_, vol. iv. p. 70,
ed. 4to.

On account of the concluding couplet of the “Defiance to
Envy,”—

“I, but the author’s mouth, bid thee avaunt!
He more defies thy hate, thy hunt, thy haunt,”—

and because that “Defiance” is followed by what bears
expressly the title of “The Author’s Prologue,” Mr. J.
P. Collier suspects that T. M. was only the author’s
friend: see _The Poetical Decameron_, where these
satires are noticed at considerable length, vol. i. p.
282, sqq.

That T. M. and the author of _Micro-cynicon_ were the
same person, I have very little doubt; but that he was
Thomas Middleton, I feel by no means confident.

HIS DEFIANCE[516] TO ENVY.

Envy, which mak’st thyself in common guise,
To haunt deservers, and to hunt deserts;
Hard-soft, cold-hot, well-evil, foolish-wise,
Miscontrarieties, agreeing parts;
Avaunt, I say! I’ll anger thee enough,
And fold thy fiery eyes in thy smazky[517] snuff.

Defiance, resolution, and neglects,
True trine of bars against thy false assault,
Defies, resolves defiance, and rejects
Thy interest to claim the smallest fault:
Thou lawless landlady, poor prodigal,
Sour solace, credit’s crack, fear’s festival!

More angry satire-days[518] I’ll muster up
Than thou canst challenge letters in thy name;
My nigrum[519] true-born ink no more shall sup
Thy stainèd blemish, character’d in blame:
My pen’s two nebs shall turn unto a fork,
Chasing old Envy from so young a work:
I, but the author’s mouth, bid thee avaunt!
He more defies thy hate, thy hunt, thy haunt.

T. M. _Gent._

THE AUTHOR’S PROLOGUE.

FIRST BOOK.

Dismounted from the high-aspiring hills
Which the all-empty airy kingdom fills,
Leaving the scorchèd mountains threatening heaven,
From whence fell fiery rage my soul hath driven,
Passing the down-steep valleys all in hast,[520]
Have tript it through the woods; and now, at last,
Am veilèd with a stony sanctuary,
To save my ire-stuft soul, lest it miscarry,
From threatening storms, o’erturning verity,
That shames to see truth’s refin’d purity;
Those open plains, those high sky-kissing mounts,
Where huffing winds cast up their airy accounts,
Were too, too open, shelter yielding none,
So that the blasts did tyrannize upon
The naked carcass of my heavy soul,
And with their fury all my all control.
But now, environ’d with a brazen tower,
I little dread their stormy-raging power;
Witness this black defying embassy,
That wanders them beforne[521] in majesty,
Undaunted of their bugbear threatening words,
Whose proud-aspiring vaunts time past records.
Now, windy parasites, or the slaves of wine,
That wind from all things save the truth divine,
Wind, turn, and toss into the depth of spite,
Your devilish venom cannot me affright;
It is a cordial of a candy taste,
I’ll drink it up, and then let ’t run at waste;
Whose druggy lees, mix’d with the liquid flood
Of muddy fell defiance, as it stood,
I’ll belch into your throats all open wide,
Whose gaping swallow nothing runs beside;
And if it venom, take it as you list;
He spites himself that spites a satirist.

MICRO-CYNICON.

----------

THE FIRST BOOK.

SATIRE I.—INSATIATE CRON.

=Cur eget[522] indignus quisquam, te divite?=

Time was when down-declining toothless age
Was of a holy and divine presage,
Divining prudent and foretelling truth,
In sacred points instructing wandering youth;
But, O detraction of our latter days!
How much from verity this age estrays,
Ranging the briery deserts of black sin,
Seeking a dismal cave to revel in!
This latter age, or member of that time
Of whom my snarling Muse now thundereth rhyme,
Wander’d the brakes, until a hidden cell
He found at length, and still therein doth dwell:
The house of gain insatiate it is,
Which this hoar-agèd peasant deems his bliss.
O that desire might hunt amongst that fur!
It should go hard but he would loose a cur
To rouse the fox, hid in a bramble-bush,
Who frighteth conscience with a wry-mouth’d push.[523]
But what need I to wish or would it thus,
When I may find him starting at the Burse,[524]
Where he infecteth other pregnant wits,
Making them co-heirs to his damnèd fits.
There may you see this writhen-facèd mass
Of rotten mouldering clay, that prating ass,
That riddles wonders, mere compact[525] of lies,
Of heaven, of hell, of earth, and of the skies,
Of heaven thus he reasons; heaven there’s none,
Unless it be within his mansion:
O, there is heaven! why? because there’s gold,
That from the late to this last age controll’d
The massy sceptre of earth’s heavenly round,
Exiling forth her silver-pavèd bound
The leaders, brethren, brazen counterfeits,
That in this golden age contempt begets:
Vaunt then I, mortal[526] I, I only king,
And golden god of this eternal being.
Of hell Cimmerian thus Avarus reasons;
Though hell be hot, yet it observeth seasons,
Having within his kingdom residence,
O’er which his godhead hath pre-eminence:
An obscure angel of his heaven it is,
Wherein’s contain’d that hell-devouring bliss;
Into this hell sometimes an angel falls,
Whose white aspèct black forlorn souls appalls;
And that is when a saint believing gold,
Old in that heaven, young in being old,
Falls headlong down into that pit of woe,
Fit for such damnèd creature’s overthrow:
To make this public that obscurèd lies,
And more apparent vulgar secrecies;
To make this plain, harsh unto common wits,
Simplicity in common judgment sits.
This downcast angel, or declining saint,
Is greedy Cron, when Cron makes his compt;[527]
For his poor creditors faln to decay,
Being bankerouts,[528] take heels and run away:
Then frantic Cron, gall’d to the very heart,
In some by-corner plays a devil’s part,
Repining at the loss of so much pelf,
And in a humour goes and hangs himself;
So of a saint a devil Cron is made,
The devil lov’d Cron, and Cron the devil’s trade.
Thus may you see such angels often fall,
Making a working-day a festival.
Now to the third point of his deity,
And that’s the earth, thus reasons credulity;
Credulous Cron, Cron credulous in all,
Swears that his kingdom is in general;
As he is regent of this heaven and hell,
So of the earth all others he’ll expel;
The skies at his dispose, the earth his own,
And if Cron please, all must be overthrown.
Cron, Cron, advise thee, Cron with the copper nose,
And be not rul’d so much by false suppose,
Lest Cron’s professing holiness turn evil,
And of a false god prove a perfect devil.
I prithee, Cron, find out some other talk,
Make not the Burse[529] a place for spirits to walk;
For doubtless, if thy damnèd lies take place,
Destruction follows: farewell, sacred grace!
Th’ Exchange for goodly[530] merchants is appointed;
Why not for me, says Cron, and mine anointed?
Can merchants thrive, and not the usurer nigh?
Can merchants live without my company?
No, Cron helps all, and Cron hath help from none;
What others have is Cron’s, and Cron’s his own:
And Cron will hold his own, or ’t shall go hard,
The devil will help him for a small reward.
The devil’s help, O ’tis a mighty thing!
If he but say the word, Cron is a king.
O then the devil is greater yet than he!
I thought as much, the devil would master be.
And reason too, saith Cron; for what care I,
So I may live as god, and never die?
Yea, golden Cron, death will make thee away,
And each dog, Cron, must have a dying day;
And with this resolution I bequeath thee
To God or to the devil, and so I leave thee.

SATIRE II.—PRODIGAL ZODON.

Who knows not Zodon? Zodon! what is he?
The true-born child of insatiety.
If true-born, when? if born at all, say where?
Where conscience begg’d in worst time of the year:
His name young Prodigal, son to greedy Gain,
Let blood by folly in a contrary vein;
For scraping Cron, seeing he needs must die,
Bequeathèd all to prodigality:
The will once prov’d, and he possess’d of all,
Who then so gallant as young Prodigal?
Mounted aloft on flattering fortune’s wings,
Where like a nightingale secure he sings,
Floating on seas of scarce prosperity,
Ingirt with pleasure’s sweet tranquillity:
Suit upon suit, satin too, too base;
Velvet laid on with gold or silver lace
A mean man doth become; but he[531] must ride
In cloth of finèd gold, and by his side
Two footmen at the least, with choice of steeds,
Attirèd, when he[532] rides, in gorgeous weeds:
Zodon must have his chariot gilded o’er;
And when he triumphs, four bare before
In pure white satin to usher out his way,
To make him glorious on his progress-day:
Vail[533] bonnet he that doth not, passing by,
Admiring on that sun-enriching sky,
Two days encag’d at least in strongest hold:
Storm he that list, he scorns to be controll’d.
What! is it lawful that a mounted beggar
May uncontrollèd thus bear sway and swagger?
A base-born issue of a baser sire,
Bred in a cottage, wandering in the mire,
With nailèd shoes, and whipstaff in his hand,
Who with a hey and ree the beasts command;
And being seven years practis’d in that trade,
At seven years’ end by Tom a journey’s made
Unto the city of fair Troynovant;[534]
Where, through extremity of need and want,
He’s forc’d to trot with fardle at his back
From house to house, demanding if they lack
A poor young man that’s willing to take pain
And mickle labour, though for little gain.
Well, some kind Troyan, thinking he hath grace,
Keeps him himself, or gets some other place.
The world now, God be thank’d, is well amended;
Want, that erewhile did want, is now befriended;
And scraping Cron hath got a world of wealth:
Now what of that? Cron’s dead; where’s all his pelf?
Bequeathèd to young Prodigal; that’s well:
His god hath left him, and he’s fled to hell.
See, golden souls, the end of ill-got gain,
Read and mark well, to do the like refrain.
This youthful gallant, like the prince of pleasure,
Floating on golden seas of earthly treasure,
Treasure ill got by ministering of wrong,
Made a fair show, but endur’d not long;
Ill got, worse spent, gotten by deceit;
Spent on lascivious wantons, which await
And hourly expect such prodigality,
Lust-breathing lechers given to venery:
No day expir’d but Zodon hath his trull,
He hath his tit, and she likewise her gull;
Gull he, trull she: O ’tis a gallant age!
Men may have hackneys of good carriage;
Provided that there rain a golden shower,
Then come whos’ will at the appointed hour:
Hour me no hours, hours break no square;
Where gold doth rain, be sure to find them there.
Well, Zodon hath his pleasure, he hath gold;
Young in his golden age, in sin too old.
Now he wants gold, all his treasures done,
He’s banishèd the stews, pity finds none;
Rich yesterday in wealth, this day as poor,
To-morrow like to beg from door to door.
See, youthful spendthrifts, all your bravery[535]
Even in a moment turn’d to misery!

SATIRE III.—INSOLENT SUPERBIA.

List, ye profane, fair-painted images,
Predestinated by the Destinies,
At your first being, to fall eternally
Into Cimmerian black obscurity;
Ill-favour’d idols, pride-anatomy,
Foul-colour’d puppets, balls of infamy,
Whom zealous souls do racket to and fro;
Sometimes aloft ye fly, other whiles below,
Banded into the air’s loose continent,
Where hard upbearing winds hold parliament;
For such is the force of down-declining sin,
Where our short-feather’d peacocks wallow in,
That when sweet motions urge them to aspire,
They are so bathèd o’er by sweet desire
In th’ odoriferous fountain of sweet pleasure,
Wherein delight hath all embalm’d her treasure,—
I mean, where sin, the mistress of disgrace,
Hath residence and her abiding place;
And sin, though it be foul, yet fair in this,
In being painted with a show of bliss;
For what more happy creature to the eye
Than is Superbia in her bravery?
Yet who more foul, disrobèd of attire?
Pearl’d with the botch as children burnt with fire;
That for their outward cloak upon the skin,
Worser enormities abound within:
Look they to that; truth tells them their amiss,
And in this glass all-telling truth it is.
When welcome spring had clad the hills in green,
And pretty whistling birds were heard and seen,
Superbia abroad ’gan take her walk,
With other peacocks for to find her talk:
Kyron, that in a bush lay closely couch’d,
Heard all their chat, and how it was avouch’d.
Sister, says one, and softly pack’d away,
In what fair company did you dine to-day?
’Mongst gallant dames,—and then she wipes her lips,
Placing both hands upon her whalebone hips,
Puft up with a round-circling farthingale:
That done, she ’gins go forward with her tale:—
Sitting at table carv’d of walnut-tree,
All coverèd with damask’d napery,
Garnish’d with salts[536] of pure beaten gold,
Whose silver-plated edge, of rarest mould,
Mov’d admiration in my searching eye,
To see the goldsmith’s rich artificy:
The butler’s placing of his manchets[537] white,
The plated cupboard,[538] for our more delight,
Whose golden beauty, glancing from on high,
Illuminated other chambers nigh:
The slowly pacing of the servingmen,
Which were appointed to attend us then,
Holding in either hand a silver dish
Of costly cates of far-fetch’d dainty fish,
Until they do approach the table nigh,
Where the appointed carver carefully
Dischargeth them of their full-freighted hands,
Which instantly upon the table stands:
The music sweet, which all that while did sound,
Ravish the hearers, and their sense confound.
This done, the master of that sumptuous feast,
In order ’gins to place his welcome guest:
Beauty, first seated in a throne of state,
Unmatchable, disdaining other mate,
Shone like the sun, whereon mine eyes still gaz’d,
Feeding on her perfections that amaz’d;
But O, her silver-framèd coronet,
With low-down dangling spangles all beset,
Her sumptuous periwig, her curious curls,
Her high-pric’d necklace of entrailèd pearls,
Her precious jewels wondrous to behold,
Her basest jem fram’d of the purest gold!
O, I could kill myself for very spite,
That my dim stars give not so clear a light!
Heart-burning ire new kindled bids despair,
Since beauty lives in her, and I want fair:[539]
O had I died in youth, or not been born,
Rather than live in hate, and die forlorn!
And die I will,—therewith she drew a knife
To kill herself, but Kyron sav’d her life.
See here, proud puppets, high-aspiring evils,
Scarce any good, most of you worse than devils,
Excellent in ill, ill in advising well,
Well in that’s worst, worse than the worst in hell:
Hell is stark blind, so blind most women be,
Blind, and yet not blind when they should not see.
Fine madam Tiptoes, in her velvet gown,
That quotes[540] her paces in charàcters down,
Valuing each step that she had made that day
Worth twenty shillings in her best array;
And why, forsooth, some little dirty spot
Hath fell upon her gown or petticoat;
Perhaps that nothing much, or something little,
Nothing in many’s view, in her’s a mickle,
Doth thereon surfeit, and some day or two
She’s passing sick, and knows not what to do:
The poor handmaid, seeing her mistress wed
To frantic sickness, wishes she were dead;
Or that her devilish tyrannising fits
May mend, and she enjoy her former wits;
For whilst that health thus counterfeits not well,
Poor here-at-hand lives in the depth of hell.
Where is this baggage? where’s this girl? what, ho!
Quoth she, was ever woman troubled so?
What, huswife Nan! and then she ’gins to brawl;
Then in comes Nan,—Sooth, mistress, did you call?
Out on thee, quean! now, by the living God,—
And then she strikes, and on the wench lays load;
Poor silly maid, with finger in the eye,
Sighing and sobbing, takes all patiently.
Nimble affection, stung to the very heart
To see her fellow-mate sustain such smart,
Flies to the Burse-gate[541] for a match[542] or two,
And salves th’ amiss, there is no more to do:
Quick-footed kindness, quick as itself thought,
With that well-pleasing news but lately bought
By love’s assiduate care and industry,
Into the chamber runs immediately,
Where she unlades the freight of sweet content.
The haggler pleas’d doth rise incontinent;
Then thought of sickness is not thought upon,
Care hath no being in her mansion;
But former peacock-pride, grand insolence,
Even in the highest thought hath residence:
But it on tiptoe stands; well, what of that?
It is more prompt to fall and ruinate;
And fall it will, when death’s shrill, clamorous bell
Shall summon you unto the depth of hell.
Repent, proud princocks,[543] cease for to aspire,
Or die to live with pride in burning fire.

SATIRE IV.—CHEATING DROONE.

There is a cheater by profession
That takes more shapes than the chameleon;
Sometimes he jets[544] it in a black furr’d gown,
And that is when he harbours in the town;
Sometimes a cloak to mantle hoary age,
Ill-favour’d, like an ape in spiteful rage;
And then he walks in Paul’s[545] a turn or two,
To see by cheating what his wit can do:
Perhaps he’ll tell a gentleman a tale
Will cost him twenty angels[546] in the sale;
But if he know his purse well lin’d within,
And by that means he cannot finger him,
He’ll proffer him such far-fet[547] courtesy,
That shortly in a tavern neighbouring by
He hath encag’d the silly gentleman,
To whom he proffers service all he can:
Sir, I perceive you are of gentle blood,
Therefore I will our cates be new and good;
For well I wot the country yieldeth plenty,
And as they divers be, so are they dainty;
May it please you, then, a while to rest you merry,
Some cates I will make choice of, and not tarry.
The silly cony[548] blithe and merrily
Doth for his kindness thank him heartily;
Then hies the cheater very hastily,
And with some peasant, where he is in fee,
Juggles, that dinner being almost ended,
He in a matter of weight may then be friended.
The peasant, for an angel then in hand,
Will do whate’er his worship shall command,
And yields, that when a reckoning they call in,
To make reply there’s one to speak with him.
The plot is laid; now comes the cheater back,
And calls in haste for such things as they lack;
The table freighted with all dainty cates,
Having well fed, they fall to pleasant chates,[549]
Discoursing of the mickle difference
’Twixt perfect truth and painted eloquence,
Plain troth, that harbours in the country swain:
The cony stands defendant; the cheater’s vein
Is to uphold an eloquent smooth tongue,
To be truth’s orator, righting every wrong.
Before the cause concluded took effect,
In comes a crew of fiddling knaves abject,
The very refuse of that rabble rout,
Half shoes upon their feet torn round about,
Save little Dick, the dapper singing knave,
He had a threadbare coat to make him brave,[550]
God knows, scarce worth a tester[551] if it were
Valued at most, of seven it was too dear.
Well, take it as they list, Shakerag came in,
Making no doubt but they would like of him,
And[552] ’twere but for his person, a pretty lad,
Well qualified, having a singing trade.
Well, so it was, the cheater must be merry,
And he a song must have, call’d Hey-down-derry:
So Dick begins to sing, the fiddler[s] play;
The melancholy cony replies, nay, nay,
No more of this; the other[553] bids play on,—
’Tis good our spirits should something work upon:
Tut, gentle sir, be pleasant, man, quoth he,
Yours be the pleasure, mine the charge shall be;
This do I for the love of gentlemen:
Hereafter happily if we meet agen,[554]
I shall of you expect like courtesy,
Finding fit time and opportunity.
Or else I were ungrateful, quoth the cony;
It shall go hard but we will find some money;
For some we have, that some well us’d gets more,
And so in time we shall increase our store.
Meantime, said he, employ it to good use,
For time ill spent doth purchase time’s abuse.
With that, more wine he calls for, and intends
That either of them carouse to all their friends;
The cony nods the head, yet says not nay,
Because the other would the charge defray.
The end tries all; and here begins the jest,
My gentleman betook him to his rest;
Wine took possession of his drowsy head,
And cheating Droone hath brought the fool to bed.
The fiddlers were discharg’d, and all things whist,[555]
Then pilfering Droone ’gan use him as he list:
Ten pound he finds; the reckoning he doth pay,
And with the residue passeth sheer away.
Anon the cony wakes; his coin being gone,
He exclaims against dissimulation;
But ’twas too late, the cheater had his prey:—
Be wise, young heads, care for an after-day!

SATIRE V.—INGLING[556] PYANDER.

Age hath his infant youth, old trees their sprigs,
O’erspreading branches their inferior twigs:
Old beldam hath a daughter or a son,
True born or illegitimate, all’s one;
Issue she hath. The father? Ask you me?
The house wide open stands, her lodging’s free:
Admit myself for recreation
Sometimes did enter her possession,
It argues not that I have been the man
That first kept revels in that mantian;[557]
No, no, the haggling commonplace is old,
The tenement hath oft been bought and sold:
’Tis rotten now, earth to earth, dust to dust,
Sodom’s on fire, and consume it must;
And wanting second reparations,
Pluto hath seiz’d the poor reversions.
But that hereafter worlds may truly know
What hemlocks and what rue there erst did grow,
As it is Sathan’s usual policy,
He left an issue of like quality;
The still memorial, if I aim aright,
Is a pale chequer’d black hermaphrodite.
Sometimes he jets[558] it like a gentleman,
Other whiles much like a wanton courtesan;
But, truth to tell, a man or woman whether,
I cannot say she’s excellent at either;
But if report may certify a truth,
She’s neither of either, but a cheating youth.
Yet Troynovant,[559] that all-admirèd town,
Where thousands still do travel up and down,
Of beauty’s counterfeits[560] affords not one,
So like a lovely smiling paragon,
As is Pyander in a nymph’s attire,
Whose rolling eye sets gazers’ hearts on fire,
Whose cherry lip, black brow, and smiles procure
Lust-burning buzzards to the tempting lure.
What, shall I cloak sin with a coward fear,
And suffer not Pyander’s sin appear?
I will, I will. Your reason? Why, I’ll tell,
Because time was I lov’d Pyander well;
True love indeed will hate love’s black defame,
So loathes my soul to seek Pyander’s shame.
O, but I feel the worm of conscience sting,
And summons me upon my soul to bring
Sinful Pyander into open view,
There to receive the shame that will ensue!
O, this sad passion of my heavy soul
Torments my heart and senses do[th] control!
Shame thou, Pyander, for I can but shame,
The means of my amiss by thy means came;
And shall I then procure eternal blame,
By secret cloaking of Pyander’s shame,
And he not blush?
By heaven, I will not! I’ll not burn in hell
For false Pyander, though I lov’d him well;
No, no, the world shall know thy villany,
Lest they be cheated with like roguery.
Walking the city, as my wonted use,
There was I subject to this foul abuse:
Troubled with many thoughts, pacing along,
It was my chance to shoulder in a throng;
Thrust to the channel I was, but crowding her,
I spied Pyander in a nymph’s attire:
No nymph more fair than did Pyander seem,
Had not Pyander then Pyander been;
No lady with a fairer face more grac’d,
But that Pyander’s self himself defac’d;
Never was boy so pleasing to the heart
As was Pyander for a woman’s part;
Never did woman foster such another
As was Pyander, but Pyander’s mother.
Fool that I was in my affection!
More happy I, had it been a vision;
So far entangled was my soul by love,
That force perforce I must Pyander prove:
The issue of which proof did testify
Ingling Pyander’s damnèd villany.
I lov’d indeed, and, to my mickle cost,
I lov’d Pyander, so my labour lost:
Fair words I had, for store of coin I gave,
But not enjoy’d the fruit I thought to have.
O, so I was besotted with her words,
His words, that no part of a she affords!
For had he been a she, injurious boy,
I had not been so subject to annoy.
A plague upon such filthy gullery!
The world was ne’er so drunk with mockery.
Rash-headed cavaliers, learn to be wise;
And if you needs will do, do with advice;
Tie not affection to each wanton smile,
Lest doting fancy truest love beguile;
Trust not a painted puppet, as I’ve done,
Who far more doted than Pygmalion:
The streets are full of juggling[561] parasites
With the true shape of virgins’ counterfeits:[562]
But if of force you must a hackney hire,
Be curious in your choice, the best will tire;
The best is bad, therefore hire none at all;
Better to go on foot than ride and fall.

SATIRE VI.—WISE INNOCENT.[563]

Way[564] for an innocent, ho! What, a poor fool?
Not so, pure ass. Ass! where went you to school?
With innocents. That makes the fool to prate.
Fool, will you any? Yes, the fool shall ha’t.
Wisdom, what shall he have? The fool at least.
Provender for the ass, ho! stalk up the beast.
What, shall we have a railing innocent?
No, gentle gull, a wise man’s precedent.
Then forward, wisdom. Not without I list.
Twenty to one this fool’s some satirist.
Still doth the fool haunt me; fond[565] fool, begone!
No, I will stay, the fool to gaze upon.
Well, fool, stay still. Still shall the fool stay? no.
Then pack, simplicity! Good innocent, why so?
Nor go nor stay, what will the fool do then?
Vex him that seems to vex all other men.
’Tis impossible; streams that are barr’d their course
Swell with more rage and far more greater force,
Until their full-stuft gorge a passage makes
Into the wide maws of more scopious[566] lakes.
Spite me! not spite itself can discontent
My steelèd thoughts, or breed disparagement:
Had pale-fac’d coward fear been resident
Within the bosom of me, innocent,
I would have hous’d me from the eyes of ire,
Whose bitter spleen vomits forth flames of fire.
A resolute ass! O for a spurring rider!
A brace of angels![567] What, is the fool a briber?
Is not the ass yet weary of his load?
What, with once bearing of the fool abroad?
Mount again, fool. Then the ass will tire,
And leave the fool to wallow in the mire.
Dost thou think otherwise? good ass, then begone!
I stay but till the innocent get on.
What, wilt thou needs of the fool bereave me?
Then pack, good, foolish ass! and so I leave thee.