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

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!

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

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