Satyr IIII

Well; I may now receive, and die; My sinneIndeed is great, but I have beene inA Purgatorie, such as fear'd hell isA recreation to, and scarse map of this.My minde, neither with prides itch, nor yet hath beenPoyson'd with love to see, or to bee seene,I had no suit there, nor new suite to shew,Yet went to Court; But as Glaze which did goeTo'a Masse in jest, catch'd, was faine to disburseThe hundred markes, which is the Statutes curse;Before he scapt, So'it pleas'd my destinie(Guilty of my sin of going,) to thinke meAs prone to all ill, and of good as forget-full, as proud, as lustfull, and as much in debt,As vaine, as witlesse, and as false as theyWhich dwell at Court, for once going that way.Therefore I suffered this; Towards me did runneA thing more strange, then on Niles slime, the SunneE'r bred; or all which into Noahs Arke came;A thing, which would have pos'd Adam to name;Stranger then seaven Antiquaries studies,Then Africks Monsters, Guianaes rarities.Stranger then strangers; One, who for a Dane,In the Danes Massacre had sure beene slaine,If he had liv'd then; And without helpe dies,When next the Prentises'gainst Strangers rise.One, whom the watch at noone lets scarce goe by,One, to whom, the examining Justice sure would cry,Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are.His cloths were strange, though coarse; and black, though bare;Sleevelesse his jerkin was, and it had beeneVelvet, but'twas now (so much ground was seene)Become Tufftaffatie; and our children shallSee it plaine Rashe awhile, then nought at all.This thing hath travail'd, and saith, speakes all tonguesAnd only knoweth what to all States belongs.Made of th'Accents, and best phrase of all these,He speakes no language; If strange meats displease,Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast,But Pedants motley tongue, souldiers bumbast,Mountebankes drugtongue, nor the termes of lawAre strong enough preparatives, to drawMe to beare this: yet I must be contentWith his tongue, in his tongue, call'd complement:In which he can win widdowes, and pay scores,Make men speake treason, cosen subtlest whores,Out-flatter favorites, or outlie eitherJovius, or Surius, or both together.He names mee, and comes to mee; I whisper, God!How have I sinn'd, that thy wraths furious rod,This fellow chuseth me? He saith, Sir,I love your judgement; Whom doe you prefer,For the best linguist? And I seelilySaid, that I thought Calepines Dictionarie;Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir; Beza then,Some other Jesuites, and two reverend menOf our two Academies, I named; ThereHe stopt mee, and said; Nay, your Apostles wereGood pretty linguists, and so Panurge was;Yet a poore gentleman, all these may passeBy travaile. Then, as if he would have soldHis tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders toldThat I was faine to say, If you'had liv'd, Sir,Time enough to have beene InterpreterTo Babells bricklayers, sure the Tower had stood.He adds, If of court life you knew the good,You would leave lonenesse. I said, not aloneMy lonenesse is, but Spartanes fashion,To teach by painting drunkards, doth not lastNow; Aretines pictures have made few chast;No more can Princes courts, though there be fewBetter pictures of vice, teach me vertue;He, like to a high stretcht lute string squeakt, O Sir,'Tis sweet to talke of Kings. At Westminster,Said I, The man that keepes the Abbey tombes,And for his price doth with who ever comes,Of all our Harries, and our Edwards talke,From King to King and all their kin can walke:Your eares shall heare nought, but Kings; your eyes meetKings only; The way to it, is Kingstreet.He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, Mechanique, coarse,So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.Are not your Frenchmen neate? Mine? as you see,I have but one Frenchman, looke, hee followes mee.Certes they are neatly cloth'd; I, of this minde am,Your only wearing is your Grogaram.Not so Sir, I have more. Under this pitchHe would not flie; I chaff'd him; But as ItchScratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron groundInto an edge, hurts worse: So, I (foole) found,Crossing hurt mee; To fit my sullennesse,He to another key, his stile doth addresse,And askes, what newes? I tell him of new playes.He takes my hand, and as a Still, which staiesA Sembriefe, 'twixt each drop, he nigardly,As loth to enrich mee, so tells many a lye.More then ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stowes,Of triviall houshold trash he knowes; He knowesWhen the Queene frown'd, or smil'd, and he knowes whatA subtle States-man may gather of that;He knowes who loves; whom; and who by poysonHasts to an Offices reversion;He knowes who'hath sold his land, and now doth begA licence, old iron, bootes, shooes, and egge-shels to transport; Shortly boyes shall not playAt span-counter, or blow-point, but they payToll to some Courtier; And wiser then all us,He knowes what Ladie is not painted; ThusHe with home-meats tries me; I belch, spue, spit,Looke pale, and sickly, like a Patient; YetHe thrusts on more; And as if he'd undertookeTo say Gallo-Belgicus without bookeSpeakes of all States, and deeds, that have been sinceThe Spaniards came, to the losse of Amyens.Like a bigge wife, at sight of loathed meat,Readie to travaile: So I sigh, and sweatTo heare this Makeron talke: In vaine; for yet,Either my humour, or his owne to fit,He like a priviledg'd spie, whom nothing canDiscredit, Libells now'gainst each great man.He names a price for every office paid;He saith, our warres thrive ill, because delai'd;That offices are entail'd, and that there arePerpetuities of them, lasting as farreAs the last day; And that great officers,Doe with the Pirates share, and Dunkirkers.Who wasts in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes;Who loves whores, who boyes, and who goats.I more amas'd then Circes prisoners, whenThey felt themselves turne beasts, felt my selfe thenBecomming Traytor, and mee thought I sawOne of our Giant Statutes ope his jawTo sucke me in; for hearing him, I foundThat as burnt venome Leachers do grow soundBy giving others their soares, I might groweGuilty, and he free: Therefore I did shewAll signes of loathing; But since I am in,I must pay mine, and my forefathers sinneTo the last farthing; Therefore to my powerToughly and stubbornly I beare this crosse; But the'houreOf mercy now was come; He tries to bringMe to pay a fine to scape his torturing,And saies, Sir, can you spare me; I said, willingly;Gave it, as Ransome; But as fidlers, still,Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs willThrust one more jigge upon you: so did heeWith his long complementall thankes vexe me.But he is gone, thankes to his needy want,And the prerogative of my Crowne: ScantHis thankes were ended, when I, (which did seeAll the court fill'd with more strange things then hee)Ran from thence with such or more hast, then oneWho feares more actions, doth make from prison.At home in wholesome solitarinesseMy precious soule began, the wretchednesseOf suiters at court to mourne, and a tranceLike his, who dreamt he saw hell, did advanceIt selfe on mee, Such men as he saw there,I saw at court, and worse, and more; Low feareBecomes the guiltie, not the accuser; Then,Shall I, nones slave, of high borne, or rais'd menFeare frownes? And, my Mistresse Truth, betray theeTo th'huffing braggart, puft Nobility?No, no, Thou which since yesterday hast beeneAlmost about the whole world, hast thou seene,O Sunne, in all thy journey, Vanitie,Such as swells the bladder of our court? IThinke he which made your waxen garden, andTransported it from Italy to standWith us, at London, flouts our Presence, forJust such gay painted things, which no sappe, norTast have in them, ours are; And naturallSome of the stocks are, their fruits, bastard all.'Tis ten a clock and past; All whom the Mues,Baloune, Tennis, Dyet, or the stewes,Had all the morning held, now the secondTime made ready, that day, in flocks, are foundIn the Presence, and I, (God pardon mee.)As fresh, and sweet their Apparrells be, as beeThe fields they sold to buy them; For a KingThose hose are, cry the flatterers; And bringThem next weeke to the Theatre to sell;Wants reach all states; Me seemes they doe as wellAt stage, as court; All are players; who e'r lookes(For themselves dare not goe) o'r Cheapside books,Shall finde their wardrops Inventory. Now,The Ladies come; As Pirats, which doe knowThat there came weak ships fraught with Cutchannel,The men board them; and praise, as they thinke, well,Their beauties; they the mens wits; Both are bought.Why good wits ne'r weare scarlet gownes, I thoughtThis cause, These men, mens wits for speeches buy,And women buy all reds which scarlets die.He call'd her beauty limetwigs, her haire net;She feares her drugs ill laid, her haire loose set.Would not Heraclitus laugh to see Macrine,From hat to shooe, himselfe at doore refine,As if the Presence were a Moschite, and liftHis skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift,Making them confesse not only mortallGreat staines and holes in them; but veniallFeathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate:And then by Durers rules survay the stateOf his each limbe, and with strings the odds tryeOf his neck to his legge, and wast to thighe.So in immaculate clothes, and SymetriePerfect as circles, with such nicetieAs a young Preacher at his first time goesTo preach, he enters, and a Lady which owesHim not so much as good will, he arrests,And unto her protests protests protests,So much as at Rome would serve to have throwneTen Cardinalls into the Inquisition;And whisperd by Jesu, so often, that APursevant would have ravish'd him awayFor saying of our Ladies psalter; But'tis fitThat they each other plague, they merit it.But here comes Glorius that will plague them both,Who, in the other extreme, only dothCall a rough carelessenesse, good fashion;Whose cloak his spurres teare; whom he spits onHe cares not, His ill words doe no harmeTo him; he rusheth in, as if arme, arme,He meant to crie; And though his face be as illAs theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, stillHe strives to looke worse, he keepes all in awe;Jeasts like a licenc'd foole, commands like law.Tyr'd, now I leave this place, and but pleas'd soAs men which from gaoles to execution goe,Goe through the great chamber (why is it hungWith the seaven deadly sinnes?). Being amongThose Askaparts, men big enough to throwCharing Crosse for a barre, men that doe knowNo token of worth, but Queenes man, and fineLiving, barrells of beefe, flaggons of wine;I shooke like a spyed Spie. Preachers which areSeas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare,Drowne the sinnes of this place, for, for meeWhich am but a scarce brooke, it enough shall beeTo wash the staines away; Although I yetWith Macchabees modestie, the knowne meritOf my worke lessen: yet some wise man shall,I hope, esteeme my writs Canonicall.