Satyre I

Away thou fondling motley humorist,Leave mee, and in this standing woodden chest,Consorted with these few bookes, let me lyeIn prison, and here be coffin'd, when I dye;Here are Gods conduits, grave Divines; and hereNatures Secretary, the Philosopher;And jolly Statesmen, which teach how to tieThe sinewes of a cities mistique bodie;Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them standGiddie fantastique Poëts of each land.Shall I leave all this constant company,And follow headlong, wild uncertaine thee?First sweare by thy best love in earnest(If thou which lov'st all, canst love any best)Thou wilt not leave mee in the middle street,Though some more spruce companion thou dost meet,Not though a Captaine do come in thy wayBright parcell gilt, with forty dead mens pay,Not though a briske perfum'd piert CourtierDeigne with a nod, thy courtesie to answer.Nor come a velvet Justice with a longGreat traine of blew coats, twelve, or fourteen strong,Wilt thou grin or fawne on him, or prepareA speech to Court his beautious sonne and heire!For better or worse take mee, or leave mee:To take, and leave mee is adultery.Oh monstrous, superstitious puritan,Of refin'd manners, yet ceremoniall man,That when thou meet'st one, with enquiring eyesDost search, and like a needy broker prizeThe silke, and gold he weares, and to that rateSo high or low, dost raise thy formall hat:That wilt consort none, untill thou have knowneWhat lands hee hath in hope, or of his owne,As though all thy companions should make theeJointures, and marry thy deare company.Why should'st thou (that dost not onely approve,But in ranke itchie lust, desire, and loveThe nakednesse and barenesse to enjoy,Of thy plumpe muddy whore, or prostitute boy)Hate vertue, though shee be naked, and bare?At birth, and death, our bodies naked are;And till our Soules be unapparrelledOf bodies, they from blisse are banished.Mans first blest state was naked, when by sinneHee lost that, yet hee was cloath'd but in beasts skin,And in this course attire, which I now weare,With God, and with the Muses I conferre.But since thou like a contrite penitent,Charitably warn'd of thy sinnes, dost repentThese vanities, and giddinesses, loeI shut my chamber doore, and come, lets goe.But sooner may a cheape whore, who hath beeneWorne by as many severall men in sinne,As are black feathers, or musk-colour hose,Name her childs right true father, 'mongst all those:Sooner may one guesse, who shall beare awayThe Infanta of London, Heire to an India;And sooner may a gulling weather SpieBy drawing forth heavens Scheme tell certainlyWhat fashioned hats, or ruffes, or suits next yeareOur subtile-witted antique youths will weare;Then thou, when thou depart'st from mee, canst showWhither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldst go.But how shall I be pardon'd my offenceThat thus have sinn'd against my conscience?Now we are in the street; He first of allImprovidently proud, creepes to the wall,And so imprisoned, and hem'd in by meeSells for a little state his libertie;Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greetEvery fine silken painted foole we meet,He them to him with amorous smiles allures,And grins, smacks, shrugs, and such an itch endures,As prentises, or schoole-boyes which doe knowOf some gay sport abroad, yet dare not goe.And as fidlers stop lowest, at highest sound,So to the most brave, stoops hee nigh'st the ground.But to a grave man, he doth move no moreThen the wise politique horse would heretofore,Or thou O Elephant or Ape wilt doe,When any names the King of Spaine to you.Now leaps he upright, Joggs me, & cryes, Do you seeYonder well favoured youth? Which? Oh, 'tis heeThat dances so divinely; Oh, said I,Stand still, must you dance here for company?Hee droopt, wee went, till one (which did excellTh'Indians, in drinking his Tobacco well)Met us; they talk'd; I whispered, let'us goe,'T may be you smell him not, truely I doe;He heares not mee, but, on the other sideA many-coloured Peacock having spide,Leaves him and mee; I for my lost sheep stay;He followes, overtakes, goes on the way,Saying, him whom I last left, all reputeFor his device, in hansoming a sute,To judge of lace, pinke, panes, print, cut, and plight,Of all the Court, to have the best conceit;Our dull Comedians want him, let him goe;But Oh, God strengthen thee, why stoop'st thou so?Why? he hath travayld; Long? No; but to me(Which understand none,) he doth seeme to bePerfect French, and Italian; I replyed,So is the Poxe; He answered not, but spy'dMore men of fort, of parts, and qualities;At last his Love he in a windowe spies,And like light dew exhal'd, he flings from meeViolently ravish'd to his lechery.Many were there, he could command no more;Hee quarrell'd fought, bled; and turn'd out of doreDirectly came to mee hanging the head,And constantly a while must keepe his bed.