Satyre II

Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hatePerfectly all this towne, yet there's one stateIn all ill things so excellently best,That hate, toward them, breeds pitty towards the rest.Though Poëtry indeed be such a sinneAs I thinke that brings dearths, and Spaniards in,Though like the Pestilence and old fashion'd love,Ridlingly it catch men; and doth removeNever, till it be sterv'd out; yet their stateIs poore, disarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate.One, (like a wretch, which at Barre judg'd as dead,Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reade,And saves his life) gives ideot actors meanes(Starving himselfe) to live by his labor'd sceanes;As in some Organ, Puppits dance aboveAnd bellows pant below, which them do move.One would move Love by rithmes; but witchcrafts charmsBring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes:Rammes, and slings now are seely battery,Pistolets are the best Artillerie.And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,Are they not like singers at doores for meat?And they who write, because all write, have stillThat excuse for writing, and for writing ill;But hee is worst, who (beggarly) doth chawOthers wits fruits, and in his ravenous mawRankly digested, doth those things out-spue,As his owne things; and they are his owne, 'tis true,For if one eate my meate, though it be knowneThe meate was mine, th'excrement is his owne:But these do mee no harme, nor they which useTo out-doe Dildoes, and out-usure Jewes;To out-drinke the sea, to out-sweare the Letanie;Who with sinnes all kindes as familiar beeAs Confessors; and for whose sinfull sake,Schoolemen new tenements in hell must make:Whose strange sinnes, Canonists could hardly tellIn which Commandements large receit they dwell.But these punish themselves; the insolenceOf Coscus onely breeds my just offence,Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches poxe,And plodding on, must make a calfe an oxe)Hath made a Lawyer, which was (alas) of lateBut a scarce Poët; jollier of this state,Then are new benefic'd ministers, he throwesLike nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoever he goes,His title of Barrister, on every wench,And wooes in language of the Pleas, and Bench:A motion, Lady; Speake Coscus; I have beeneIn love, ever since tricesimo of the Queene,Continuall claimes I have made, injunctions gotTo stay my rivals suit, that hee should notProceed; spare mee; In Hillary terme I went,You said, If I return'd next size in Lent,I should be in remitter of your grace;In th'interim my letters should take placeOf affidavits: words, words, which would teareThe tender labyrinth of a soft maids eare,More, more, then ten Sclavonians scolding, moreThen when winds in our ruin'd Abbeyes rore.When sicke with Poëtrie, and possest with museThou wast, and mad, I hop'd; but men which chuseLaw practise for meere gaine, bold soule, reputeWorse then imbrothel'd strumpets prostitute.Now like an owlelike watchman, hee must walkeHis hand still at a bill, now he must talkeIdly, like prisoners, which whole months will sweareThat onely suretiship hath brought them there,And to every suitor lye in every thing,Like a Kings favourite, yea like a King;Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre,Bearing-like Asses; and more shamelesse farreThen carted whores, lye, to the grave Judge; forBastardy abounds not in Kings titles, norSymonie and Sodomy in Churchmens lives,As these things do in him; by these he thrives.Shortly (as the sea) hee will compasse all our land;From Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover strand.And spying heires melting with luxurie,Satan will not joy at their sinnes, as hee.For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitching-stuffe,And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe,Of wasting candles, which in thirty yeare(Relique-like kept) perchance buyes wedding geare;Peecemeale he gets lands, and spends as much timeWringing each Acre, as men pulling prime.In parchments then, large as his fields, hee drawesAssurances, bigge, as gloss'd civill lawes,So huge, that men (in our times forwardnesse)Are Fathers of the Church for writing lesse.These hee writes not; nor for these written payes,Therefore spares no length; as in those first dayesWhen Luther was profest, He did desireShort Pater nosters, saying as a FryerEach day his beads, but having left those lawes,Addes to Christs prayer, the Power and glory clause.But when he sells or changes land, he'impairesHis writings, and (unwatch'd) leaves out, ses heires,As slily as any Commenter goes byHard words, or sense; or in DivinityAs controverters, in vouch'd Texts, leave outShrewd words, which might against them cleare the doubt.Where are those spred woods which cloth'd hertoforeThose bought lands? not built, nor burnt within dore.Where's th'old landlords troops, and almes? In great halsCarthusian fasts, and fulsome BachanallsEqually I hate; meanes blesse; in rich mens homesI bid kill some beasts, but no Hecatombs,None starve, none surfet so; But (Oh) we allow,Good workes as good, but out of fashion now,Like old rich wardrops; but my words none drawesWithin the vast reach of th'huge statute lawes.