||Twas a blith
prince exchang'd five hundred crowns
For a fair
turnip. Dig, dig on, O clowns
But how this comes
about, Fates, can you tell,
This more then Maid of
Meurs, this miracle?
Let me not live, if I think not
Has all the oar, as well as beasts, in's
No wonder 'tis he marries the rich sea,
to betroth him to nak'd Poesie,
And with a bankrupt
muse to merchandise;
His treasures beams, sure, have
put out his eyes.
His conquest at Lepanto I'l let
When the sick sea with turbants night-cap'd
And now at Candie his full courage shown,
That wan'd to a wan line the half-half moon.
a wreath, this is a victorie,
Caesar himself would
have look'd pale to see,
And in the height of all his
Himself but chain'd to such a mighty
And now me thinks we ape Augustus state,
ugly we his high worth imitate,
Monkey his godlike
glories; so that we
Keep light and form with such
As I have seen an arrogant baboon
a small piece of glasse zany the sun.
Rome to her
bard, who did her battails sing,
Indifferent gave to
poet and to king;
With the same lawrells were his
Who best had written, and who best
The self same fame they equally did feel,
One's style ador'd as much as t' other's steel.
chain or fasces she could then afford
The sons of
Phoebus, we, an axe or cord;
Sometimes a coronet was
And ours, the dear prerogative of a
In marble statu'd walks great Lucan lay,
And now we walk, our own pale statua.
They the whole
year with roses crownd would dine,
And we in all
December know no wine;
Disciplin'd, dieted, sure
there hath bin
Ods 'twixt a poet and a Capuchin.
Of princes, women, wine, to sing I see
apocrypha: for to rise high
Commend this olio of this
lord 'tis fit:
Nay, ten to one, but you have part of
There is that justice left, since you maintain
His table, he should counter-feed your brain.
write how well he in his sack hath droll'd,
there's a bottle to your chamber roll'd,
embroider'd words praise his French suit,
'tis yours with his mans, to boot;
Or but applaud his
boss'd legs: two to none,
But he most nobly doth give
Or spin an elegie on his false hair:
well, he cries, but living hair is dear.
Yet say that
out of order ther's one curl,
And all the hopes of
your reward you furl.
Write a deep epick poem, and
As soon delight them as the opera,
they Diogenes thought in his tub,
Never so sowre did
look so sweet a club.
You that do suck for thirst
your black quil's blood,
And chaw your labour'd
papers for your food,
I will inform you how and what
Then skin y' in satin as young Lovelace
Beware, as you would your fierce guests, your
To strip the cloath of gold from cherish'd
Rather stand off with awe and reverend fear,
Hang a poetick pendant in her ear,
Court her as her
adorers do their glasse,
Though that as much of a
true substance has,
Whilst all the gall from your
wildink you drain,
The beauteous sweets of vertues
cheeks to stain;
And in your livery let her be known,
As poor and tatter'd as in her own.
Nor write, nor
speak you more of sacred writ,
But what shall force
up your arrested wit.
Be chast; religion and her
priests your scorn,
Whilst the vain fanes of idiots
It is a mortal errour, you must know,
Of any to speak good, if he be so.
Rayl, till your
edged breath flea your raw throat,
And burn remarks
on all of gen'rous note;
Each verse be an indictment,
be not free
Sanctity 't self from thy scurrility.
Libel your father, and your dam buffoon,
matrons of the isle lampoon,
Whilst Aretine and 's
bodies you dispute,
And in your sheets your sister
Yet there belongs a sweetnesse, softnesse
Which you must pay, but first, pray, know to
There is a creature, (if I may so call
unto which they do all prostrate fall)
mistress, when they'r angry; but, pleas'd high,
a princesse, saint, divinity.
To this they sacrifice
the whole days light,
Then lye with their devotion
For this you are to dive to the abysse,
And rob for pearl the closet of some fish.
Sabaea you must strip
Of all their sweets, for to
supply her lip;
And steal new fire from heav'n, for
Her unfledg'd scalp with Berenice's hair;
Then seat her in Cassiopeia's chair.
As now you're in
your coach: save you, bright sir,
(O, spare your
thanks) is not this finer far
Then walk un-hided,
when that every stone
Has knock'd acquaintance with
When your wing'd papers, like the
last dove, nere
Return'd to quit you of your hope or
But left you to the mercy of your host
your days fare, a fortified toast.
How many battels,
sung in epick strain,
Would have procur'd your head
thatch from the rain
Not all the arms of Thebes and
Troy would get
One knife but to anatomize your meat,
A funeral elegie, with a sad boon,
Might make you (hei!)
sip wine like maccaroon;
But if perchance there did a
Not the train-band so fierce with all
Yet with your torch you homeward would
And heart'ly wish your bed your fun'ral pyre.
With what a fury have I known you feed
contract and the hopes 't might speed!
Not the fair
bride, impatient of delay,
Doth wish like you the
beauties of that day;
Hotter than all the roasted
cooks you sat
To dresse the fricace of your alphabet,
Which sometimes would be drawn dough anagrame,
Sometimes acrostick parched in the flame;
stew'd with sippets, mottos by:
Of minced verse a
How many knots slip'd, ere you twist
With th' old device, as both their heart's
Whilst like to drills the feast in your
You would transmit at leisure to your maw;
Then after all your fooling, fat, and wine,
at last, return at home to pine.
Tell me, O Sun,
since first your beams did play
To night, and did
awake the sleeping day;
Since first your steeds of
light their race did start,
Did you ere blush as now?
Oh thou, that art
The common father to the base
As well as great Alcides, did the fire
From thine owne altar which the gods adore,
the souls of gnats and wasps before?
delight in his chast eyes to see
Dormise to strike at
lights of poesie?
Faction and envy now are downright
Once a five-knotted whip there was, the stage:
The beadle and the executioner,
To whip small errors,
and the great ones tear;
Now, as er'e Nimrod the
first king, he writes:
That's strongest, th' ablest
The muses weeping fly their hill, to
Their noblest sons of peace in mutinie.
there nought else this civil war compleat,
raging with poetic heat,
Tearing themselves and th'
endlesse wreath, as though
Immortal they, their wrath
should be so, too?
And doubly fir'd Apollo burns to
In silent Helicon a naumachie.
these at his first alarms;
Never till now Minerva was
O more then conqu'ror of the world, great
Thy heros did with gentleness or'e come
foes themselves, but one another first,
stript alone was left, and burst.
Decemviri, 'tis true, did strive,
But to add flames
to keep their fame alive;
Whilst the eternal lawrel
hung ith' air:
Nor of these ten sons was there found
Like to the golden tripod, it did pass
From this to this, till 't came to him, whose 'twas.
Caesar to Gallus trundled it, and he
To Maro: Maro,
Naso, unto thee?
Naso to his Tibullus flung the
He to Catullus thus did bequeath.
glorious circle, to another round,
At last the
temples of their god it bound.
I might believe at
least, that each might have
A quiet fame contented in
Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite:
For after death all men receave their right.
If it be
sacriledge for to profane
Their holy ashes, what is't
then their flame?
He does that wrong unweeting or in
As if one should put out the vestal fire.
earths four quarters speak, and thou, Sun, bear
witnesse for thy fellow-traveller.
I was ally'd, dear
Uncle, unto thee
In blood, but thou, alas, not unto
Your vertues, pow'rs, and mine differ'd at best,
As they whose springs you saw, the east and west.
me awhile be twisted in thy shine,
And pay my due
devotions at thy shrine.
Might learned Waynman rise,
who went with thee
In thy heav'ns work beside
I should sit still; or mighty Falkland
To justifie with breath his pow'rful hand;
The glory, that doth circle your pale urn,
hallow'd still and undefiled burn:
But I forbear.
Flames, that are wildly thrown
At sacred heads, curle
back upon their own;
Sleep, heavenly Sands, whilst
what they do or write,
Is to give God himself and you
There is not in my mind one sullen fate
Of old, but is concentred in our state:
ore-runners, Goths in literature:
would Parnassus new-manure;
Ringers of verse that
And toll the changes upon every rime.
A mercer now by th' yard does measure ore
which was but by the foot before;
Deals you an ell of
epigram, and swears
It is the strongest and the
No wonder, if a drawer verses rack,
If 'tis not his, 't may be the spir't of sack;
the fair bar-maid stroaks the muses teat,
For milk to
make the posset up compleat.
Arise, thou rev'rend
shade, great Johnson, rise!
Break through thy marble
Behold a mist of insects, whose
Will melt thy hallow'd leaden house of
What was Crispinus, that you should defie
The age for him? He durst not look so high
immortal rod, he still did stand
Honour'd, and held
his forehead to thy brand.
These scorpions, with
which we have to do,
Are fiends, not only small but
Well mightst thou rive thy quill up to
And scrue thy lyre's grave chords, untill
For though once hell resented musick,
Divels will not, but are in worse disease.
How would thy masc'line spirit, father Ben,
behold basely deposed men,
Justled from the
prerog'tive of their bed,
Whilst wives are per'wig'd
with their husbands head?
Each snatches the male
quill from his faint hand,
And must both nobler write
He to her fury the soft plume doth
O pen, nere truely justly slit till now!
as her self a poem she doth dresse.
And curls a line,
as she would do a tresse;
Powders a sonnet as she
does her hair,
Then prostitutes them both to publick
Nor is 't enough, that they their faces blind
With a false dye; but they must paint their mind,
meeter scold, and in scann'd order brawl,
one Sapho left may save them all.
But now let me
recal my passion.
Oh! (from a noble father, nobler
You, that alone are the Clarissimi,
whole gen'rous state of Venice be,
It shall not be
Shall boast inthron'd alone this new
You, whose correcting sweetnesse hath
Shame to the good, and glory to the bad;
Whose honour hath ev'n into vertue tam'd
swarms, that now so angerly I nam'd.
thus distemper'd I indite:
For it is hard a SATYRE
not to write.
Yet, as a virgin that heats all her
At the first motion of bad understood,
at meer thought of fair chastity,
again the tempests of her sea:
So when to you I my
All wrath and storms do end in calm