Vpon the Generall Sciolists or Poettasters of Britannie. A Satyre

Come Arehuse come, for nere had we,
At any time a greater need of thee.
No Lawrell now, but Nettle's best to grace
Our Laureat Pot see his vncouth face,
Vnapt fo pesie: his strange disguise,
Onely addrest (in Verse) to Temporize:
Now Parasites proue Poets, and expresse
Their oyly workes: for what is more or lesse
Dilated on, is consecrate to men,
That are the greatest: O what need is then,
To thee (deere Arthuse) that didst frame,
A Poet to the nature of his name?
No time-obseruing smooth fac'd sycophant,
No strange conceited Asse whose Element
Is to insinuate vnder the shade
Of a great Mounseyrs elbow, thour't prou'd Iade
To thy profession, not a saffron band,
But like a roaring boye, can make thee stand
And yeeld obseruance to him: silly foole,
That Artlesse idiots should bring to schoole,
The best of Muses, thou that once wast borne,
Not as our great Acteons, to the horne
Of their dishonour, (being of ioy bereft)
Leauing to others what themselues haue left.
(Worse by degrees then was that Phoebus Car,
Which Phaeton by rash attempts did marre:
And cleere dissolues) lasse see thy Trophies torne,
Thy statues razed: and that Mount forlorne
Which first possest the Muses: now no wreath
Can be hung vp to memorize the death
Of any great man, why for vertues due,
Bids euery Poet (in his verse) speake true
Of such as are deceased: its true, who then
Speaking no more then truth, can praise such men,
As rather were then liu'd? being, but not
In reall essence, las what fame is got
By such as write of these (whose onely good)
Is to auerre they were of Noble bloud.
But so much disproportion'd to their name,
As what they seem'd, they seldome were the same.
The same; O noe, their garish ornament,
Their wanton guise, their Loue-sicke complement,
Their strange distractions, their deformed state,
Transform'd from English to Italienate,
Expresse small comfort to a Poets penne,
Which onely should delight in shewing them
Vnto the worlds eye, whose fame succeedes,
And makes them Noble by Heroicke deedes,
Drawen from the line of Honour: but how farre
Seeme Poets in these latter times to erre?
Who write not for respect, or due esteeme,
Had to their owne profession, but to gaine
The fauour of a great one, this it is,
Giues priuiledge to men that doe amisse:
Such be our ranke of Poets now adayes,
As they adorne th'Immerited with praise
Aboue desert. Hence is it that we bring
The Art of Poetry to Ballading.
Hence is it, that the Courtier may intend
A strange pretended proect for no end,
Saue to augment's expence, a suites begun,
Which makes a silly Farmer quite vndone,
Without all hope of composition: Passe
That such transgressions should so freely passe,
Without controulement. Many we haue heere,
That can compose their Verse, but in a sphere
So different to the time, as they descry
Their want of braines to each iudicious eye.
Yea some I know are Poets in this time
Who write of swains, might write as well of swine,
For th'profit of their labours is so small,
As t'were farre better not to write at all,
Then to consume such pretious time in vaine,
About a fruitlesse, and desertlesse straine:
Better indeed: when in their Makers sight,
They must accomptants be of what they write,
Whose eyes be purer, and extension beare,
Aboue th'Dimension of a common sphere.
Yet anke I not (as some men doe suppose)
These worthlesse swaines amongst the laies of those
Time-honour'd Shepheards (for they still shall be)
As well they merit) honoured of mee,
Who beare a part, like honest faithfull swaines,
On witty Wither neuer-withring plaines,
For these (though seeming Shepheards) haue deseru'd,
To haue their names in lasting Marble caru'd:
Yea this I know I may be bold to say,
Thames ner'e had swans that song more sweet than they.
It's true I may auow't, that nere was song,
Chanted in any age by swains so young,
With more delight then was perform'd by them,
Pretily shadow'd in a borrowed name.
And long may Englands Thespian springs be known
"By louely Wither and by bonny Browne,
Whilst solid Seldon, and their Cuddy too,
Sing what our (Swaines of old) could neuer doe.
Yea I do hope, sith they so well can write,
Of Shep-heards sport, and of the fields delight.
That when they come to take a view of th'Court,
(As some haue done) and haue bin mew'd vp for't,
They'l tell her freely, (as full well they may)
That in their Iudgements, after due suruay,
Of th'Court & th'Cottage, they may well maintain,
Vices in the Court, but vertues in the Swaine;
And happy be those Authors which doe giue
Vertue and vice their titles, they shall liue
In spite of Enuie, when such men as teach
That such be onely vertuous as be rich,
Shall lye inter'd where fame shall neuer finde them
For such doe seldome leaue a name behind them
Lasse they must dye and perish, so must we,
Nor can we gaine ought of eternity:
Saue that we liue, Oh then how blest are they
That spend their life in weighing of their daies
But of professants, which compose their song
To a strange descant! this Ile say they wrong
Flowrie Parnassus, where such vsed to be,
As in themselues made one set company.
These sung not what they knew not, but in Verse,
What time had taught them they vse to rehearse,
And to reduce it to one perfect forme,
Striuing by proper figures to adorne
Ech worke, ech composition: but lasse now
How farre's that alteration? where we know
Let that we write, adding to our estate
(Begg'd meerely) by a great mans Dedicate.
Heere is no substance, but a simple peece
Of gaudy Rhetoricke: Which if it please,
Yeelds th'Author dear-contentment: thus we straine
The Muses Text for a peculiar gaine
Vnto our selues: hence is it vice abides,
(And lording-like in silken foot-cloath rides.)
Hence is it Land-lords make their tenants slaues:
Hence is it waste-goods ope their fathers graues:
Hence is it Mammonists adore their golde:
Hence is't the impious to perdition solde:
Hence Sacriledge a priuiledge obtaines:
Hence th'sneking Lawyer by his Clyent gaines:
Hence th'Politician, what so ere befall,
Will to his trade and shew a Machiuell.
Hence imposts rise extortions violence
Graced by men that haue most eminence.
Hence Sergeants walk vnfrōted (though they know it)
No friend is worse then Sergeant to a Poet.
Hence painted faces (like ill wine in caske)
Shrow'd their deform'd complexions vnder maske
Hence curious Courtiers, gorgeously arrayd,
Weare more vpon their backe then ere was paide:
Hence th'baudie Pandor, seruile to his whore,
And hence the Baude that keeps the traders dore;
Hence base informers take their borrowed light,
Liuing like Owles that vse to flie by night:
Hence wanton Prodigals that spend their state,
And 'gin repentance when it is too late.
Hence young and old, hence each in their degree,
Challenge to them a due Monopolie.
O how Miueruas temple's now disgrac't,
By th'skum of Poetry! she that was plac't
Once like th'Ephesian Queene in a pure shrine
Of honour and delight, now's forc't to pine.
And languish in her bewty, being deprest,
By such men most, whom she suspecteth lest.
Vnpiniond Muses (such as nere could flie)
Further then vnplum'd birds now presse as high
As Eagles; which by the Colour you my know,
As eminent and cleere as Flaccus Crow:
These steale selected flowres from others wit,
And yet protest their nature brookes not it,
They are (for both) so inuented by their art.
Making their pen the displayer of their heart.
They brooke no Brocage, yet has workes in presse,
Which they are guillesse of but this were lesse,
Worthy reproofe, if in their gleaned lines,
Like our age Criticks they would curbe these times
For peulancie: but so vaine be they,
As they runne still in that high beaten way
Of errour, by directing men amisse,
Penning whole volumes of licentiousnesse,
Descanting on my Ladies Rosie lip,
Her Cinthian eie, her bending front, her trip,
Her bodies motion, otion of her time,
All which they weaue vp in a baudy Rime.
For since there's no obseruance, Accent neither
(Sith sence and accent seldome goe together.)
O what aspersions doe these lay on her,
Who beares the onely natiue character.
Of her deere issues merit shee I meane,
Without whose nourishment we had not been,
She without whose embrace, the solid earth,
Had quite interr'd the honour of our birth
She without whom we haue no biding place,
No mansion, no repose: she by whose grace
We are inhabitants, planted in rest,
Sucking pure milke out of her tender brest.
She whose our Guardian gouerning our state
Shoring our weaknesse, arming vs 'gainst fate,
Guiding our path-lesse passage, brething life
Into our dulnesse: midating strife,
Because (a peacefull mother) chering vs
With folace, when deprest, tricking our Muse,
With seemly subiects (that whil'st shepheards sing)
Of rurall pastimes, midst their sonneting.
The grauer ranke might compositions make,
Not for themselues but for their countries sake:
Alasse poore countrie; where is all that store
Of diuine wits that thou hast bred before?
Where is that Quint-essence of poesie,
That in (fore-times) was wont to breath on thee:
Like a coole Zephirus? Hybles pure mount,
Renowm'd in former ages and that Fount,
Of sacred Castalie lie desolate.
For they with theirs haue lost their former state
Of Greatnesse: no proportion nor no flower
Decks, with a dasie Border, that sweet Bower
Where Cinthia vs'd to reuell: but as th'port
Of house-keeping is now transport'd to Court,
" Leauing their Country-houses, which men looke
" And gase at long ere they can see them smoke:
So fruitfull Hesperie, which vs'd to be
The Ren-de uou for sacred poesie
Luing to be her selfe, shuts vp her dore?
Hence is the bankrout poet becom'd poore:
Hence is 't hee 's forc't to write not for the ease
Of his owne minde (but as his Patrons please.)
Hence ist that errors must be Vertues deem'd,
Because, poore Poet, its by Fate ordain'd,
That if he will not humour, he must sterue:
"For Great-men loue not heare what they deserue.
How iealous be our times of their deserts,
When they suppresse the eminence of arts?
Making them speechlesse whereas we do see,
If persons were dispos'd as they should be;
Their sincere conscience (like a brazen wall)
Might beare them vp what euer should befall.
Then might our Satyre mixe his inke with gal,
But with his mixture do no hurt at all.
Then might our scepticke giue his iudgement free,
yet do small harme to mens integritie.
Then might the Lawyer pleade without offence;
Not feare his Conscience with a faire pretence
Of doing good, when his corrupted will
Vnder pretence of good, acts what is ill.
Then might the diuels Factors liue like men,
That haue a god, nor for the hundred ten;
Receiuing with aduantage need'd they pay,
A greater summe at that same latter daie,
When due accompts are had ô vsurie
That art the Cities scourge, how much hae we
Occasion to proseribe thee from our land,
Since by thy meanes haue we felt heauens hand
More heauy and reuenging then before,
Whose wrath has vialls euer laid in store
To punish impious men: its thou (fowle sin)
Which hast hal'd downe the infection we haue seene
Rage in this famous Ile: its thou whose hight
Hah turn'd our day of comfort to a night
Of grat affliction: for who more can be
Afflicted in himselfe, then inwardly
Feeling the worme of Conscience gnawing him
Torment consorting with that birth of sinne
Wherein he's nurtured: alas poore Ile!
That thou shouldst foster such as do defile
Thy once renowmed borders with the hate
Of a supernall power, making thy state
Pray to oppression, vassalling thy fame
(Which once was glorious) to thy odious name
Of miserie: Great Albion now is growne
Poore in her selfe, because what is her owne
She cannot vse but in depraued wise,
Makes her selfe subiect to all forraine eyes
As vices spectacle: ô that the blisse
Which we enioy by minds Synderysis
Th' refined part of man, should soyled be
By th'worst of ils the staine of vsury?
And who'le inueigh against it, few or none,
For miser Nature hardly leaues vs one,
That can securely speake against this ill
So generall is the poison of our will:
For (deere Pernassus now is so opprest)
It dare not speake for feare that interest,
Should be demaunded by the Vsurer
To whom it stands engag'd: this is the fate
That Poets haue, to leaue more wit then state
To their posteritie: ô impious time!
When worst of Fortune followes wits diuine;
When noble actions motiue in their spirit,
Can leaue nought to their Issue to inherit:
Saue their poore fathers papers, monuments
Scarce worth respect: how weakes the Element
Which Poets are compos'd of, when one frowne
Sent from a great mans visage can keepe downe
Their best inuention? silly poesie,
That (though free borne, art forc't to slauery,
And vndeseru'd subiection: pittie it is,
That best of merit should shut vp her wish;
And dew expectance in no other book,
Saue in a skrew'd face or a writhed looke;
Vnfit to entertaine an Art diuine
Which is exprest in that poore Muse of thine.
Come, come, great regent of that sacred quire,
Come in thy selfe and so our soules inspire
With Arts Elixir and with spirit toe,
That we may do with boldnes what we do:
Erect our aged fortunes make them shine
(Not like the foole in's foot-cloath) but like Time,
Adorn'd with true experiments which may
Conuert our odious night to glorious day.
Let not Ambition mounted in her state
Passe vncontrol'd: care not for getting hate:
" For honest minds are best approued still,
" By gaining hate in curbing what is ill.
Let nt these painted blocks of Iuuenal,
Which for their cloaths are most admir'd of al
Stand vnreproou'd: let not their dangling plume
So daunt thee, as thou dare not well presume
To blazon their defects, speake what thou seest
And care not who be pleas'd, or who displeas'd
Let not moth-eaten Auarice appeare
In this deere Ile, without her Character:
Lash me the Symonist, who though precise
In shew, can geld his Parsons Benifice.
all me (our graine-engrossers) moulds of th'earth,
That in their plentie laugh at others dearth.
Rouse me the Atheist, let's security
Heare th'iudgement of supernall maiestie
Thundring against him: let th'lasciuious
Know their bed-broking sin, how odious
Their sensuall meetings are to his pure eyes,
Who euen the secrets of our hearts espies,
Searching our reines, examining our hearts,
Discussing each intention (and all parts)
That hae a working faculty: Euen he
That well approues of morall poesie,
He that confirmes the motions of our minde
And breath's vpon them if to good inclinde.
Let not sin-tempting wanton Meremaids rest
Without due censure, who with naked brest,
Attractiue eye, and garish Complement
Ensnare our fond vnary Innocent:
These are those Babell publique prostitutes,
Lures to damnation, Romane Catamites,
Inuentresses of pleasures, pensiue still
To doe whats good, but frolike to doe ill.
O London how thy Vanity abounds,
Glorying in that which thy renowne confounds.
Traduced fashions from the Dutch to French,
From French to Spanish, and not longer since,
Then yesterday, blush at thy sinne for shame,
That Albion (by thy meanes) should ose her name,
And habit too: see, see, how farre thou'rt gone,
Beyond thy selfe, that therer's no fashion knowne,
In forraine Courts, deform'd howsoere it be,
But by transportance it doth come to thee.
Lasse how immodest art thou to expresse,
Thy selfe so much by others fashions lesse?
How strangely Metamorphis'd to partake,
For Angells forme, the most deformed shape,
That Countries can bring out: ô pittie tis
That Albions much admir'd Metropolis,
Should make those which admir'd her now to hate
Her vaine condition (introduc'd by state
Too plentifull: Here you Hesperian wits
May you haue subiect more then well befits
A modest pen: for nere was any time
More prone to ill: no Region, countrey, clime,
Prouince, Isle, Regiment so truly blest
With all earths bounties, yet hath lesse exprest,
Of gratitude: here Satirists resort,
And make an ample coment on the Court,
Where thou shalt write, som's wanton, others vaine,
Ambitious some, others doe couet gaine
By seruile meanes: some beggars yet who dar
Write in these daies that any such there are.
Then (my sharp tooth'd Satire) frame thy ditty
In the same forme, vnrip the Crimes of'th Citty
With a sterne brow: tell the purple Magistrate,
How he has rais'd himselfe to great estate
By others ruine: such as Mercers are,
Tell them darke shops haue got away ill ware.
Such as be Gold-smiths, and are dangerous,
Call them the Siluer-smith of Ephesus.
Long liue Diana, but no longer then
By their Diana they doe reape a gaine.
Such as be Brokers, tell them their profession,
Is not to be a knaue o'th first edition.
But as those garments which are brought to them,
Vse to be worne before by other men:
Euen so they broke their vices and receiue
Som crimes wrapt vp i'th garmēts which they haue.
Tell them of Wapping, bid them thankfull be,
That there is Iustice had for Piracie:
For if that were not (it may well be said)
Many their shops would be vnfurnished,
But in the Country now my Muse shall be,
For brooke shee'le not a Brokers Company.
Here shalt thou see th'picture of Auarice,
Thin-cheek'd, rw-bon'd, faint-breath, and hollow-eye.
Nose-dropping, rhwme-destilling, driueling mouth
Hand-shaking, haire down-falling, thmisers cough,
Legs goutie, knees vnweldy, hand on cruch,
Eies in his bosome, gasing on his pouch,
His labour torment, rest he cannot take,
When all are sleeping, he is forc't to wake:
His Eies are euer ope, for riches keepe
His eies vnclosed: The miser cannot sleepe.
He's his owne anguish, such an impious elfe,
Thats ill to all, but worst vnto himselfe.
He has not bookes whereon to meditate,
Onely a debt booke and an Alminake.
The one's for forfeitures, where he will pore,
And daie by day trauers them ore and ore:
Th'oher's his Enterlude that yeelds him mirth,
Seeing predictions of the next yeeres dearth.
Hope of a deerer Sommer then last was
Vnseasoned haruest: O these hopes surpasse
All others, Heere the Miser sets his eie,
And when he does these strange prenotions spie,
He kisses th'booke, sweares the profession's rare,
And wishes all hee reades such subiects were.
This Cormorant engrosseth all his graine,
Makes his barnes greater by a secret traine
Brings ore his neighbours sonne to set his hand,
Vnto a sale, and so ioynes land to land.
This wicked vlcer that corrupts the state,
Nere thinkes of death, till that it be too lae.
His gold's his God, yet vse it cannot he,
But in expression of his miserie
Which puts the poore Miser to a double paine.
By telling it and putting't vp againe.
But now (my nimble Satyre) for to thee
Tends this impolisht peece of poesie:
How wilt thou taxe, or where wilt thou begin
With thy tart phrase, to stinge and nettle him?
Thou must be bitter (for in greatest grieues)
And festered wounds we vse no lenitiues
To mollefie, but corrasiues to gall:
And of all griefes this is the great'st of all.
By it we are degenerate and liue,
As such as can receiue, but cannot giue
To Nature competence: Come my deare Mate
Ile tell thee how to cure their desperate state;
Which in few words least that thy memory faile,
Ile speake my minde vnto thee in a tale.
It chaunc't vpon a time (and well might be
For such like chances fall-on miserie,)
A pinch-gut Miser fell extreamely sicke,
So as at last his Conscience gan to pricke,
And tell him of's oppression, wheresoere
He turn'd his eyes, he saw damnation there.
Sleepe could he not, his sicknesse was too great,
Nor hope for ought, his conscience did so threate
And terrifie his soule: thus lay this wretch
Poore in his spirit, though to the world rich;
Faine would he oft desire himselfe confest.
But cause he was falne out with Parish priest
About a Tith-pigge, he deferr'd the time,
And would in no case suffer this Diuine
To minister due comfort to his sate
All woe begone: so great was th' Misers hae
For though he were afflicted, yet would he
Vp-braide the Parson full irreuerently,
Calling him hedge priest, belly-god (nay or)
That like a Thiefe, he came not in at dore,
But in at windowe to his Beneice;
And that he knew the practice and deuice
Of him and's Patron: who that th' law might
Dispensed with in case of Symonie,
Sold him a horse (that whatsoere should fa,)
The price might pay for th' Benefice and all
This would he say, concluding merrily,
Sir Priest you come more for my pigge then me
Silent the Parson was, for well he knew,
The Miser spoke no more then what was true
Onely he wisht such neighbours as he had
Present to pray for him, for he was mad,
And that by all appearance it was like
That his disease had made him lunatickes
Thus euery day his sicknesse did encrease
Beret of comfort, conscienc sweetest peace
Without all hope of health or here or there,
(For th'worm of conscience follows euery where.)
There's no euasion left: where ere we goe
She will attend vs in our weale and woe.
You heard confest he would, by as tis true.
A miser loues not him that craues his due:
So to such men this censure stands for iust,
They loue their Conscience rest lesse then their rut.
What should he doe? the Pardon now is gone,
And he vnto himselfe is left alone
T'expostulate with death: his sinnes did grieue hi
But now the most when all his friends do leaue him
Torment belowe, iudgement he sees aboue,
Witnesse within him, that will duly proue
What he has done on earth (thus all in one
Make vp a consort in his dying mone:
Yet as a ship ore-burdend with her freight
Sinking before, sayls brauely, being made light;
Or as the Ocean beats from shelfe to shelfe,
(Sea-sicke god-wot) till she hath purg'd herselfe.
So this sur-charged soule rowl's here and there,
And yet to comfort is no whit the neere,
Till that same latage of corruption be
Exempted quite: then sleepes she quietly.
Confesse he must, but to no Priest, that's vaine:
But vnto one cleere of another straine;
Shall I tell Satire? yes, thou needs must know it,
And this he was; a thrid-bare neighbouring Poet:
Who after dew confession made to him
Of euery act, and each peculiar inne,
Extortion, Violence and Iniurie,
Pressing of Orphanes, biting vsurie,
Forfeitures taken, forged bills, at last
He makes confession how a Poet past
His pikes: who once was of a faire estate,
But after had no prospect but a grate:
O, quoth the Poet, that was ill in you;
O (quoth the Miser) I doe know its true:
But with remorce I now lament his fall.
Which 'mongst the rest afflict me most of all.
Wherefore good Sir, poure out your prayers for me,
That in distast of my impiety
Languishing sore, I may be cheerd in state,
Dying in hope, that now lies desperate.
The faire conditio'nd Poet, though he had heard
How ill his owne profession got reward,
By this hard-harted Miser; yet did he
Scorne his reuenge should in affliction be:
Streight he retires himselfe a pretty space,
Chusing for's Orisons a priuate place,
Which being done, to cheere the drooping man,
With hands heau'd vp, his praiers he thus began.

Powerfull Iehouah, King of Heauen and Earth,
That giu'st to all things liuing life and brth.
Thou that protects each thing which thou hast made,
And so preseru's it as it cannot fade.
Before the time prefin'd: thou that wilt haue
Mercy on such as thou dost meane to saue.
Looke in this wretch (that lies all woe begon)
If so thou thinke hees worthy looking on:
Great is thy mercy, so it needs must be,
If thou wilt saue such Miserants as he.
But what thou meanes to doe, he faine would know,
Wether he must ascend, or fall below:
That he prouision may according make,
And fit himselfe for th'Voyage he must take.
For if to heauen, he needs the lesse prepare,
Because he knowes all needfull things be there.
But much he fear'd, and so feare other some,
Mongst which my selfe, that there be nere shall come,
But if to hell (the likelier place o'th two)
He does desire, that thou wouldst this allow.
He may haue so much respite as prepare,
The Bonds of all such Prodigalls be there:
That what he could not cancell here so well
On earth, may there be cancelled in hell.
The cause is this (as it to me appeares)
Lest that those spend-thrifs fall about his eares,
When they shall see him, which that he may stay,
He'le cancell th' Bonds, though't be long after day
Or this's the cause as he was impious here,
He meanes to proue an honest Deuill there.
" That Time to Times-successors may bring forth,
" Hell made him better then he was on Earth.

Much more he praide, but I doe rather chuse,
(Satyre) to make of all his praiers an vse,
That when the vse shall well expressed be,
Thou maist apply the Benefit to thee.
Sir [quoth the Poet] I my praiers haue made,
Haue you, (replyed he,) as one dismayed,
Yes sir, and by them so my zeale enforc't,
As I preuaild, though it was long time first,
For know an apparision came to me
With a shrill voice, which bad me say to thee.
If thou wile first a restitution make,
And render vp what thou by Fraud didst take,
From any man, but chiefly what thou tooke
From th'Poet: next, deliuer vp thy booke
Of all Accounts, great'st cause of thy despaire,
To thy Confessour, and make him thy heyre.
Thou shalt haue health for this, it bad me tell,
But if thou wilt not, thou art markt for hell.
For Hell, no marry I take keyes and state,
I will not buy wealth at so deere a rate.
If thou my pretty Satyre couldst reclayme,
A miser thus, I'de thanke thee for the same.
But all too long I haue enforc't thee stay.
Vice calleth thee, and Time drawes me away.