Book I, Satire 2

Whilome the sisters nine were Vestall maides,
And held their Temple in the secret shades.
Of faire Parnassus that two-headed hill,
Whose auncient fame the Southern world did fill.
And in the stead of their eternall fame,
Was the coole streame, that tooke his endles name,
From out the fertile hoofe of winged steed:
There did they sit and do their holy deed,
That pleas'd both heauen and earth: till that of late,
Whome should I fault? or the most righteous Fate?
Or heauen, or men, or fiends, or ought beside,
That euer made that foule mischance betide?
Some of the sisters in securer shades.
Defloured were:
And euer since disdaining Sacred shame.
Done ought that might their heauenly stock defame.
Now is Pernassus turned to a stewes:
And on Bay-stocks the wanton Myrtle grewes.
Cythêron hill's become a Brothel-bed,
And Pyrene sweete, turnd to a poysoned head
Of cole-blacke puddle: whose infectious staine
Corrupteth all the lowly fruitfull plaine.
Their modest stole, to garish looser weede,
Deck't with loue-fauors: their late whordoms meed.
And where they wont sip of the simple flood,
Now tosse they bowles of Bacchus boyling bloud,
I maruelled much with doubtfull iealousie,
Whence came such Litturs of new Poetrie;
Mee thought I fear'd, least the horse-hoofed well
His natiue banks did proudly ouer-swell
In some late discontent, thence to ensue
Such wondrous rablements of Rime-sters new:
But since, I saw it painted on Fames wings,
The Muses to be woxen Wantonings.
Each bush, each bank, and ech base Apple-squire,
Can serue to sate their beastly lewd desire.
Ye bastard Poets see your Pedigree
From common Trulls and loathsome Brothelry.