Book I, Satire 3

With some Pot-furie rauisht from their wit,
They sit and muse on some no-vulgar writ:
As frozen Dung-hils in a winters morne,
That voyd of Vapours seemed all beforne,
Soone as the Sun, sends out his piercing beames,
Exhale out filthie smoke and stinking steames:
So doth the base, and the fore-barren braine,
Soone as the raging wine begins to raigne.
One higher pitch'd doth set his soaring thought
On crowned kings that Fortune hath low brought:
Or some vpreared, high-aspiring swaine
As it might be the Turkish Tamberlaine.
Then weeneth he his base drink-drowned spright,
Rapt to the threefold loft of heauen hight,
When he conceiues vpon his fained stage
The stalking steps of his greate personage,
Graced with huf-cap termes, and thundring threats,
That his poore hearers hayre quite vpright sets.
Such soone, as some braue minded hungrie youth
Sees fitly frame to his wide-strained mouth,
He vaunts his voyce vpon an hyred stage,
With high-set steps, and princely carriage;
Now soouping in side robes of Royaltie,
That earst did skrub in lowsie brokerie.
There if he can with termes Italianate,
Big-sounding sentences, and words of state,
Faire patch me vp his pure Iambick verse,
He rauishes the gazing Scaffolders:
Then certes was the famous Corduban
Neuer but halfe so high Tragedian.
Now, least such frightfull showes of Fortunes fall,
And bloudy Tyrants rage, should chance appall
The dead stroke audience, midst the silent rout,
Comes leaping in a selfe-mis formed lout,
And laughes, and grins, and frames his Mimik face,
And iustles straight into the princes place.
Then doth the Theatre Eccho all aloud,
With gladsome noyse of that applauding croud.
A goodly hoch-poch; when vile Russettings,
Are match with monarchs, and with mightie kings.
A goodly grace to sober Tragick Muse,
When each base clowne, his clumbsie fist doth bruise
And show his teeth in double rotten-row,
For laughter at his selfe-resembled show.
Meane while our Poets in high Parliament,
Sit watching euerie word, and gesturement,
Like curious Censors of some doughtie geare,
Whispering their verdit in their fellowes eare.
Wo to the word whose margent in their scrole,
Is noted with a blacke condemning Cole.
But if each periode might the Synode please,
Ho, bring the Iuy boughs, and bands of Bayes
Now when they part and leaue the naked stage,
Gins the bare hearer in a guiltie rage,
To curse and ban, and blame his likerous eye,
That thus hath lauisht his late halfe-penie.
Shame that the Muses should be bought and sold,
For euerie peasants brasse, on each scaffold.