A Cataplasmicall Satyre, composed and compacted of sundry simples, as salt, vinegar, wormewood, and a little gall…

A Sauage rough haird Satyre, needs no guide,
Wher's no way, from the way he cannot slide:
Then haue amongst you, through the brakes and bries,
From those who to the Ceders top aspires
Vnto the lowest shrub, or branch of broome,
That hath his breeding from earths teeming woombe.
And now I talke of broome, of shrubs and ceadars
Me thinkes a world of trees are now my leaders:
To prosecute this trauel of my pen,
And make comparison twixt trees and men,
The Ceadars, and the high cloud kissing Pynes,
Fecundious oliues, and the crooked Vynes:
The Elme, the Ashe, the Oake, the Masty Beeche,
The Peare, the Aple, and the rug gownd Peache:
And many more, for it would tedious be
To name each fruitfull and vnfruitfull tree.
But to proceed, to show how men, and trees
In birth, in breed, in life, and death agrees:
In their beginnings they haue all one birth,
Both haue their naturall being from the earth,
And heauens high hand, (where he doth please to blesse
Makes trees, or men, or fruitfull, or fruitlesse.
In sundry vses trees doe serue mans turne
To build, t' adorne, to feed, or else to burne.
Thus is mans state in al degrees like theirs,
Some are got vp to th' top of honours stayres,
Securely sleeping on opinions pillow,
Yet as vnfruitfull, as the fruitlesse willow.
And fill vp roomes, (like worthlesse trees in woods)
Whose goodnesse all consists in ill got goods:
He like the Cedar makes a goodly show,
But no good fruite will from his greatnesse grow
Vntill he die, and from his goods depart,
And then giues all away, despight his heart.
Then must his friends, with mourning cloth be clad
With insides merry, and with outsides sad:
What though by daily grinding of the poore
By bribry and extortion got his store:
Yet at his death he gownes some foure score men,
And tis no doubt he was a good man then?
Though in his life he thousands hath vndone
To make wealth to his cursed coffers run:
If at his buriall groats a peece be giuen,
Ile warrant you his soules in hell, or heauen:
And for this doale perhaps the beggers striues
That in the throng seuenteene doe lose their liues:
Let no man tax me here with writing lies
For what is writ I saw with mine owne eyes.
Thus men like barren trees are feld and lopt,
And in the fire to burne are quickly popt:
Some man perhaps whilst he on earth doth liue,
Part of his vaine superfluous wealth will giue:
To build of Almshouses some twelue or tenne,
Or more or lesse, to harbour aged men:
Yet this may nothing be to that proportion,
Of wealth which he hath gotten by extortion.
What ist for man (his greedy minde to serue)
To be the cause that thousands die and sterue:
And in the ende, like a vaine glorious theefe,
Will giue some ten or twelue a poore reliefe?
Like robbers on the way, that take a purse,
And giue the poore a mite to scape Gods curse.
But know this thou, whose goods are badly gotten,
When thou art in thy graue consum'd and rotten,
Thine heire (perhaps) will feast with his sweet punke,
And Dice, and Drabe, and euery day be drunke,
Carowsing Indian Trinidado smoke,
Whilest thou with Sulphurous flames art like to choake.
Se, se yond gallant in the Cloke-bagge breech,
He's nothing but a trunke cram'd full of speech:
He'le sweare as if gainst heauen he warres would wage,
And meant to plucke downe Phaebus in his rage:
When let a man but try him, hee's all oathes,
And odious lies, wrapt in vnpaid for cloathes.
And this Lad is a Roaring boy forsooth.
An exlent morsell for the hangmans tooth.
He carelesly consumes his golden pelfe,
In getting which his Father damnde himselfe.
Whose soule, (perhaps) in quenchlesse fire doth broile,
Whilest on the earth his sonne keepes leuell coile.
Tis strang to Church what numbers dayly flocke
To drinke the spring of the eternall Rocke:
The great soule sauing, Sathan slaying word,
Gainst sinne, death, hell, th' alconquering sacred sword,
Where high Iehouahs Trumpeters sound forth
From East to West, from South vnto the North:
(For through all lands their Embasseyes are borne,
And neuer doth againe in vaine returne:)
Which either is of life to life the sauor,
Or death to death, exilde from Gods sweet fauour:
Which blisse or bane their's many daily heares,
Who leaue their hearts at home, and bring their eares,
And least their reckelesse heads, the word should smother,
As soone as't enters t'one, it's out at tother.
For let a Preacher preach vntill he sweats,
Denouncing heau'ns great wrath in thundring threats
Gainst sinne and sinners: Gainst high hearted pride,
Gainst murder which hath oft for vengeance cride,
Or enuie, leachery, Auarice, or swearing,
Or any other vice theyle giue the hearing,
And say the Preacher wondrous paines did take,
And did a very learned Sermon make:
But what good Reformation hence proceeds,
Are Mountaine words, and little Mole hill deedes.
Tell Vsrers they are banisht from Gods hill,
Yet they'le continue in extortion still.
Tell the proud Courtier, that he is but earth,
He'le o're the poore insult and bragge of birth.
Expostulate the great Almighties Ire,
And tell the murdrer, hell shall be his hire,
Yet e're hele pocket vp the least disgrace,
His en'mies guts shall be his Rapiers case.
Tell daily drunkards hell shall be their lot,
Thei'le knocke and call to haue the tother pot.
Tell Panders, Bawdes, knaues, and adulteous whores
How they in hell must pay their cursed scores.
Tell Mizer chuffes who charity do banish,
How they from heau'n, eternally must vanish.
Tell all in gen'rall of their liues amisse,
And tell them that hels bottomlesse Abysse
Must be their portions if they not repent,
Till true repentance heau'ns iust wrath preuent.
Yet when the Preacher all he can hath told,
Soules vnto sinne are daily bought and sold.
The Mizer with his leachery of Chinke,
On earth will giue his dropsie soule to drinke,
And though the word beat on his Anuile heart,
From Vsury and Extortion he'le not part,
The piebald Gallant to the Church will come
To heare his soules saluations totall summe.
Yet his high pride is in such hauty dotage,
Forgets he's sprung from a poore country Cotage.
The murdrer heares how reprobated Caine
Was curst of God, that had his brother slaine,
Yet when he's from the Church, forgets it all,
And stabs a man for taking of the wall.
Should I through all mens seu'rall actions runne,
I know my businesse neuer would be done.
The rich man hates the poore man, and the poore
Doth euuie gainst the rich man for his store.
Thus is the blest soules euerliuing bread,
In bounteous measure all the earth or'espread:
Some on the high way fall and takes no roote,
But is of no esteeme trode vnder foote:
Some falles on stones, and some alights on thornes,
Deuour'd with fowles, or choak'd with scoffs or scornes.
Some little portion falles in fruitfull ground,
Th'encrease of which is to be seldome found.
For let men waigh their good deedes with their bad,
For thousand ils, one good will scarse be had.
And yet no doubt but God in store doth keepe
His neere deere children, his best flocke of sheepe.
For though vnto the world they are not knowne,
Yet tis sufficient God doth know his owne.
For though Elias thought himselfe was all
That had not offered sacrifice to Ball:
Iehouah answer'd him, seuen thousand more,
In Israel, did this Idol not Adore.
But who so much in this vile life are hated,
As those which to saluation are created.
For let a man resraine to drabe or dice,
Out fie vpon him then, he's too precise.
Let him forbeare to lie, to sweare, or banne,
O hang him rascall, he's a Puritan.
And sure I thinke the Deuill by that false name
Hath added thousands soules vnto his flame.
Some man ere he'le be cal'd a Puritan
Will turne a damned Machiauilian,
A Libertine, Papist, or else what not,
To keepe his name from so impure a blot.
I speake not this regarding their estate,
Who from our Church themselues doe seperate,
For good indifferent Ceremonius rites,
And gainst our Churches gouernment backbites.
Nor doe I praise the louing Sisters loue,
Who often makes the Brethren's spirits moue,
And if twere lawfull (they would gladly kno)
To dresse their meate the Sabbath day or no.
And wherefore now the Churchmen of these daies,
Ride too and fro, to preach so many waies,
When Christ to his Apostles gaue in charge
That they should seeke and teach all nations large,
The way, that in his Lawes they might abide,
Christ bade them goe, he bade them not to ride.
These Idle questionists, these scismatickes,
I hold no better then ranke heretikes:
But this I thinke not well, when honest hearts
Shall haue this impure name without desarts.
How then can my comparing be gainstood,
For men are like to trees, some bad, some good.
But tarry Satyre, thou too fast dost trot,
There is one thing more I had almost forgot,
And this is it, of Alehouses, and Innes,
Wine Merchants, Vintners, Brewers, who much winnes
By others losing, I say more or lesse
Who saile of hufcap lick or doe professe,
Should neuer be to any office cald.
Or in no place of Iustice be instalde:
The reason is they gaine by mens excesse
Of deuilish quafting and damb'd drunkennesse.
For why, should men be moderate in their drinke.
Much Beere, and bottle Ale should stand and stinke:
And Mounseir Claret, and sweet Signeor Sacke
Would sowre and turne vnto the Merchants wracke?
The Vintners then within their sellers deepe
Such coniuring at midnight would not keepe.
This swinish sinne hath man of sense bereauen,
To bandy balles of blasphemy gainst heauen.
It is the way, the dore, the porch, the gate,
All other vices enter in thereat.
A drunken man in rage will stab his brother,
He'le Cuckold his owne father, whoore his mother,
Reuile and curse, sweare, and speake dangerous treason,
And when he's sober, hangs for't by the weason.
How then should men a reformation giue,
To mend those crimes, that by those Crimes doe liue.
The Patriarke Noah first did plant the Vine,
And first did feele the powerfull force of wine.
And righteous Lot, by wine depriu'd of wit,
Foule Incest with his daughter did commit.
And Holophernes drunken lay in bed
Whilst strong faith'd, weake arm'd Iudith cut of's head.
Great Alexander out his Fauchion drewe
And being drunke, his best friend Clitus slew.
If euery haire vpon the heads of men
Were quils, and euery quill were made a pen:
Were Earth to paper turn'd; and Seas to Inke
And all the world were writers, yet I thinke,
They could not write the mischifes done by drinke.
And such a custome men hath tane therein,
That to be drunke, is scarse accounted sinne,
But houest recreariue meriment
The time is term'd that is in tipling spent.
A Marchants ship is richly fraught, ariues
And for thanksgiuing that so wel he thriues,
He makes a feast, and store of money spends,
Inuites his kinsfolke, creditors, and friends:
Where stormes, and Rocks, and Pirates, are forgot,
And triumphes made to Bacchus, and the Pot.
A Rich mans wife's deliuered of a boy,
And all the houshold must be drunk for ioy.
The prisoner that's condemn'd to die and hang,
And by reprieue hath scap'd that bitter pang,
Will presently his old acquaintance call,
And ere he giues God thankes to drinking fall.
Why drunkards common are, as lies, or stealing,
And sober men are scarce, like honest dealing.
When men doe meet, the second word that's spoke,
Is where's good liquour, and a pipe of smoake.
The labouring man that for his hire doth serue,
Let Landlord tarry, wife and children sterue
With not a bit of bread within the house,
Yet he'le sit on the Alebench and carows.
Thus like an Inundation drinke doth drowne
The Rich, the Poore, the Courtier, and the Clowne.
Since then to be a drunkard, is to be
The sincke of Incest, and Sodomitry,
Of Treason, swearing, fighting, beg'ry, murder,
And diuers more, I then will goe no furder:
But heere my Satyrs stinging whip ile waste
In lashing dropsie drunkards out of taste.
How then can it be possible that such
Who sell Wine, Beere, or Ale, doe gaine so much,
Should punish drunkards, as the Law commands,
In whose vaine spending, their most gaining stands.
It were all one as if a Mercer did
To weare Silke, Veluet, Cloth of Gold forbid.
And Victlers may as wisely punish those
From whom their daily drinks, great gettings growes.
I would haue all old drunkards to consent
To put a Bill vp to the Parlament:
That those by quaffing that haue spent their wealth,
Consum'd their times, their memory, their health,
And by excessiue spending now are bare,
That Merchants, Brewers, Vintners, should prepare
Some Hospitals to keepe them in their age,
And cloath, and feed them, from fierce famines rage,
For euery one whose hard vnlucky lots,
Hath beene to be vndone by empting pots,
I hold it fit that those the pots that filde,
Should contribute those Almeshouses to builde.
Yet one obiection would this bill debarre,
Too many drunkards there already are;
And rather then this law would bate their store,
I feare'twould make them twise as many more.
For why, to drinke most men would be too bold,
Because they would haue pentions being old.
And men (of purpose to this vice would fall,
To be true beads-men to this hospitall.
Then let it be as it already is,
But yet I hold it not to be amisse)
Those Drinkesellers, from office to exclude
And so for that my Satyr doth conclude.
I could rippe vp a Catologue of things,
Which thousand thousands to damnation flings,
But all my paines at last would be but idle.
It is not man, can mens Affections bridle.
Sinne cannot be put downe with inke and paper,
No more then Sol is lightned with a Taper.