Late travailing along in London way,
Mee met, as seem'd by his disguis'd array,
A lustie courtier; whose curled head
With abron locks was fairely furnished. ́
I him saluted in our lavish wise:
He answeres my untimely courtesies.
His bonnet vail'd, ere ever he could thinke,
Th' unruly winde blowes off his periwinke.1
He lights and runs, and quickly hath him sped,
To overtake his over-runing head.
The sportfull winde, to mocke the headlesse man,
Tosses apace his pitch'd Rogerian :
And straight it to a deeper ditch hath blowne;
There must my yonker fetch his waxen crowne.
I lookt, and laught, whiles in his raging minde,
He curst all courtesie, and unruly winde.
I lookt and laught; and much I mervailed,
To see so large a caus-way in his head.
And me bethought, that when it first begon,
"Twas some shroad autumne1 that so bar'd the bone. Is't not sweete pride, when men their crowns must shade, With that which jerks the hams of every jade,
Or floor-strow'd locks from off the barber's sheares? But waxen crowns well gree with borrow'd haires.
WHEN Gullion dy'd (who knowes not Gullion ?)
And his drie soule arriv'd at Acheron,
He faire besought the feryman of hell,
That he might drink to dead Pantagruel.
1 See post, Book iv. Sat. vi.
2 See As You Like it. Act 5, S. 4.
Charon was afraid lest thirsty Gullion
Would have drunke drie the river Acheron.
Yet last consented for a little hyre,
And down he dips his chops deep in the myre,
And drinkes, and drinkes, and swallows in the streeme,
Until the shallow shores all naked seeme.
Yet still he drinkes, nor can the boatman's cries,
Nor crabbed oares, nor prayers, make him rise.
So long he drinkes, till the black caravell,
Stands still fast gravell'd on the mud of hell.
There stand they still, nor can go, nor retyre,
Tho' greedie ghosts quicke passage did require.
Yet stand they still, as tho' they lay at rode,
Till Gullion his bladder would unlode.
They stand, and wait, and pray for that good houre ;
Which, when it came, they sailed to the shore.
But never since dareth the ferryman,
Once entertaine the ghost of Gullian.
Drinke on drie soule, and pledge Sir Gullion:
Drinke to all healths, but drinke not to thine owne.
SEEST thou how gayly my yong maister goes,
Vaunting himselfe upon his rising toes;
And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side;
And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide?
'Tis Ruffio. Trow'st thou where he din'd to-day?
In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humfray.
Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheere,
Keepes he for everie straggling cavaliere.
An open house, haunted with greate resort;
Long service mixt with musicall disport.
Many a faire yonker with a feather'd crest,
Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest,
To fare so freely with so little cost,
Than stake his twelve-pence to a meaner host.
Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say
He toucht no meat of all this live-long day.
For sure me thought, yet that was but a guesse,
His eye seeme sunke for very hollownesse,
But could he have (as I did it mistake)
So little in his purse, so much upon his backe?
So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt,
That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt.
Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip?
Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip.
Yet for all that, how stifly struts he by,
All trapped in the new-found braverie.
The nuns of new-woon Cales his bonnet lent,
In lieu of their so kind a conquerment.
What needed he fetch that from farthest Spaine,
His grandame could have lent with lesser paine?
Tho' he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore,
Yet faine would counted be a conquerour.
His hair, French like, stares on his frighted head,
One lock Amazon-like disheveled,
As if he meant to weare a native cord,
If chaunce his Fates should him that bane afford.
All British bare upon the bristled skin,
Close noched is his beard both lip and chin;
His linnen collar Labyrinthian-set,
Whose thousand double turnings never met:
His sleeves half hid with elbow-pineonings,
As if he meant to flie with linnen wings.
But when I looke, and cast mine eyes below,
What monster meets mine eye in human show!
So slender waist with such an abbot's loyne,
Did never sober nature sure conjoyne.
Lik'st a strawne scare-crow in the new-sowne field,
Rear'd on some sticke, the tender corne to shield.
Or if that semblance suit not everie deale,
Like a broad shak-forke with a slender steele.
Despised nature suit them once aright,
Their bodie to their coate, both now mis-dight.
Their bodie to their clothes might shapen be,
That nill their clothes shape to their bodie.
Meane while I wonder at so proud a backe,
Whiles th' empty guts lowd rumblen for long lacke :
The belly envieth the back's bright glee,
And murmurs at such inequality.
The backe appears unto the partial eine,
The plaintive belly pleads they bribed been;
And he, for want of better advocate,
Doth to the ear his injury relate.
The back, insulting o'er the belly's need,
Says, Thou thy self, I others' eyes must feed.
The maw,
the guts, all inward parts complaine
The back's great pride, and their own secret paine.
Ye witlesse gallants, I beshrew your hearts,
That sets such discord 'twixt agreeing parts,
Which never can be set at onement more,
Until the maw's wide mouth be stopt with store.
OF THE FIRST THREE SATIRES.
THUS have I writ, in smoother cedar tree,
So gentle Satires, penn'd so easily.
Henceforth I write in crabbed oak-tree rinde,
Search they that mean the secret meaning find.
Hold out, ye guilty and ye galled hides,
And meet my far-fetch'd stripes with waiting sides.
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