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SATIRE I.

TIME was, and that was term'd the time of gold,
When world and time were young, that now are old,
(When quiet Saturne sway'd the mace of lead,
And pride was yet unborne, and yet unbred.)
Time was, that while the autumne fall did last,
Our hungrie sires gap'd for the falling mast
of the Dodonian oakes.

Could no unhusked akorne leave the tree,
But there was challenge made whose it might be.
And if some nice and liquorous appetite
Desir'd more daintie dish of rare delite,
They scal'd the stored crab with clasped knee,
Till they had sated their delicious eye:
Or search'd the hopefull thicks of hedgy-rowes,
For brierie berries, or bawes, or sourer sloes:
Or when they meant to fare the fin'st of all,
They lick'd oake-leaves besprint with hony fall.
As for the thrise three-angled beech nut-shell,
Or chesnut's armed huske, and hid kernell,
No squire durst touch, the law would not afford,
Kept for the court, and for the king's owne board.
Their royall plate was clay, or wood, or stone;
The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none.
Their onely cellar was the neighbour brooke:
None did for better care, for better looke.
Was then no plaining of the brewer's scape,
Nor greedie vintner mixt the strained grape.
The king's pavilion was the grassy green,
Under safe shelter of the shadie treen.
Under each banke men layd their limbs along,
Not wishing anie ease, not fearing wrong:
Clad with their owne, as they were made of old,
Not fearing shame, not feeling anie cold.
But when by Ceres huswifrie and paine,
Men learn'd to burie the reviving graine,
And father Janus taught the new-found vine,
Rise on the elme, with many a friendly twine:
And base desire bade men to delven low,
For needlesse mettals, then gan mischief grow.
Then farewell fayrest age, the world's best dayes;
Thriving in ill as it in age decaies.
Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise,
And men grew greedie, discordous, and nice.
Now man, that erst haile-fellow was with beast,
Woxe on to weene himselfe a god at least.
No aerie fowl can take so high a flight,
Though she her daring wings in clouds have dight;
Nor fish can dive so deep in yielding sea,
Though Thetis selfe should sweare her safetie;
Nor fearfull beast can dig his cave so lowe,
As could he further than Earth's center go;

As that the ayre, the earth, or ocean,
Should shield them from the gorge of greedie man.
Hath utmost Inde ought better than his owne ?
Then utmost Inde is neare, and rife to gone.
O Nature! was the world ordain'd for nought
But fill man's maw, and feede man's idle thought?
Thy grandsires words savour'd of thriftie leekes,
Or manly garlic; but thy furnace reekes
Hot steams of wine; and can a-loofe descrie
The drunken draughts of sweete autumnitie.
They naked went; or clad in ruder hide,
Or home-spun russet, void of forraine pride:
But thou canst maske in garish gauderie,
To suite a foole's far-fetched liverie.
A French head joyn'd to necke Italian:

An Englishman in none, a foole in all:
Many in one, and one in severall.
Then men were men; but now the greater part
Beasts are in life, and women are in heart.
Good Saturne selfe, that homely emperour,
In proudest pompe was not so clad of yore,
As is the under-groome of the ostlerie,
Husbanding it in work-day yeomanrie.
Lo! the long date of those expired dayes,
Which the inspired Merlin's word fore-sayes;
When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings,
Then one confusion another brings:

Then farewell fairest age, the world's best dayes,
Thriving in ill, as it in age decayes.

SATIRE II.

GREAT Osmond knowes not how he shall be known
When once great Osmond shall be dead and gone:
Unlesse he reare up some rich monument,
Ten furlongs nearer to the firmament.
Some stately tombe he builds, Egyptian wise,
Rex regum written on the pyramis.
Whereas great Arthur lies in ruder oak,
That never felt none but the feller's stroke.
Small honour can be got with gaudie grave;
Nor it thy rotten name from death can save.
The fairer tombe, the fouler is thy name;
The greater pompe procuring greater shame.
Thy monument make thou thy living deeds;
No other tomb than that true virtue needs.
What! had he nought whereby he might be knowne
But costly pilements of some curious stone?
The matter Nature's, and the workman's frame;
His purse's cost: where then is Osmond's name?
Deserv'dst thou ill? well were thy name and thee,
Wert thou inditched in great secrecie;
Where as no passenger might curse thy dust,
Nor dogs sepulchrall sate their gnawing lust.
Thine ill deserts cannot be grav'd with thee,
So long as on thy grave they ingraved be.

SATIRE III.

THE COURTEOUS citizen bade me to his feast,
With hollow words, and overly request:
"Come, will ye dine with me this holyday?"
I yeelded, though he hop'd I would say nay:
For had I mayden'd it, as many use
Loath for to grant, but loather to refuse
"Alacke, sir, I were loath; another day,-

I should but trouble you ;-pardon me, if you may,"
No pardon should I need; for, to depart
He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart.a
Two words for monie, Darbishirian wise;
(That 's one too manie) is a naughtie guise.
Who looks for double biddings to a feast,
May dine at home for an importune guest.

I went, then saw, and found the greate expense;
The fare and fashions of our citizens.

Oh, Cleopatrica!! what wanteth there

For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheere?
Beefe, that erst Hercules held for finest fare;
Porke for the fat Boeotian, or the hare
For Martial; fish for the Venetian;

Thy thighs from Germanie, and brest from Spain: Goose-liver for the likorous Romane,

Th' Athenian's goate; quaile, Iolan's cheere; The hen for Esculape, and the Parthian deere; Grapes for Arcesilas, figs for Plato's mouth, And chesnuts faire for Amarillis' tooth.

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, [fore?'T was some shroad autumne that so bar'd the bone. Is 't not sweete pride, when men their crownes must shade,

Hadst thou such cheere? wert thou ever there be-
Never I thought so: nor come there no more.
Come there no more; for so meant all that cost:
Never hence take me for thy second host.

For whom he meanes to make an often guest,
One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest.

With that which jerks the hams of every jade,
Or floor-strow'd locks from off the barber's sheares?
But waxen crownes well gree with borrow'd haires.

SATIRE IV.

WERE yesterday Palemon's natals kept,
That so his threshold is all freshly steept
With new-shed blood? Could he not sacrifice
Some sorry morkin that unbidden dies;
Or meager heifer, or some rotten ewe;

But he must needs his posts with blood embrew,
And on his way-doore fixe the horned head,
With flowers and with ribbands garnished?
Now shall the passenger deeme the man devout.
What boots it be so, but the world must know 't?
O the fond boasting of vain-glorious man!
Does he the best, that may the best be seene?
Who ever gives a paire of velvet shooes
To the holy rood, or liberally allowes
But a new rope to ring the curfew bell,
But he desires that his great deed may dwell,
Or graven in the chancel-window-glasse,
Or in the lasting tombe of plated brasse?
For he that doth so few deserving deeds,

'T were sure his best sue for such larger meeds.
Who would inglorious live, inglorious die,
And might eternize his name's memorie ?
And he that cannot brag of greater store,
Must make his somewhat much, and little more.
Nor can good Myson weare on his left hond,
A signet ring of Bristol diamond,

But he must cut his glove to show his pride,
That his trim jewel might be better spy'd:
And that men mought some burgesse him repute,
With sattin sleeves hath grac'd his sacke-cloth suit.

SATIRE V.

FIE on all courtesie, and unruly windes,
Two onely foes that faire disguisement findes.
Strange curse! but fit for such a fickle age,
When scalpes are subject to such vassalage.
Late travaling 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.
He lights and runs, and quickly hath him sped,
To overtake his over-running 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,

SATIRE VI.

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 drinke to dead Pantagruel.
Charon was afraid lest thirstie Gullion
Would have drunke drie the river Acheron.
Yet last consented for a little hyre,

And downe he dips his chops deep in the myre, And drinkes, and drinkes, and swallowes in the streeme,

Untill 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 blacke caravell,
Stands still fast gravell'd on the mud of Hell.
There stand they still, nor can go, nor retyre,
Though greedie ghosts quicke passage did require.
Yet stand they still, as though they lay at rode,
Till Gullion his bladder would unlode.
They stand, and waite, 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 Gullion.
Drinke
on, drie soule, and pledge sir Gullion:
Drinke to all healths, but drinke not to thine owne.
Desunt nonnulla.

SATIRE VII.

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 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 touch❜t no meat of all this live-long day.
For sure me thought, yet that was but a guesse,
His eyes seeme sunke for verie 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 gaùnt 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.

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The nuns of new-won 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?
Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore,
Yet faine would counted be a conquerour.

His haire, 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 notched 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 eyes 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 steel.
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 appeares unto the partial eyne,
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.

THE CONCLUSION.

THUS have I writ in smoother cedar tree,
So gentle Satires, penn'd so easily.
Henceforth I write in crabbed oak-tree rynde,
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.

SATIRES.

BOOK IV.

THE AUTHOR'S CHARGE

TO HIS SECOND COLLECTION of satires, CALLED BITING

SATIRES.

Yz lucklesse rhymes, whom not unkindly spight
Begot long since of truth and holy rage,
Lye here in wombe of silence and still night,
Until the broils of next unquiet age:

That which is others' grave shall be your wombe,
And that which bears you, your eternal tombe.

Cease ere you gin, and ere ye live be dead;
And dye and live ere ever ye be borne;
And be not bore ere ye be buried,

Then after live, sith you have dy'd beforne,
When I am dead and rotten in the dust
Then gin to live, and leave when others lust.

For when I dye, shall envy dye with me,

And lie deep smother'd with my marble stone; Which while I live cannot be done to dye,

Nor, if your life gin ere my life be done, Will hardly yield t' await my mourning hearse, But for my dead corps change my living verse.

What shall the ashes of my senselesse urne
Need to regard the raving world above?
Sith afterwards I never can returne,

To feel the force of hatred or of love.
Oh! if my soul could see their posthume spight,
Should it not joy and triumph in the sight?

Whatever eye shalt finde this hateful scrole
After the date of my deare exequies,
Ah, pity thou my plaining orphan's dole,
That faine would see the Sunne before it dies.
It dy'd before, now let it live againe,
Then let it dye, and bide some famous bane.

Satis est potuisse videri.

SATIRE I.

Che baiar vuol, bai.

WHO dares upbraid these open rhymes of mine
With blindfold Aquines, or darke Venusine?
Or rough-hewn Teretismes, writ in th' antique vain
Like an old satire, and new Flaccian?
Which who reads thrice, and rubs his rugged brow,
And deep intendeth every doubtful row,
Scoring the margent with his blazing stars,
And hundreth crooketh interlinears,
(Like to a merchant's debt-roll new defac'd,
When some crack'd manour cross'd his book at last)
Should all in rage the curse-beat page out rive,
And in each dust-heap bury me alive,
Stamping like Bucephall, whose slackned raines
And bloody fetlocks fry with seven men's braines.
More cruel than the cravon satire's ghost,
Or some more strait-lac'd juror of the rest,
That bound dead bones unto a burning post;
Impannel'd of an Holyfax inquest :

Yet well bethought, stoops down and reads anew;
The best lies low, and loathes the shallow view,
Quoth old Eudemon, when his gout-swolne fist
Gropes for his double ducates in his chist:
Then buckle close his carelesse lyds once more,
To pose the pore-blind snake of Epidaore.
That Lyncius may be match'd with Gaulard's sight,
That sees not Paris for the houses' height;
Or wily Cyppus, that can winke and snort
While his wife dallies on Mæcenas' skort:
Yet when he hath my crabbed pamphlet read
As oftentimes as Philip hath been dead,
Bids all the furies haunt each peevish line
That thus have rack'd their friendly reader's eyne;
Worse than the Logogryphes of later times,
Or hundreth riddles shak'd to sleevelesse rhymes

Should I endure these curses and despight
While no man's eare should glow at what I write?
Labeo is whipt, and laughs me in the face:
Why? for I smite and hide the galled place.
Gird but the cynic's helmet on his head,
Cares he for Talus, or his flayle of lead?
Long as the crafty cuttle lieth sure

In the blacke cloud of his thicke vomiture,
Who list complaine of wronged faith or fame,
When he may shift it to another's name?
Calvus can scratch his elbow and can smile,
That thriftlesse Pontice bites his lip the while.
Yet I intended in that selfe device

To checke the churle for his knowne covetise.
Each points his straight fore-finger to his friend,
Like the blind dial on the belfry end.
Who turns it homeward, to say this is I,
As bolder Socrates in the comedy?

But single out, and say once plat and plaine
That coy Matrona is a courtezan;

Orthou, false Cryspus, choak'dst thy wealthy guest
Whiles he lay snoaring at his midnight rest,
And in thy dung-cart didst the carkasse shrine
And deepe intombe it in Port-esqueline.
Proud Trebius lives, for all his princely gait,
On third-hand suits, and scrapings of the plate.
Titius knew not where to shroude his head
Until he did a dying widow wed,

Whiles she lay doating on her death's bed,

And now hath purchas'd lands with one night's paine,

And on the morrow wooes and weds againe.
Now see I fire-flakes sparkle from his eyes,
Like a comet's tayle in the angry skies;
His pouting cheeks puff up above his brow,
Like a swolne toad touch'd with the spider's blow;
His mouth shrinks side-ward like a scornful playse,
To take his tired ear's ingrateful place.
His ears hang laving like a new lugg'd swine,
To take some counsel of his grieved eyne.
Now laugh I loud, and breake my splene to see
This pleasing pastime of my poesie;
Much better than a Paris-garden beare,
Or prating puppet on a theatre;
Or Mimoe's whistling to his tabouret,
Selling a laughter for a cold meal's meat.
Go to then, ye my sacred Semonees,

And please me more the more ye do displease.
Care we for all those bugs of idle feare?
For Tigels grinning on the theatre?

Or scar-babe threatnings of the rascal crew?
Or wind-spent verdicts of each ale-knight's view?
Whatever breast doth freeze for such false dread,
Beshrew his base white liver for his meed.
Fond were that pity, and that feare were sin,
To spare waste leaves that so deserved bin.
Those toothlesse toys that dropt out by mis-hap,
Be but as lightning to a thunder-clap.
Shall then that foul infamous Cyned's hide
Laugh at the purple wales of others' side?
Not if he were as near as, by report,
The stewes had wont be to th' tennis court:
He that, while thousands envy at his bed,
Neighs after bridals, and fresh maidenhead;
Whiles slavish Juno dares not look awry,
To frowne at such imperious rivalry;
Not though she sees her wedding jewels drest
To make new bracelets for a strumpet's wrest;
Or like some strange disguised Messaline,
Hires a night's lodging of his concubine;
VOL. V.

Whether his twilight-torch of love do call To revels of uncleanly musicall,

Or midnight plays, or taverns of new wine,
Hye ye, white aprons, to your landlord's signe;
When all, save toothlesse age or infancy,
Are summon'd to the court of venery.
Who list excuse? when chaster dames can hire
Some snout-fair stripling to their apple-squire,
Whom, staked up like to some stallion steed,
They keep with eggs and oysters for the breed.
O Lucine! barren Caia hath an heir,
After her husband's dozen years' despair.
And now the bribed midwife swears apace,
The bastard babe doth bear his father's face.
But hath not Lelia pass'd her virgin years?
For modest shame (God wot!) or penal fears?
He tells a merchant tidings of a prize,
That tells Cynedo of such novelties,
Worth little less than landing of a whale,
Or Gades' spoils, or a churl's funerale.
Go bid the banes and point the bridal day,
His broking bawd hath got a noble prey;
A vacant tenement, an honest dowre
Can fit his pander for her paramoure,

That he, base wretch, may clog his wit-old head,
And give him hansel of his hymen-bed.
Ho! all ye females that would live unshent,
Fly from the reach of Cyned's regiment.
If Trent be drawn to dregs and low refuse,
Hence, ye hot lecher, to the steaming stewes.
Tyber, the famous sink of Christendome,
Turn thou to Thames, and Thames run towards
Rome.

Whatever damned streame but thine were meet
To quench his lusting liver's boiling heat?
Thy double draught may quench his dog-days rage
With some stale Bacchis, or obsequious page,
When writhen Lena makes her sale-set shows
Of wooden Venus with fair-limned brows;
Or like him more some vailed matron's face,
Or trained prentice trading in the place.
The close adultresse, where her name is red,
Comes crawling from her husband's lukewarm

bed,

Her carrion skin bedaub'd with odours sweet,
Groping the postern with her bared feet.
Now play the satire whoso list for me,
Valentine self, or some as chaste as he.
In vaine she wisheth long Alkmæna's night,
Cursing the hasty dawning of the light;
And with her cruel lady-star uprose

She seeks her third roust on her silent toes,
Besmeared all with loathsome smoake of lust,
Like Acheron's steams, or smoldring sulphur dust.
Yet all day sits she simpering in her mew
Like some chaste dame, or shrined saint in shew;
Whiles he lies wallowing with a westy-head
And palish carcase, on his brothel-bed,
Till his salt bowels boile with poisonous fire;
Right Hercules with his second Deianire.
O Esculape! how rife is physic made,
When each brasse-bason can professe the trade
Of ridding pocky wretches from their paine,
And do the beastly cure for ten groats gaine?
All these and more deserve some blood-drawn lines,
But my six cords beene of too loose a twine:
Stay till my beard shall sweep mine aged breast,
Then shall I seem an awful satyrist:

While now my rhymes relish of the ferule still,
Some nose-wise pedant saith; whose deep-seen skill

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Hath three times construed either Flaccus o'er, And thrice rehears'd them in his trivial floore. So let them tax me for my hot blood's rage, Rather than say I doated in my age.

SATIRE II.

Arcades ambo.

OLD driveling Lolio drudges all he can
To make his eldest sonne a gentleman.
Who can despaire to see another thrive,
By loan of twelve-pence to an oyster-wive?
When a craz'd scaffold, and a rotten stage,
Was all rich Nænius his heritage.

Nought spendeth he for feare, nor spares for cost;
And all he spends and spares besides is lost.
Himself goes patched like some bare cottyer,
Lest he might ought the future stocke appeyre.
Let giddy Cosmius change his choice array,
Like as the Turk his tents, thrice in a day,
And all to sun and air his suits unfold
From spightful moths, and frets, and hoary mold,
Bearing his pawn-laid bands upon his backe
As snailes their shells, or pedlers do their packe.
Who cannot shine in tissues and pure gold
That hath his lands and patrimony sold?
Lolio's side coat is rough pampilian
Gilded with drops that downe the bosome ran,
White carsey hose patched on either knee,
The very embleme of good husbandry,
And a knit night-cap made of coursest twine,
With two long labels button'd to his chin;
So rides he mounted on the market-day,
Upon a straw-stufft pannel all the way,

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With a maund charg'd with houshold merchandize,
With eggs, or white-meate, from both dayries;
And with that buys he roast for Sunday noone,
Proud how he made that week's provision.
Else is he stall-fed on the worky-day,

With browne-bread crusts soften'd in sodden whey,
Or water-gruell, or those paups of meale
That Maro makes his simule, and cybeale:
Or once a weeke, perhaps for novelty,
Reez'd bacon soords shall feast his family;
And weens this more than one egg cleft in twaine
To feast some patrone and his chappelaine:
Or more than is some hungry gallant's dole,
That in a dearth runs sneaking to an hole,
And leaves his man and dog to keepe his hall,
Lest the wild room should run forth of the wall.
Good man! him list not spend his idle meales
In quinsing plovers, or in wining quailes;
Nor toot in cheap-side baskets earpe and late
To set the first tooth in some novell cate.
Letsweet-mouth'd Mercia bidwhat crowns she please
For half-red cherries, or greene garden pease,
Or the first artichoaks of all the yeare,
To make so lavish cost for little cheare:
When Lolio feasteth in his revelling fit,
Some starved pullen scoures the rusted spit.
For else how should his sonne maintained be
At inns of court or of the chancery:
There to learn law, and courtly carriage,
To make amends for his mean parentage;
Where he unknowne and ruffling as he can,
Goes currant each where for a gentleman?
While yet he rousteth at some uncouth signe,
Nor ever red his tenure's second line.

What broker's lousy wardrobe cannot reach
With tissued pains to pranck each peasant's breech?
Couldst thou but give the wall, the cap, the knee,
To proud Sartorio that goes straddling by.
Wert not the needle pricked on his sleeve,
Doth by good hap the secret watch-word give?
But hear'st thou Lolio's sonne? gin not thy gaite
Until the evening owl or bloody bat:
Never until the lamps of Paul's been light,
And niggard lanterns shade the moon-shine night;
Then when the guilty bankrupt, in bold dreade,
From his close cabbin thrusts his shrinking heade,
That hath been long in shady shelter pent,
Imprisoned for feare of prisonment.

May be some russet-coat parochian

Shall call thee cousin, friend, or countryman,
And for thy hoped fist crossing the streete
Shall in his father's name his god-son greete.
Could never man work thee a worser shame
Than once to minge thy father's odious name?
Whose mention were alike to thee as lieve
As a catch-poll's fist unto a bankrupt's sleeve;
Or an hos ego from old Petrarch's spright
Unto a plagiary sonnet-wright.
There, soon as he can kiss his hand in gree,
And with good grace bow it below the knee,
Or make a Spanish face with fawning cheere,
With th' iland congé like a cavalier,

And shake his head, and cringe his neck and side,
Home hies he in his father's farm to bide.

The tenants wonder at their landlord's sonne,
And blesse them at so sudden coming on,
More than who vies his pence to view some trick
Of stranges Moroco's dunib arithmetick,
Or the young elephant, or two-tayl'd steere,
Or the rigg'd camell, or the fiddling frere.
Nay then his Hodge shall leave the plough and waine,
And buy a booke, and go to schoole againe.
Why mought not he as well as others done,
Rise from his fescue to his Littleton ?
Fools they may feed with words, and live by ayre
That climb to honour by the pulpit's stayre:
Sit seven years pining in an anchore's cheyre,
To win some patched shreds of Minivere;
And seven more plod at a patron's tayle
To get a gilded chapel's cheaper sayle.
Old Lolio sees, and laugheth in his sleeve
At the great hope they and his state do give.
But that which glads and makes him proud'st of all,
Is when the brabling neighbours on him call
For counsel in some crabbed case of law,
Or some indentments, or some bond to draw:
His neighbour's goose hath grazed on his lea,
What action mought be enter'd in the plea?
So new-fall'n lands have made him in request,
That now he looks as lofty as the best.
And well done Lolio, like a thrifty sire,
'T were pity but thy sonne should prove a squire.
How I foresee in many ages past,

When Lolio's caytive name is quite defac'd,
Thine heir, thine heir's heir, and his heir again,
From out the lines of careful Lolian,

Shall climb up to the chancell pewes on high,
And rule and raigne in their rich tenancy;
When perch'd aloft to perfect their estate
They rack their rents unto a treble rate;
And hedge in all the neighbour common lands,
And clodge their slavish tenants with commands;
Whiles they, poor souls, with feeling sigh complaine
And wish old Lolio were alive againe,

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