352 [from The Scourge of Villanie]
In Lectores prorsus indignos
Fy Satyre fie, shall each mechanick slave,
Each dunghill pesant, free perusall have
Of thy well labor’d lines? Each sattin sute,
Each quaint fashion-monger, whose sole repute
5 Rests in his trim gay clothes, lye slavering
Taynting thy lines with his lewd censuring?
Shall each odd puisne of the Lawyers Inne,
Each barmy-froth, that last day did beginne
To reade his little, or his nere a whit,
10 Or shall some greater auncient, of lesse wit,
(That never turnd but browne Tobacco leaves)
Whose sences some damn’d Occupant bereaves,
Lye gnawing on thy vacant times expence?
Tearing thy rimes, quite altering the sence?
15 Or shall perfum’d Castilio censure thee?
Shall he oreview thy sharpe-fang’d poesie?
(Who nere read farther then his Mistris lips)
Nere practiz’d ought, but som spruce capring skips
Nere in his life did other language use,
20 But, Sweete Lady, faire Mistres, kind hart, deare couse,
Shall this Fantasma, this Colosse peruse
And blast with stinking breath, thy budding Muse?
Fye, wilt thou make thy wit a Curtezan
For every broking hand-crafts artizan?
25 Shall brainles Cyterne heads, each jubernole,
Poket the very Genius of thy soule?
I Phylo, I, I’le keepe an open hall,
A common, and a sumptuous festivall,
Welcome all eyes, all eares, all tongues to me,
30 Gnaw pesants on my scraps of poesie.
Castilios, Cyprians, court-boyes, Spanish blocks,
Ribanded eares, granado-netherstocks,
Fidlers, Scriveners, pedlers, tynkering knaves,
Base blew-coats, tapsters, brod-cloth minded slaves,
35 Welcome I-fayth, but may you nere depart,
Till I have made your gauled hides to smart.
Your gauled hides? avaunt base muddy scum.
Thinke you a Satyres dreadfull sounding drum
Will brace it selfe? and daine to terrefie,
40 Such abject pesants basest rogary?
No, no, passe on ye vaine fantasticke troupe
Of puffie youthes; Know I doe scorne to stoupe
To rip your lives. Then hence lewd nags, away,
Goe read each post, view what is plaid to day.
45 Then to Priapus gardens. You Castilio,
I pray thee let my lines in freedome goe,
Let me alone, the Madams call for thee
Longing to laugh at thy wits povertie.
Sirra, livorie cloake, you lazie slipper slave,
50 Thou fawning drudge, what would’st thou Satyres have?
Base mind away, thy master calls, begon,
Sweet Gnato let my poesie alone.
Goe buy some ballad of the Faiery King,
And of the begger wench, some rogie thing
55 Which thou maist chaunt unto the chamber-maid
To some vile tune, when that thy Maister’s laid.
But will you needs stay? am I forc’d to beare,
The blasting breath of each lewd Censurer?
Must naught but clothes, and images of men
60 But sprightles truncks, be Judges of my pen?
Nay then come all, I prostitute my Muse,
For all the swarme of Idiots to abuse.
Reade all, view all, even with my full consent,
So you will know that which I never meant;
65 So you will nere conceive, and yet dispraise,
That which you nere conceiv’d, and laughter raise:
Where I but strive in honest seriousnes,
To scourge some soule-poluting beastlines.
So you will raile, and finde huge errors lurke
70 In every corner of my Cynick worke.
Proface, reade on, for your extreamst dislikes
Will add a pineon, to my praises flights.
O, how I bristle up my plumes of pride,
O, how I thinke my Satyres dignifi’d,
75 When I once heare some quaint Castilio,
Some supple mouth’d slave, some lewd Tubrio,
Some spruce pedant, or some span-new come fry
Of Innes a-court, striving to vilefie
My darke reproofes. Then doe but raile at me,
80 No greater honor craves my poesie.
1. But yee diviner wits, celestiall soules,
Whose free-borne mindes no kennel thought controules,
Ye sacred spirits, Mayas eldest sonnes.
2. Yee substance of the shadowes of our age,
85 In whom all graces linke in marriage,
To you how cheerfully my poeme runnes.
3. True judging eyes, quick sighted censurers,
Heavens best beauties, wisedoms treasurers,
O how my love embraceth your great worth.
90. 4. Yee Idols of my soule, yee blessed spirits,
How shold I give true honor to your merrits,
Which I can better thinke, then here paint forth.
You sacred spirits, Maias eldest sonnes,
To you how cheerfully my poeme runnes.
95 O how my love, embraceth your great worth,
Which I can better think, then here paint forth.
O rare!