English

Bless , thou dread Creator,
Bless this humble fane;
Man may build them greater , —
More they'll not contain.

Though the bards whom the Orient sun hath bless'd
Are greater than we who dwell in the west,
Yet in hatred of those whom our equals we find,
In this we're not in the least behind.

Gentle, or vngentle hand that holdest me, let not thine eye be cast vpon priuatnes, for I protest I glaunce not on it. If thou hast perused me, what lesser fauour canst thou graunt then not to abuse me with vniust application? Yet I feare me, I shall be much, much, iniuried by two sorts of readers: the one being ignorant, not knowing the nature of a Satyre, (which is vnder fained priuate names, to note generall vices,) will needes wrest each fayned name to a priuate vnfained person.

Thou mighty gulfe, insatiat cormorant,
Deride me not, though I seeme petulant
To fall into thy chops. Let others pray
For euer their faire Poems flourish may.
But as for mee, hungry Obliuion
Deuoure me quick, accept my orizon:
My earnest prayers, which doe importune thee,
With gloomie shade of thy still Emperie,
To vaile both me and my rude poesie.
Farre worthier lines in silence of thy state

Sleep grim Reproofe , my iocond Muse dooth sing
In other keyes, to nimbler fingering.
Dull sprighted Melancholy , leaue my braine
To hell Cimerian night, in liuely vaine
I striue to paint, then hence all darke intent
And sullen frownes, come sporting meriment,
Cheeke dimpling laughter, crowne my very soule
With iouisance, whilst mirthfull iests controule
The goutie humours of these pride-swolne dayes,
Which I doe long vntill my pen displaies.
O I am great with mirth, some midwifrie,

From out the sadnes of my discontent,
Hating my wonted iocund merriment,
(Onely to giue dull Time a swifter wing)
Thus scorning scorne of Ideot fooles, I sing.
I dread no bending of an angry brow,
Or rage of fooles that I shall purchase now.
Who'le scorne to sitte in ranke of foolery
When I'le be maister of the company?
For pre-thee Ned , I pre-thee gentle lad,
Is not he frantique, foolish, bedlam mad,
That wastes his spright, that melts his very braine
In deepe designes, in wits darke gloomie straine?

Grim-fac'd Reproofe , sparkle with threatning eye
Bend thy sower browes in my tart poesie.
Auant yee curres, houle in some cloudie mist,
Quake to behold a sharp-fang'd Satyrist.
O how on tiptoes proudly mounts my Muse,
Stalking a loftier gate then Satyres vse.
Me thinkes some sacred rage warmes all my vaines,
Making my spright mount vp to higher straines
Then wel beseemes a rough-tongu'd Satyres part,
But Art curbs Nature, Nature guildeth Art.
Come downe yee Apes, or I will strip you quite,

C vrio , aye me! thy mistres Monkey's dead,
Alas, alas, her pleasures buried.
Goe womans slaue, performe his exequies,
Condole his death in mournfull Elegies.
Tut, rather Peans sing Hermaphrodite ,
For that sad death giues life to thy delight.
Sweet fac'd Corinna , daine the riband tie
Of thy Cork-shooe, or els thy slaue will die:
Some puling Sonnet toles his passing bell,
Some sighing Elegie must ring his knell,
Vnlesse bright sunshine of thy grace reuiue

In serious iest, and iesting seriousnes
I striue to scourge poluting beastlines.
I invocate no Delian Deitie,
Nor sacred of-spring of Mnemosyne :
I pray in ayde of no Castalian Muse,
No Nimph, no femall Angell to infuse
A sprightly wit to raise my flagging wings,
And teach me tune these harsh discordant strings:
I craue no Syrens of our Halcion times,
To grace the accents of my rough-hew'd rimes;
But grim Reproofe , stearne Hate of villanie,
Inspire and guide a Satyres poesie.

A Man, a man, a kingdome for a man .
Why how now currish mad Athenian ?
Thou Cynick dogge, see'st not streets do swarme
With troupes of men? No, no, for Circes charme
Hath turn'd them all to swine: I neuer shall
Thinke those same Samian sawes authenticall,
But rather I dare sweare, the soules of swine
Doe liue in men, for that same radiant shine,
That lustre wherewith natures Nature decked
Our intellectuall part, that glosse is soyled
With stayning spots of vile impietie,
And muddy durt of sensualitie,