English

C vrio , know'st me? why thou bottle-ale,
Thou barmy froth! O stay me, least I raile
Beyond Nil vltra , to see this Butterflie,
This windie bubble taske my balladry
With sencelesse censure. Curio , know'st my spright?
Yet deem'st that in sad seriousnes I write
Such nastie stuffe as is Pigmalion ?
Such maggot-tainted lewd corruption?
Ha, now he glauers with his fawning snowte,
And swears, he thought, I meant but faintly flowte,

Hange thy selfe Drusus , hast nor arms nor brain?
Some Sophy say, the gods sell all for paine ,
Not so.
Had not that toyling Thebans steled back
Dread poysned shafts, liu'd he now, he should lack.
Spight of his farming Oxe-staules. Themis selfe
Would be casheir'd from one poore scrap of pelfe.
If that she were incarnate in our time
Shee might lusk scorned in disdained slime,
Shaded from honor by some enuious mist
Of watry foggs, that fill the ill-stuft list
Of faire Desert, ielous euen of blind darke,

Come prettie pleasing symphonie of words,
Yee wel-match'd twins (whose like-tun'd tongs affords
Such musicall delight,) come willingly
And daunce Leuoltoes in my poesie.
Come all as easie, as spruce Curio will,
In some court hall to showe his capring skill.
As willingly come meete & iumpe together,
As new ioyn'd loues, when they doe clip each other.
As willingly, as wenches trip a round,
About a May-pole, after bagpipes sound.
Come riming numbers, come and grace conceite,
Adding a pleasing close, with your deceit

I Cannot quote a mott Italienate.
Or brand my Satyres with som Spanish terme.
I cannot with swolne lines magnificate,
Mine owne poore worth, or as immaculate
Task others rimes, as if no blot did staine,
No blemish soile, my young Satyrick vaine.

Nor can I make my soule a merchandize,
Seeking conceits to sute these Artlesse times.
Or daine for base reward to Poetize:
Soothing the world, with oylie flatteries.
Shall mercenary thoughts prouoke me write?

I Marry Sir, here's perfect honestie:
When Martius will forsweare all villanie:
(All damn'd abuse, of payment in the warres
All filching from his Prince, and Souldiers)
When once he can but so much bright durt gleane,
As may mainetaine, one more White-friers queane.
One drab more, faith then farewell villanie,
He'le cleanse himselfe to Shoreditch puritie.
As for Stadius , I thinke he hath a soule,
And if he were but free from sharpe controule

It's good be warie whilst the sunne shines cleere
(Quoth that old chuffe that may dispend by yere
Three thousand pound) whilst hee of good pretence
Commits himselfe to Fleet to saue expence.
No Countries Christmas: rather tarry heere,
The Fleet is cheap, the Country hall too deere.
But Codrus , harke, the world expects to see
Thy bastard heire rotte there in misery.
What? will Luxurio keepe so great a hall
That he will proue a bastard in his fall?
No, come on fiue, S. George, by heauen at all ,

I Cannot hold, I cannot I indure
To view a big womb'd foggie clowde immure
The radiant tresses of the quickning sunne.
Let Custards quake, my rage must freely runne.
Preach not the Stoickes patience to me,
I hate no man, but mens impietie.
My soule is vext, what power will'th desist?
Or dares to stop a sharpe fangd Satyrist?
Who'le coole my rage? who'le stay my itching fist
But I will plague and torture whom I list?
If that the three-fold walls of Babilon
Should hedge my tongue, yet I should raile vpon

Marry God forfend, Martius swears he'le stab,
Phrigeo , feare not, thou art no lying drab.
What though dagger hack'd mouthes of his blade sweares
It slew as many as figures of yeares
Aqua fortis eate in't, or as many more,
As methodist Musus , kild with Hellebore
In autumne last, yet he beares the male lye
With as smooth calme, as Mecho riualrie.
How ill his shape, with inward forme doth fage,
Like Aphrogenias ill-yok'd marriage.
Fond Physiognomer, complexion
Guides not the inward disposition,

K N ow I hate to affect too much obscuritie, & harshnes, because they profit no sence. To note vices, so that no man can vnderstand them, is as fonde, as the French execution in picture. Yet there are some, (too many) that think nothing good, that is so curteous, as to come within their reach. Tearming all Satyres (bastard) which are not palpable darke, and so rough writ, that the hearing of them read, would set a mans teeth on edge. For whose vnseasond pallate I wrote the first Satyre in some places too obscure, in all places misliking me.

Foule canker of faire vertuous action,
Vile blaster of the freshest bloomes on earth,
Enuies abhorred childe, Detraction ,
I heare expose, to thy all-taynting breath
The issue of my braine, snarle, raile, barke, bite,
Know that my spirit scornes Detractions spight.

Know that the Genius , which attendeth on,
And guides my powers intellectuall,
Holds in all vile repute Detraction .
My soule an essence metaphisicall,