V I R G I D E M I A R V M,

The three last Bookes.

Of byting Satyres.

Corrected and amended with some
Additions. by I. H.

Imprinted at London for Robert
Dexter, at the signe of the Brasen
Serpent in Paules Church yard.



LIB. 4.

SAT. 1.

Che baiar vuol, bai!

VVho dares vpbraid these open rimes of mine
With blindfold Aquines, or darke Venusine?
Should I endure these curses and dispight
While no mans eare should glow at what I write?
Labeo is whip't, and laughs mee in the face:
Why? for I smite and hide the galled place.
Gird but the Cynicks Helmet on his head,
Cares hee for Talus, or his flayle of lead?
Long as the craftie Cuttle lieth sure
In the blacke Cloude of his thicke vomiture;
Who list complaine of wronged faith or fame
When hee may shift it to anothers name?
Caluus can scratch his elbow, and can smile,
That thrift-lesse Pontice bites his lip the while.
Yet I intended in that selfe deuise,
To checke the churle for his knowne couetise.
Ech points his straight fore-finger to his friend,
Like the blind Diall on the Belfrey end:
Who turnes it homeward to say, this is I,
As bolder Socrates in the Comedy?
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SAT. 4.

Plus beau gue fort.

Can I not touch some vpstart carpet-shield
Of Lolio's sonne, that neuer saw the field,
Or taxe wild Pontice for his Luxuries,
But straight they tell mee of Tiresias eyes?
Or lucklesse Collingborns feeding of the crowes,
Or hundreth Scalps which Thames still vnderflowes?
But straight Sigalion nods and knits his browes,
And winkes and waftes his warning hand for feare,
And lisps some silent letters in my eare?
Haue I not vow'd for shunning such debate
(Pardon ye Satyres) to degenerate ?
And wading low in this plebeian lake
That no salt waue shall froath vpon my backe,
Let Labeo, or who else list for mee,
Go loose his eares and fall to Alchymie:
Onely, let Gallio giue me leaue a while
To schoole him once, or ere I change my style.
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SAT. [7].

VVho say's these Romish Pageants bene too hy
To be the scorne of sportfull Poesy?
Certes not all the world such matter wist
As are the seuen hils, for a Satiryst.
Perdy, I loath an hundreth Mathoes tongues,
An hundreth gamsters shifts, or Land-lords wrongs,
Or Labeos Poems, or base Lolios pride,
Or euer what I thought or wrote beside;
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LIB. 6.

SAT. 1.

Semel insaniuimus.

Labeo reserues a long nayle for the nonce
To wound my Margent through ten leaues at once,
Much worse than Aristarcus his blacke Pile
That pierc'd olde Homers side;
And makes such faces that mee seames I see
Some foule Megaera in the Tragedie,
Threatning her twined snakes at Tantales Ghost;
Or the grim visage of some frowning post
The crab-tree Porter of the Guild-Hall gates
Whiles he his frightfull Beetle eleuates;
His angry eyne looke all so glaring bright,
Like th'hunted Badger in a moonelesse night,
Or like a painted staring Saracin;
His cheeks change hew like th'ayre-fed vermins skin
Now red, now pale, and swolne aboue his eyes
Like to the old Colossian imageries:
But when he doth of my recanting heare;
Away ye angrie fires, and frostes of feare,
Giue place vnto his hopefull tempered thought
That yeelds to peace, ere euer peace be sought:
Then let me now repent mee of my rage,
For writing Satyres in so righteous age:
Whereas I should haue strok't her towardly head,
And cry'd Euaee in my Satyres stead,
Sith now not one of thousand does amisse,
Was neuer age I weene so pure as this:
As I true Poet am, I here auow
(So solemnly kist he his Laurell bow)
If that bold Satyre vnreuenged be
For this so saucy and foule iniurie.
So Labeo weens it my eternall shame
To proue I neuer earnd a Poets name.
But would I be a Poet if I might,
To rub my browes three daies, & wake three nights,
Tho Labeo reaches right: (who can deny?)
The true straynes of Heroicke Poesie:
For he can tell how fury reft his sense
And Phoebus fild him with intelligence,
He can implore the heathen deities
To guide his bold and busie enterprise;
Or filch whole Pages at a clap for need
From honest Petrarch, clad in English weed;
While bigge But ohs ech stranzae can begin,
Whose trunke and tayle sluttish and hartlesse bin;
He knows the grace of that new elegance,
Which sweet Philisides fetch't of late from France,
That well beseem'd his high-stil'd Arcady,
Tho others marre it with much liberty,
In Epithets to ioyne two wordes in one,
Forsooth for Adiectiues cannot stand alone;
As a great Poet could of Bacchus say,
That he was Semele-femori-gena.
Lastly he names the spirit of Astrophel:
Now hath not Labeo done wondrous well?
But ere his Muse her weapon learne to weild,
Or dance a sober Pirrhicke in the field,
Or marching wade in blood vp to the knees,
Her Arma Virum goes by two degrees,
The sheepe-cote first hath beene her nursery
Where she hath worne her ydle infancy,
And in hy startups walk't the pastur'd plaines
To tend her tasked herd that there remaines,
And winded still a pipe of Ote or Brere
Striuing for wages who the praise shall beare;
As did whilere the homely Carmelite
Following Virgil, and he Theocrite;
Or else hath beene in Venus Chamber train'd
To play with Cupid, till shee had attain'd
To comment well vpon a beauteous face,
Then was she fit for an Heroicke place;
As wittie Pontan in great earnest said
His Mistres brests were like two weights of lead,
Another thinks her teeth might likened bee
To two fayre rankes of pales of yuory,
To fence in sure the wild beast of her tongue,
From eyther going farre, or going wrong;
Her grinders like two Chalk-stones in a mill,
Which shall with time and wearing waxe as ill
As old Catillaes, which wont euery night
Lay vp her holly pegs till next day-light,
And with them grinds soft-simpring all the day,
When least her laughter should her gums bewray
Her hands must hide her mouth if she but smile;
Fayne would she seeme all frixe and frolicke still.
Her forehead fayre is like a brazen hill
Whose wrincled furrows which her age doth breed
Are dawbed full of Venice chalke for need.
Her eyes like siluer saucers fayre beset
With shining Amber and with shady let
Her lids like Cupids-bowcase where he hides
The weapons which doth wound the wanton-eyde:
Her chin like Pindus or Pernassus hill
Where down descends th'oreflowing stream doth fil
The well of her fayre mouth. Ech hath his praise.
Who would not but wed Poets now a daies!
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