A SCOVRGE for Paper-Persecutors, OR
Papers Complaint, compil'd in ruthfull Rimes,
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.
By
WITH
A continu'd iust Inquisition
Of the same subiect, fit for this season.
Against PAPER-PERSECVTORS.
By
Printed at London for H. H. and G. G. and are to be sold at the Golden Flower Deluce in Popes-head Alley. 1625.
A SCOVRGE for Paper-Persecutors, OR
Papers Complaint, compil'd in ruthfull Rimes,
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.
by I. D. WITH A CONTINVED INQVISITION against Paper-Persecutors, By A. H.
Printed at London for H. H. and G. G. and are to be sold at the Flower Deluce in Popes-head Alley. 1624.
A Scourge for Paper-Persecutors, OR
Papers Complaint compil'd in ruthfull Rimes
Against the Paper-spoylers of these Times.
WHat heart so hard, that splits not when it heares,
What ruthlesse Martyrdome my Body beares
By rude
Barbarians of these latter Times,
Blotting my spotlesse Brest with
Prose and
Rimes,
That
Impudence, it selfe, would blush to beare;
It is such shamelesse Stuffe and irkesome Geare?
Though I (immaculate) be white as Snow,
(Which Virgin Hue mine innocence doth shew)
Yet these remorcelesse
Monsters on me piles
A massie heape of blockish senselesse
Stiles;
That I ne wot (God wot) which of the twaine
Doe most torment me, heauy
Shame, or
Paine.
No lesse than my whole
Reames will some suffize,
With mad-braine stuffe o're them to tyrannize.
[Page 2]Yea Ballet-mongers make my sheetes to shake,
To beare Rimes-doggrell making Dogs perbrake;
Whereto (ayeme) grosse Burthens still they adde,
And to that put againe, light Notes and sad:
O Man in desperation, what a dewce
Meanst thou such
filth in my white face to
sluce?
One raies me with course rimes, and Chips them call,
Offals of wit; a fire burne them all.
And then to make the mischeife more compleate,
He blotts my Brow with verse as blacke as Ieat,
Wherein he shewes where
Ludlow hath her Scite,
And how her Horse-high Market House is pight,
Yet not so satisfied, but on he goes,
And where one
Berries meane house stands, he shevves.
An other comes with Wit, too costiue then,
Making a Glister-pipe of his rare pen:
And through the same he all my brest becackes,
And turnes me so, to nothing but
Aiax.
Yet
Aiax (I confesse) was too supreme
For Subiect of my-his wit royalld
Reame,
Exposed to the rancor of the rude,
And wasted by the witlesse Multitude.
He so adorned me, that I shall ne're
More right, for kinde, than in his Robes appeare.
[Page 3]Whose Lines shall circumscribe vncompast
Times:
And, past the wheeling of the Spheares, his Rimes
Shall runne (as right) to immortality,
And praisd (as proper) of posterity.
Yet sith his wit was then with Will annoyd,
And I enforct to beare what wit did void,
I cannot choose but say as I haue said,
His wit (made loose) defiled mee his maide.
Another (ah Lord helpe) mee vilifies
With Art of Loue, and how to subtilize,
Making lewd
Venus, with eternall Lines,
To tye
Adonis to her loues designes:
Fine wit is shew'n therein: but finer 'twere
If not attired in such bawdy Geare.
But be it as it will: the coyest Dames,
In priuate reade it for their Closset-games:
For, sooth to say, the Lines so draw them on,
To the venerian speculation,
That will they, nill they (if of flesh they bee)
They will think of it, sith
loose Thought is free.
And thou (O Poet) that dost pen my Plaint,
Thou art not scot-free from my iust complaint,
For, thou hast plaid thy part, with thy rude Pen,
To make vs both ridiculous to men.
But O! my Soule is vext to thinke how euill
I was abus'd to beare suits to the Deuill.
Pierse-Pennilesse (a
Pies eat such a patch)
Made me (aye me) that businesse once dispatch.
And hauing made me vndergoe the shame,
Abusde me further in the Deuills name:
And made
Dildo (dampned
Dildo) beare,
Till good-mens hate did me in peeces teare.
O they were mercifull therein (God knowes)
It's ruth to rid condemned ones from woes.
How many Quires (can any Stacioner tell)
Were bandied then, twixt him and
Gabriel?
Who brutishly my beauty so did blot
With Gaulie girds by pens pumpt from th'inke pot,
That I more vgly than a
Satyre seemd:
Nay, for an hellish Monster was esteemd.
Fiue grotes (good Lord!) why what a rate was that,
For one meere rayling Pamphlet to be at?
Well, God forgiue them both, they did me wrong,
To make me beare their choller spude, so long.
Yet if, in Iudgement, I should spend my breath,
The Doctor foild him with his Dagger-sheath.
The Conny-catcher now plaies least in sight,
That wonted was on me to shew that slight.
[Page 5]And made more hauock of my Reames and Quires,
Than all the neckes are worth of such scald Squires.
No Tearme could scape him, but he scraped me
With Pens that spirtled mee with villany:
And made me ope a gap, vnto each Gap,
That leades to shame, to sorrow, and mishap.
But let him goe, he long since dead hath beene,
In body dead, but yet his name is
Greene.
What should I speake of infant-
Rimers now,
That ply their Pens as Plow-men do their Plow:
And pester Postes with Titles of new bookes?
For, none but blockes such wooden Titles brookes.
Ay me, how ill-bested am I the while,
To see, how at my carriage, Carters smile:
And yet such Rascall-writers finde a Presse,
(A mischiefe ont) to make me to confesse
I was in fault, for that I did not finde
A way to flie from such Gulls with the wind.
Then to recount the volumes hugely written,
Where I lye soild as I were all be-( )
Aiax, I le stand toot, did beseeme me better,
For all's vnsweete Sence, Sentence, Line and Letter.
The Sonnes of
Aymon, Beuis, Gawen, Guy,
Arthur, the worthy, writ vnworthily;
[Page 6]Mirrour of Knighthood, with a number such,
I might spend time (past time) them all to touch.
And though I grieue, yet cannot choose but smile
To see some moderne Poets seed my soile
With mighty words that yeeld a monstrous Crop,
Which they doe spur-gald in a false-gallop.
Embellish,
These words are good: but ill vsed: in ouer-much vse sauouring of witlesse affectation.
Blandishment and
EquipageSuch Furies flie from their Muse holy rage.
And if (perchance) one hit on
Surquedry,
O he writes rarely in sweet Poesie!
But, he that (
point-blanck) hits
Enueloped,
He (Lord receiue his Soule) strikes
Poetry dead.
O
Poetry! that now (as stands thy case)
Art the head
game; and yet art out an
Ace:
An
Ace? nay two: (for on thee
Fortune frownes)
That's out of Credit quite, and out of Crownes.
Thou art a worke of darknesse, that dost damne
Thy
Soule (all
Satire) in an
Epigram.
Thou art, in this worlds reckoning, such a Botch
As kills the
English quite, how er'e the
Scotch
Escape the mortall mischiefe: but, indeed,
Their
Stars are better; so, they better speed.
Yet
Poetry be blith, hold vp thy head,
And liue by
Aire till Earthly
Lumpes be dead.
[Page 7]But, if
Aire fat not, as through thee it passes,
Liue vpon
Sentences gainst golden
Asses.
Some burden me, sith I oppresse the
Stage,
With all the grosse
Abuses of this
Age,
And presse me after, that the world may see
(As in a soiled
Glasse) her selfe in me:
Where each man
in, and out
of's humour pries
Vpon himselfe; and laughs vntill he cries.
Vntrussing humerous Poets, and such
Stuffe
(As might put plainest
Patience in a Ruffe)
I shew men: so, they see in mee and
Elues
Themselues scornd, & their Scorners scorne themselues.
O wondrous
Age! when
Phoebus Ympes doe turne
Their
Armes of Wit against themselues in scorne
For lacke of better vse: alacke, alacke,
That Lacke should make them so their credits cracke!
Is want of
Wealth, or Wit the cause thereof,
That they thus make themselues a publike scoffe?
I wot not I, but yet I greatly feare,
It is not with them as I would it were:
I would it were; then
Time should ne're report
That in these
Times, Wit spoild himselfe in sport.
O poore
Apollos Priests (rich in reproch)
Ist not enough the base your blame should broch?
[Page 8]But you your selues (vnhappie as ye are)
Must doo't, as if your diuine
fury were
Turn'd into Hellish; to excruciate none
(To glad your Scorners) but your selues alone.
And make me beare, to my eternall shame,
Th'immortall
Records of your
Rancors Blame.
Can you teach men how they themselues should vse,
When you your selues your selues do so abuse?
Or sett this
Chaos of confusion
(The World) in order by abusion?
Alas ye cannot: For, Men will dispise
The precepts of great Clarkes, if so unwise.
Then
Time redeeme, and in time that amisse,
And I past-time will beare the blame of this.
For, pale-fac'd paper cannot blush a whit,
Though still it beare the greatest blame of
Wit.
Yet,
Poets loue I, sith they make me weare
(What weares out
Time) my rich and gaudiest Geare.
Yea, those I loue that in too earnest Game
(Or little spleene) did me no little shame.
Sith I can witnesse to succeeding
Times,
They oft haue me araid with royall
Rimes,
That rauish
Readers (though they) enuious bee,
Such sacred
Raptures they haue put on me.
Heere giue me leaue (kinde
Reader) to digresse;
To speake of their vnhappy happinesse,
Who can put words into the mouthes of kings,
That make them more than seeme Celestiall things.
And can their deeds so fashion with their
Pen,
That, doing so, they should be Gods with men!
Each Moode that moues the Minde, they so can moue,
As doth the
Wit, the
Will, or
Beauty, Loue.
Yet, as they were accursed by the
Fates,
They can moue none to better their estates:
Who do not onely hurt themselues alone,
But
Fortune (that still hurts them) do enthrone
Among the
Senate of those
Deities
That hisse (like
Geese) at their kinde Gulleries.
What bootes the
Braines to haue a wit diuine,
To make what ere it touch, in Glory shine?
If (
Midas like) it famisht be with store
Of golden Morsels set the same before:
And for an hunger-staruen Fee (alas)
To make an Idoll of a Golden
Asse.
It's the worst way that wit can vse his trade,
For Fee so light, with rich praise
Blocks to lade.
Yet will I not so wrong my selfe and you,
To bid you quite your thriftlesse Trade eschue.
[Page 10]For, then, in time, I might want change (perchance)
Of
Robes, that doe my glory most aduance.
No: write (kinde
Patrons) but let
Patrons such
Be prais'd as they deserue, a littl's much:
Because that little good in such is found,
That giue but little to be much renownd.
Yet write (deare Gracers, that doe make me faire)
And liue the while (
Chamelion like) by ayre.
Your lines (like shadowes) set my
Beauty forth,
Shadowing the life of
Art, Wits dearest worth.
When you are gone (for, long you cannot stay,
Whose
Braines your Pens picke out, to throw away)
I will remember you, and make you liue
A life (without worlds charge) which
Fame doth giue:
For, should that life cost this
Age more than breath,
It soone would gnaw your deerest Fames to death.
Mans life is but a dreame; Nay, lesse then so;
A shadow of a Dreame; that's scarce a show:
Then, in this Shadow, shadow out that Shade,
That may the world substantially perswade
You are halfe Gods, and more: so, cannot die
By reason of your Wits Diuinitie!
How am I plagu'd with pettifogging
Scribes,
That load me with foule lies for
Fees and
Bribes?
[Page 11]And though wide Lines vpon my sheetes they put,
Close knau'ry yet in those wide Lines they shut:
Which there in
mystery obscurely lies
That those which see it need haue
Eagles eies,
So I a
Labyrinth am made thereby
Where men oft lose themselues vntill they die:
Or else a Traitrous trap, and subtle Snare,
To crush rash fooles which runne in vnaware.
But that which most my soule excruciates,
Some
Chroniclers that write of Kingdomes States,
Doe so absurdly sableize my White
With
Maskes and
Enterludes by day and night:
Balld
Maygames, Beare-baytings, and poore
Orations
Made to some
Prince by some poore
Corporations:
And if a
Brick-bat from a
Chimney falls
When puffing
Boreas nere so little bralls:
Or else a Knaue be hangd by iustice doome
For cutting of a Purse in selfe-same roome:
Or wanton Rig, or letcher dissolute
Doe stand at Pauls-Crosse in a Sheeten Sute;
All these, and thousand such like toyes as these
They clap in
Chronicles like
Butterflees,
Of which there is no vse; but spotteth me
With Medley of their Motly Liuery.
[Page 12]And so confound graue Matters of estate
With plaies of
Poppets, and I wot not what:
Which make the Volume of her Greatnesse bost
To put the Buyer to a needlesse Cost.
Ah good Sir
Thomas Moore, (Fame be with thee)
Thy Hand did blesse the
English Historie,
Or else (God knowes) it had beene as a Pray
To brutish Barbarisme vntill this Day.
Yet makes the Readers which the same peruse
At her vnruly Matters much to muse:
For (ah!) that euer any should record
And Chronicle the Sedges of a Lord:
Seiges of
Townes, or
Castles? No, (alas!)
That were too well, but sedges that doe passe
Into the
Draught, which none can well suruay
Without he turne his face another way.
Yet where that is, I may not well disclose:
But you may finde it, follow but your Nose.
As also when the Weather-cock of
Poules
Amended was, this
Chronicler enroles.
And O (alas!) that er'e I was created
Of Raggs, to be thus rudely lacerated:
With such most ragged wilde, and childish Stuffe
As might put plainest
Patience in a Ruffe:
[Page 13]For, this saies one: There was, on such a day,
A disputation (that's a Grammer fray)
Betweene
Pauls Schollers, and Saint
Anthonies,
Saint
Bartholmewes among; and, the best
Prize
A
Pen was of fiue shillings price; Alas!
That ere this Doteherd made me such an Asse
To beare such Trash; and that in such a Thing
Which we call
Chronicle: so, on me bring
A world of shame: a shame vpon them all
That make mine iniuries Historicall
To weare out Time, that, euer (without end)
My shame may last, without some one it mend.
And then, like an
Historian for the nonce,
He tells how two Knights here were feasted once,
At
Mounsier Doysels lodging (mong the rest)
With a whole powdred
Palfray (at the least)
That rosted was: so hee (without remorse)
Tels vs a Tale but of a rosted Horse.
Good God! who can endure, but silly I,
To beare the burden of such Trumpery,
As, could I blush, my face no inke would beare:
For blushing Flames would burne it comming there?
But, Fame reports, ther's one (forth comming yet)
That's comming forth with
Notes of better Set:
[Page 14]And of this
Nature; Who both can, and will
With descant, more in tune, me fairely fill.
And if a sencelesse creature (as I am;
And, so am made, by those whom thus I blame)
May iudgement giue, from those that know it well,
His Notes for
Art and iudgement doe excell.
Well fare thee man of Art, and World of wit,
That by supreamest Mercy liuest yet:
Yet, dost but liue; yet, liu'st thou to the end:
But so thou paist for Time, which thou dost spend,
That the deare Treasure of thy precious Skills
The World with
pleasure, and with
profit fills.
Thy long-wingd, actiue, and ingenious
Spright
Is euer
Towring to the highest height
Of
Wit, and
Art; to beautifie my face:
So, deerely gracest life, for lifes deare
Grace.
Another in the
Chronicle as great
As some old Church-book (that would make one sweat
To turne it twice) at large (good man) doth shew
How his good Wife, good Beere, and Ale doth brew.
With which (lest Readers foulely might mistake)
He many Leaues, in
Folio, vp doth take,
To make them brew good Beere, and Ale aswell
As his good wife; and all the
Art doth tell.
[Page 15]So, for a booke of Cookery one would take
That Chronicle that shewes to brew and bake.
Heere is strong Stuffe, a Chronicle to line;
Wort varnish will; then doth the Story shine:
Wherein
Historians still may see the face
Of
Wit, and
Art, their Histories to grace.
I must endure all this: but God forgiue them;
I can no more commend them then beleeue them.
I scarce would venture Mault, a Pennies price;
To try the vertue of this
Stories vice:
For, as it marr'd the Chronicle before,
So might it marre the mault, what euer more.
With rancke Redundance being thus opprest,
I (as for speaking nought) to death am prest.
But now (ah now) ensues a pinching pang,
A villaine vile, that sure in hell doth hang
Hight
Mach-euill, that
euill none can match,
Daub'd me with deu'llish Precepts soules to catch,
And made me so (poore silly Innocent)
Of good soules wrack
[...], the cursed instrument.
Now not a Groome (whose wits erst soard no higher
Than how to pile the Logs on his Lords fire)
But plaies the
Machiavillian (with a pox)
And, in a Sheepe-skin clad, the Wolfe or Fox.
I could heere speake what hauock still is made
Of my faire Reames which quarrells ouer-lade
In right
Religions cause, as all pretend,
Though nere so wrongly some her
right defend.
What neuer ending Strife they make me stirre:
For, I am made the Trumpet of their warre.
I pell-mell put together by the eares
All
Nations that the Earth turmoiled beares;
While wounded Consciences in such conflicts,
Damnations terror euermore afflicts
In desperate doubts; with Winds of Doctrine tost,
Still likely in
Faiths Shipwracke to be lost:
While learned
Pilots striue which Course is best,
Gods tempest-beaten
Arke can take no rest,
But vp and downe on
Discords Billowes borne
In dismall plight, and fares as quite forlorne.
But thou sweet
Concords cause, who with thy hand
Dost tune the
Deepes, and highest winds command,
Looke downe from thine eternall Seat (secure)
Vpon thy
Church Storme-tossed euery houre;
And factious men inspire with better grace
Than with defence of Sects to
staine my face.
But wretched I (vnhappy that I am)
None, no not one, a'Pistle now can frame,
[Page 17]T'addresse their Workes to any Personage,
But they (ay me) must craue their Patronage,
To be protected from the bitter blow
Of
Momus, Zoilus, and I wot not who.
O
Momus, Momus, Zoilus, Zoilus, yee
In these
Epistles too much pester me:
For, vnder Lords wings Metaphoricall
All
Authors creepe, a shame vpon them all.
And men you haue alas so much bewitcht
That with your
Names (like
Needles) must be stitcht:
All dedicating '
Pistles in my sheetes:
For, first of all with you the Reader meets.
And now that fashion is so stale become,
That he in hate, crosse-wounds me with his Thumbe,
And ready is to teare my tender sides
To make me Scauenger for their Back-sides.
Good gentle Writers
for the Lord sake, for the Lord sake,
Like
Ludgate Prisner, lo, I (begging) make
My mone to you; O listen to my mone,
Let
Zoile and
Momus (for Gods loue) alone;
Meddle not with them,
Mome's a byting beast;
And men for his name sake your Bookes detest,
And makes me shake for feare lest in a rage
They should enforce me weare their Buttocks badge.
[Page 18]Leaue off, leaue off your
Tokens of good will;
The Poesies of old Rings new '
Pistles spill.
Away with
Patronage, a plague vpon't,
That hideous word is worse than
Termagant.
Call for no aid where none is to be found;
Protect my Booke: such Bookes O
fates confound.
To shew my gratefull minde: That's stinking stale;
Yet in new 'Pistles such geare's set to sale.
The poore mans present to the
Emperor;
O that in '
Pistles keepes a stinking sturre.
And not the Guift, but giuers poore good will:
This, this, (O this) my vexed Soule doth kill!
This is a
Pill (in deed) to giue more stooles
Than Mouthes will fill of forty such fine-fooles.
This heauy Sentence which I oft sustaine,
Makes me to grone, it puts me to such paine.
Therefore I pray such Writers, write no more;
Or if you doe, write better than before.
Doth
Nature new Heads bring forth eu'ry day?
And can those new heads no new Wit bewray?
Vnhappy
Nature or vnhappy Heads,
Its time for one or both to take your Beads.
The World and most mens Writs are at an end,
Pray for increase of faith, then Wit will mend▪
[Page 19]For sure the cause why men too foolish are,
They faint in search of Wisdome through despaire.
Hath
Aristotle left his wit behinde;
To helpe those Wits that seeke, yet cannot finde?
Hath
Socrates and
Plato broke the ice
To many a Skill and most diuine Deuice?
And cannot
After-commers too't ariue?
And with those Helps not equall Skill atchieue?
Did they (poore Men) out of meere Industry
Attaine to so great
singularity,
Having no Ground, or if Ground had but little
Whereon their lofty buildings sure to settle:
And can no Worke-man of this haplesse Time,
Adde no Stone to it, nor no Dabbe of Lyme?
I wrong them now, that
Word I countermand;
They adde much Lyme, but neither
stone, nor
sand.
And that's the cause (as some good
Authors say)
Their Workes, with
Winde and
Raine do dance the Hay;
For, they fall downe-right; but the
Raine and
Winde
Makes them runne in and out as they're inclinde:
And could the weather speake, it would commend
Such toward workes as towards it doe bend;
And praise (beyond the
Moone) their muddy Braine
That builds with mudde to sport the wind and raine.
With
Stone and
Lime built too substantially.
And
Aristotle (like a musing foole)
Would lay no stone without good Reasons rule;
What boot such
BVILDINGS to weare
Ages out?
A goodly peece of Worke it is no doubt:
Ifaith, ifaith, their Wits were much misled,
To build for others now themselues are dead.
The wind may now goe whistle while it will,
These waighty workes for all that stand doe still.
The Raine, by soaking showres, may fall amaine;
Yet sure they stand for all such Showres of raine.
Yea, let all Weathers ioyne their force in one,
They all vnable are to stirre one stone.
A mischiefe on the Fooles, what did they meane,
To waste their Braines and make their Bodies leane,
To profit others which they neuer knew,
And build for Sots which after should ensue?
Who gape vpon it with great admiration;
But dare not stirre a foot from the foundation.
Ye neede not feare to climbe, the worke is sure,
Else could it not so many
Ages dure.
And, if a Flaw be found, through Builders blame,
Now mother-wit (some say) can mend the same.
[Page 21]And sith ye haue such stedfast footing there,
And yet will sink through sloath or faint through feare,
O
Heau'ns increase your faith, and make it strong;
For ye, through weakenesse, doe your wisdomes wrong.
The
Soule of
Man is like that
Powre Diuine
That in himselfe all wisdome doth conteine:
Which
Simily in
Wisdomes facultie
Doth hold, or else there is no
Simily.
Mans Reason (if stird vp) can mount as hie
As
Soules themselues, and they to heauen can flie,
And from thence view what that
Circumference
Doth circumscribe, if subiect vnto sence.
Homer (though blinde) yet saw with his
Soules eie,
The
Secret hid in deep'st Philosophie;
In
State-affaires, and in the high'st
Designes;
All which he measures with immortall
Lines;
Whereat we rather euer doe admire
Than feele least feruour of his diuine fire.
What
Country, Marches, Nauy; nay, what
Hoast
Yea what
Mindes-motions (both
of man, and Ghost)
Are by Him, so exprest, that he (we wot)
Makes vs to see that he himselefe saw not!
His
Illiads describes the Bodies worth;
The
Minde, his
Odyssea setteth forth,
[Page 22]For which seau'n Citties stroue, when he was gone,
Which of them all should hold him as their owne.
Then gentle Writers, be not so imploid
In writing euerlastingly, (vncloid)
And let your reason idle be the while,
Let Reason worke, and spare your Writings toile,
Till by degrees, she lifted hath your Spright
Vnto the top of
Humane-Wisdomes height.
And when ye haue aspir'd aboue your
Sires
Then write a Gods-name, fill my
Reames and
Quires,
And with huge Volumes build a
Babel▪ Towre
As high as Heau'n (that shall the Heau'ns out-dure)
For your Sonnes Sonnes to climbe; if so they please,
From
Errors Flouds and
Perturbations Seas.
And flatter nor, (alas) O flatter not
Your selues as wise; for, you are wide (God wot.)
And though ye knew what
Aristotle holds,
Thinke not, therefore, your Braine all truth infolds:
For, there are Truths (beside the
Truth of Truth)
That ne're came neere his Braine, much lesse his mouth.
All which (when
Pow'rs of the
Intelligence,
In their pursuit vse all their violence)
May well be apprehended, though blacke Clouds
Of vtter-darkenesse their abiding shrowds:
[Page 23]Which cannot be when Bounds are set to
Wit
In
Plato his
Plus Vltra, toucht not yet:
Or
Aristotles vtmost trauels reach,
Whose
Muse made, through the
Marble Heau'ns a breach
And past th'inferiour
Orbes, vntill he came
Vnto the highest
Spheare of that huge
Frame
That whoorles the lower with repugnant sway,
Yet had not power his mounting
Muse to stay;
But it would pry into th'imperiall
PLACE,
Where
Glory sits enthron'd in greatest grace.
Yet these be not true
Wisdomes Bounds, whose scope,
Doe farre extend aboue the Heau'nly
Cope;
And more profound than the infernall
Deepe,
Heauen earth, and
Hell, her
Greatnesse cannot keepe:
And though such Wisdome properly with God,
And not with mortall men doth make abode,
Yet he imparts of his vnbounded
grace
So much as may Heau'n, Earth, and Hell imbrace
With
Contemplations Armes, that all infold
Whose vncomprised reach no
limits hold:
But if, through sloath, those Armes be not extended,
In Earths Circumference then, their Circuit's ended.
Novv, you that seeke by wisdome to aspire,
With
study, impe the wings of your Desire,
[Page]And you thereby shall scale the highest Height,
Although your
Mindes be clogd with Bodies weight:
So may ye grace me with eternall
lines,
That compasse can, and gage the deep'st Designes.
‘Omnia sapientibus facilia.’
A CONTINVED INQVISITION against Paper-Persecutors.
ANd shall it still be so? norist more hard
To repaire
Pauls than to mend
Pauls-Churchyard?
Shall still the Youths that walke the
Middle-Ile,
To whet their stomacks before meales, compile
Their sudden volumes, and be neuer barr'd
From scattering their Bastards through the Yard?
Shall still such fopperie fill vp each Stall,
And neuer come to a due Funerall?
In so conuenient a place? It is no wonder
That
Pauls so often hath beene strucke with Thunder:
T'was aimed at these Shops, in which there lie
Such a confused World of Trumpery,
Whose Titles each Terme on the Posts are rear'd,
In such abundance, it is to be fear'd
[Page 2]That they in time, if thus they goe on, will
Not only
Little but
Great Britaine fill,
With their infectious Swarmes; whose guilty sheetes,
I haue obserued walking in the streets:
Still lurking neere some Church, as if hereby
They had retired to a Sanctuarie,
For murdring Paper so: as in old time
Persons that had committed some foule crime
Thus sau'd their liues: Each driueling
Lozel now
That hath but seene a
Colledge, and knows how
To put a number to
Iohn Setons Prose,
Starts vp a sudden
Muse-man, and streight throws
A
Packe of
Epigrams into the light,
Whose vndigested mish-mash would affright
The very Ghost of Martiall, and make
Th'Authors of th'Anthologie to quake.
Others dare venter a diuiner straine,
[...]
That holy ground, that wise-men may decide,
The
Bible ne're was more
Apochryphide,
Than by their bold Excursions: (
Bartas, thee,
And thy Translatours, I absolue thee free
From this my imputation: who in lines,
(Deseruing to be studied by Diuines,)
[Page 3]Didst maske thy
Sacred Furie, whose rare wit,
Did make the same another Holy Writ,
Who, be it spoken to thy lasting praise,
Gau'st
Sunday rayment to the
Working Dayes.
Others that ne're search'd new borne Vice at all,
But the
seuen deadly Sinnes in generall,
Drawne from the Tractate of some cloyster'd Frier,
Will needs write Satyrs, and in raging fire
Exasperate their sharpe Poeticke straine,
And thinke they haue toucht it, if they raile at Spaine,
The Pope and Deuill; and while thus they vrge
Their stinglesse gall, there's none deserue the scourge
More than themselues, whose weaknesse might suffice▪
To furnish Satyres and poore Elegies.
To runne through all the Pamphlets and the Toyes
Which I haue seene in hands of Victoring Boyes,
To raile at all the merrie
Wherrie-Bookes,
Which I haue found in Kitchen-cobweb-nookes:
To reckon vp the verie Titles, which
Doe please new Prentices, the Maids, and rich
Wealth witt
[...]'d Loobies, would require a Masse
And Volume, bigger than would load an Asse:
Nor ist their fault alone, they wisely poyse,
How the blinde world doth onely like such Toyes.
[Page 4]A generall Folly reigneth, and harsh Fate
Hath made the World it selfe insatiate:
It hugges these Monsters and deformed things,
Better than what
Iohnson or
Drayton sings:
As in North-Villages, where euery line
Of
Plumpton Parke is held a worke
diuine.
If o're the Chymney they some Ballads haue
Of
Chevy-Chase, or of some branded slaue
Hang'd at Tyborne, they their Mattins make it,
And Vespers too, and for the Bible take it.
If a Choise-Piece should come into their hand,
'T would be as hatefull as a yellow-band
Was at the first; so if vpon the Wall
They see an Antique in base Postures fall:
As, a Frier blowing wind into the taile
Of a Baboone, or an Ape drinking Ale,
They admire that, when to their view perhaps
If yee should set one of
Mercators Mapps
Or a rare Piece of
Albert Durer, they
Would hardly sticke to throw the toy away,
And curse the botching Painter; see, alas,
The doting world is come vnto this passe,
England is all turn'd
Yorkeshire, and the Age
Extremely
sortish, or too nicely
sage.
To passe a thousand other, doe but looke
Of late how they abus'd the Noble
O
[...] &c.
Duke.What steeled patience could behold those Dawes
Praeuaricate the
Muses sacred Lawes,
And blabber forth
His Funerall, in Rimes,
I needs must say, much like these wretched Times?
To heare the noselesse Ballad-woman raise
Her snuffling throat to
His ill-penned praise:
Or the oft beaten fellow make his mone,
Who in the streets is wont to reade
Pope Ioane:
To see each Wall and publike Post defil'd
With diuers deadly
Elegies, compil'd
By a foule swarme of
Cuckoes of our Times,
In Lamentable Lachrymentall Rimes:
By this I hope, y'haue wrongd him what you can
By those abortiue Broods of Barbican,
And such like
Magazines of wofull things
Such as I nor the sober
Poet sings.
Haue you yet not to soile
His spotlesse life
Ended those begging Chartells to
His
The
Wife?Who, could She but haue rais'd her wofull Eies,
Had thought them
Libells and not
Elegies.
And yee who with more secrecie did write
Lines which you thought too precious for the light,
[Page 6]In reseru'd Manuscripts, for shame giue o're
Your hard-strain'd numbers, and disperse no more
Your heauy Rimes, which seeme by quicker Eie
Would make one quite abiure all Poetrie,
And studie
Stow and
Hollinshed, and make
Tractates of Trauells, or an Almanake:
But sure the names were falsified, nor can
I thinke a Schollar or a Gentleman,
Would doe
His Memorie so foule abuse:
Sure t'was some Ballad-broker did traduce
Their Fame, or th'
one-leggd varlet who doth sing
His roaring
Non-sence, to a triuiall Ring
Of Prentices, about some arrant sent,
Or Boies, who, then leaue Iacke a Lent
To heare the noise, or women who stand there,
And at
O-Hone ring forth a readie teare.
Touching the State, Ambassadors or Kings,
My Satyre shall not touch such sacred things:
Nor list I purchase penance at that rate,
As some Spoile-Papers haue deerely done of late.
And such as these, whose names are iustly spred.
Vnto their shame, are to be pittied,
Rather than blam'd; But to behold the wals
Butter'd with weekely Newes compos'd in Pauls,
Whose hungry braines compile prodigious
Books,
Of
Bethlem Gabors preparations, and
How termes betwixt him and th'
Emperor stand:
Of
Denmarke, Swede, Poland, and of this and that,
Their Wars, Iars, Stirs, and I wote not what:
The
Duke of
Brunswicke, Mansfield, and
Prince Maurice,
Their Expeditions, and what else but true is,
Yea of the
Belgique state, yet scarcely know,
Whether
Brabant be in
Christendome or no:
To see such
Batter euerie weeke besmeare
Each publike post, and Church dore, and to heare
These
shamefull lies, would make a man in spight
Of Nature, turne
Satyrist, and write
Reuenging lines, against these
shamelesse men,
Who thus torment both
Paper, Presse, and
Pen.
Th'Impostors that these
Trumperies doe vtter,
Are, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, and (—)
Who if they doe not soone
these matters mend,
I'le shortly into th'world, a
Satyre send,
Who shall
Them lash with dierie rods of Steele,
That euer after
They my ierks may feele.
‘Mysteria mea mihi.’