Time's out of tune, plaid upon however in XX satyres / by Thomas Bancroft.

SATYRE XVII. Against Detraction.

NOr I, nor any that do Satyres write, Please Glossamare, who with invenom'd spight Shoots at us, looking (as the Parthians use) Another way. He sayes, we much abuse Our pens and pains, and are too partial To blemish others with besprinkled gall,

And t' clear our selves, who oft more faulty are Then those whose credits we so much impair. 'Hear, Slanderer, our answer: if you know 'That in such cross and crooked wayes we go 'As you are lost in, then free leave have you 'To shake your Scourge, and jerk us smartly too. 'Meanwhile (like Furies) shall we strive to fright 'You from your faults, and make our Satyres bite, 'And worry you for all your lewd and vile 'Aspersions, that our sames do still defile. 'Had you snarl'd so when Juvenal did write, 'Flaccus, or Persius, sure they would have quite 'Shatter'd you with invectives, tore your name 'To rags, dampt out the sparkles of your fame, 'Caus'd your foul slanders to reflect upon 'Your brazen brow, to dash some shame thereon, 'And make you hasten to a sword or knife, 'To cut therewith your fretted thread of life. Those that (like Aesops Frog) with envy swell At others that the common crew excel, And noted are for wit, wealth, dignity, Or great mens favour, break (ill-favour'dly) Int' spightful language, thinking to abase Their worth by slinging at them foul disgrace, And raising dust (as 'twere) to dim mens sight, Left of such objects they should judge aright. Let no man think t' escape the brandisht tongue Of calumny, sith he that primely sung The fate of Ilium, the old Moenian Bard; And th' other, aptly unto him compar'd, Brave Virgil, high in style, and deep in sense; Grave l'lato too, that wing'd his eloquence With heavenly phancies; and the Stagirite, That sent through Natures orb so clear a light, Were all too sharply censur'd, all besprent With gall, and weight of malice under-went.

Yea, he that sometime like a Sunny ray Was sent from Heaven our fatal debt to pay, To whose clear vertues treasures were impure And worthless, and the Lightning-flash obscure; He that cur'd all our maladies, procur'd All blessings for us, all our pains endur'd, Was rankt with wretched sinners neretheless, Charg'd home with Devlilish arts, and deep excess, And many others ills, well known to be Their in-mates that belcht our such blasphemy. The baneful Serpent that t' our mother Eve Gave th' apple, did thereon such poison leave, As fills all humane kind with canker'd spight, And makes them vent the same with much delight. Where can we find a knot of company So fast and friendly, as will not let fly Their tongues to hateful contumelious talk, Nor let them through more lives and manners walk Then ere Ulysses saw? A meer surmise (Though nere so false) will give their calumnies Sufficient colour; any slight presence Seems ground enough for black maledicence. 'Observe you not, said Wolfang, th' other day, 'How our great Rabbi does on's cushion lay 'A written book, and ever squints at it, 'When he is damning us to th' Stygian pit 'For less faults then his own? I boldly say 'That he that cannot preach, nor scarcely pray 'Without his papers, is more fit to troul 'Ballads, then deal in business of the soul: 'His Doctorship's a Dullard, past all cure 'Of sharp reproof; he is a Preacher sure 'As wooden as his Pulpit, and his brains 'As barren as the sand his glass contains. 'If Universities bring up such fools, 'May War and Sacriledge bring down their Schools.

'And what's his pure Disciple, Theophil, 'That melts at Sermons as he would distil 'His matt'ry brain through th'limbeck of his nose, 'And on the poor such largesses bestowes? 'He's a rank Hypocrite, a rotten post 'All vanisht ore, a painted tomb that cost 'Much idle artship, a gay thing of naught, 'A shining glass with poison inly fraught, 'That soon will break't: For sure he cannot hold 'Long, though his coffers were all cramm'd with gold; 'His large expence and idleness beside 'Will shortly work his fall, and bring the pride 'Of his nice wife acquainted with her birth, 'To take more knowledg of her mother earth, 'The woman is well skill'd in making showes, 'And in an homely out-side garb she goes, 'Talks much of Heav'n, professing sanctity 'More then would furnish a whole Nunnery: 'But O she bears a Luciferian mind, 'Apt in each company to raise the wind 'Of her own praise; nor surely is she free 'From the worst kind of womans levity: 'For a young Gallant privately ('tis said) 'Frequents her house; and if her husbands head 'Be not horn-heavy (like Actaeons) now, 'It is because he hath a brazen brow, 'An hardned front that will not bud, but showes 'Like to a beaten way where nothing grows. Thus was this soul Defamer pleas'd to vent Heart-swelling rancour'gainst the innocent, And by his biting (wickedly) behind Gave others notice of his currish kind. Mastiffs and Lions openly do make Their valour known, as if they scorn'd to take Advantages; but fainter beasts will steal Closely to mischief, secretly assail;

So generous spirits fairly face to face Will question those that offer them disgrace, Or wrong them otherwise; but baser Hinds In terms of obloquy discharge their minds, And fall like hail-storms on the backs of those Whose presence awes them, and suspends their blowes. The tongue (perfus'd with much humidity) A member is so quick and slippery, And so much black corruptive malice rests In the dark lurking-holes of humane breasts, That as some rabid beasts will here and there Be snatching, so some men will not forbear To lay reprochful mouths in every place On worthier persons, seeking to disgrace Those sometimes whom they never saw, nor know Whether their just esteem be high or low. When toyish Fortune at our English Court Made with great Gallants not a little sport, O what an heavy fate has oft been known To fall on those that have int' favour grown With gracious Princes! when their glories Sun Has by the mists of every one begun To be obscur'd, then forthwith (as they say That the night-wandring wolves of Syria Bark at the Moon) the mad-brain'd multitude With a calumnious cry the men pursu'd, Nor calm'd their fury till they saw them down Quite under foot, that were so near the Crown. Great and irrepairable is the wrong That's done to men by an invenom'd tongue: Not all the herbs Medea pickt and chose, Can cure the wounds thereof: its secret blowes Are oft heard farther then the loudest cracks Of thunder, or th' AEgyptian Cataracts. A good report spreads slowly, quickly growes Cold in the mouth, and doth its vigour lose:

But an ill rumour seems to ride upon The plumes of Boreas, suddenly is gone Past a recal, and keeps its aery form In the despight o'th' most impetuous storm. Nois'd through the world are the few blemishes Of Alexander, pride, wrath, drunkenness, That sometime mov'd him with rude Steel to try Where his dear foster-brothers heart did lye: But of his Princely parts and vertues who Relation makes? what eulogies do show How pearls of pity for the wretched case Of foil'd Darius, trickled down his face? How nobly he his wailing Queen did treat, Who (though her beauty was no common bait) Would not dishonour her himself, nor see Others prophane her shrine of chastity? So our third Richards cruelty and great Ambition, reeking both with bloud and sweat, Are matters frequent in our mouths: but who Tells what endowments Nature did bestow Upon this Potentate, to make thereby A fair amends for his deformity? Who mentions his sagacity? or hears Of his great heart, that knew no common fears? Or of his deep unfathom'd policy,? That did complete such rules of equity, Such salutary Laws, as will be (while Fixt is this Centre) famous in this He. Some that affect a quick facetious vein Of speaking, and their hearers entertain With jesting upon others, by and by Pass the just bounds of fair urbanity: And as we see when nimble Squirrels play With nuts, and turn them this and th' other way They lastly! crack them: so when these have made Some sport with others errours, they invade

Their credits at the last, and make thereby An ill compound of mirth and injury. Those that delight to turn the point of wit On others thus, and care not where they hit, Nor yet regard whose fame they violate, Are oft repaid with this vindictive fate, That whilst they make some men ridiculous. Themselves become to all men odious. Good same is dear and tender as our eyes, And none can brook another should ds-prize His estimate, much less should at him cast Disgraceful language, and his credit blast. Though of the clearness of their judgments eye Few men can boast, yet too too forwardly We censure others skill, and books peruse Errors to find, and Authors to abuse. What Author's is more grave or exquisite Then Pliny, that so punctually doth write Of Natures works, and took such pains to be Well learned in her copious History? Yet some that measure others qualities By their own habits, with mistakes and lyes Are bold to charge him, as if purposely He guli'd the world with specious vanity, And more directly at a shadowy fame Did look, then at substantial truth did aim. The like did to our Mandeville befall, Who having measur'd of this earthly ball A greater part then any of his time, When he re-visited his native Clime, Publisht his travels, that his Countrey so Might what with pain he found, with pleasure know. Now what was the success? his Readers threw Contempt upon his news, more strange then true Thought his reports, accounting them such toyes And sigments as phantastiques oft devise.

Yet afterwards when travellers did make Further discov'ries, and surveyes did take Of this main Globe, they found his wonders true I th' greater part, and gave him praises due To his high merits, making him thereby A just amends for wrongful obloquy. What shall I say of those that dare defame The dead, corrupt the odours of their name, Disturb their quiet dust, and (as it were) Fight with their shades? This surely doth appear Of secret striking the most deadly way, And makes men not unlike to beasts of prey, Which, that they may be ready still to tear The bodies of the slain, pursue the Rear Of warlike Armies. Yet as Sylla's lewd And brutish rage on weeping Anio strew'd Th' ashes of Marius; so some men there are So wildly impious, that they little care How much they violate the dead with base Effects of malice, studying their disgrave. This seems to make the sad sepulchral stone Lye heavier upon those that hence are gone, And seeds of Hemlock (as it were) doth sowe. Where else the Rose and violet might grow. When men are under Deaths arrest, and have Made down-tight payment in the humble grave Of their last debt; to wrong them, needs must be A rude extreme of harsh impiety, An horrid wickedness, enough to make (Without imprison'd wind) the earth to quake.