The parliament of bees, with their proper characters. Or a bee-hive furnisht with twelve hony-combes, as pleasant as profitable Being an allegoricall description of the actions of good and bad men in these our daies. By John Daye, sometimes student of Caius Colledge in Cambridge.

Character 5.

Poetaster. Poeticall Bee.

HEre Invention aymes his drift At Poets wants and patrons thrift, Servile scorne and Ignorant pride Free Judgement slightly doth deride.

Speakers.

• Gnatho.
• Iltriste.
• Poetaster.

Ilt:

A Schollar speake with me?

Gn:

He saies a Poet, I thinke no lesse for his apparrell show it, He's of some standing, his cloath cloak is worne To a searge.

Ilt:

He's poore, that proves his high things scorn Mundane felicitie, disdaines to flatter For empty ayre, or like crow poets chatter For great mens crums. But what's his suite to me.

Gn:

To beg a dinner, old dame charity Lame of all fowre limps out, and sounds a Call For all the rogues.

Ilt:

Out sencelesse Animall, Hearing of my retirement, and the hate •• beare to Court attendance, and high state, Hee's come perhaps to write my Epitaph.

Gn:

Some lowzy ballad? I cannot choose but laugh At these poor squitter pulps.

Ilt:

Thou ignorant elfe ••hould he know this, hee'd make thee hang thy selfe

In strong Iambicks:

G:

whats that hemp? or flax?

Ilt:

A halter stretch thee, such ill-tutord jacks Poyson the fame of Patrons, I shall I doubt me, be thought Jobs wife, I keepe such scabs about me. Seale up thy lips, and if thou needs must sinne, Doo't privately, out spaniell, bring him in.

Gn:

He's come: Poet: to you my love presents this book.

Ilt.

I am unworthy on't. Except a hooke Hung at each line to choake me, stay what name Hast given thy brat? To the most honoured Dame. Com'st lying into th'world? be thy leaves torne, Rent, and us'd basely, as thy title's borne?

Gn.

Rare sport: no marveile if this poet begs For his lame verses, they've nor feet nor legs.

Po.

Nor thou humanity.

Ilt.

Go burn this paper spright.

Gn.

Sir your darke Poetry will come to light:

Poet.

You are not noble, thus to wound the heart, Teare and make martyrs of the limbs of art, Before examination: Caesar taught No such Court doctrine, Alexander thought Better of Homers lofty Iliades, And hug'd their Mr. tho this, and such gald jades Were spurre-gald-hackneyes, kick at their betters, though Some hide-bound worldlings neither give, nor show Countenance to Poets: yet the noble spirit Loves vertue for it owne sake, and rewards merit Tho nere so meanly habited, nor Bee That frequents Hibla, takes more paines then wee Doe in our Canzons, yet they live and thrive Richly, when we want waxe to store our hive.

Ilt:

I honour Poesie, nor dislike I thee, Onely thy fawning title troubled me, I love your groves, and in your libraries, (Amongst quaint odes, and passionate Elegies) Have read whole volumes, of much injur'd dames Righted by poets; assume thy brightest flames, And dip thy pen in worme wood-juyce for me, Canst write a satyre? Tart authority Doe call 'em Libels: canst write such a one?

Poet:

I can mixe inke, and copperesse.

Ilt:

So go on.

Poet:

Dare mingle poyson with 'em.

Ilt:

Do't for me, Thou hast the theorie.

Poet:

Yes each line must be A corde to draw bloud.

Ilt:

Good.

Poet.

A ly to dare The stab from him it touches.

Ilt:

Better, rare.

Poet:

Such satyres, as you call 'em, must lance wide The wounds of mens corruptions, ope the side Of vice, search deep for dead flesh and ranck coars. A Poets inke can better cure some soars Then surgeons balsum.

Ilt:

Vndertake this cure, Ile crowne thy paines with gold.

Boet:

Ile do't be sure, But I must have the parties Character.

Ilt:

The Mr: Bee.

Poet.

That thunder doth deter And fright my muse, I will not wade in ills Beyond my depth, nor dare I plucke the quils Of which I make pens, out of the Eagles claw. Know I am a loyall subject.

Ilt:

A jack-dawe. This basenesse followes your profession, You are like common beadles, easily wonne, To whip poore Bees to death (scarce worth the striking, But fawne with slavish flatterie, and throw liking

On great droanes vices, you clap hands at those Which proves your vices friends and vertues foes, Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guilde A cowards tombe with glories or to build A sumptuous Pyramid of golden verse Over the ruins of an ignoble herse. His lines like his invention are borne free, And both live blamelesse to eternity. He holds his reputation so deare, As neither flattering hope, nor servile feare Can bribe his pen to temporize with Kings, The blacker are his crimes, the lowder sings, Goe, goe thou dar'st not, canst not write, let me Invoke the helpe of sacred Poesie. May not a woman be a Poet?

Poet.

Yes And learne the art with far more easinesse Then any man can doe, for Poesie Is but a feigning, feigning is to lye, And women studie that art more then men.

Ilt.

I am not fit to be a Poet then; For I should leave off feigning and speak true.

Poet.

You'l nere then make good Poet.

Ilt:

Very few, I thinke be good.

Poet:

I thinke so too.

Ilt:

Be plaine. How might I doe to hit the Mr. vaine Of Poesie?

Poet:

I descend from Persius, He taught his pupils to breed Poets thus, To have their temples girt and swadled up With night-caps: To steale juyce from Hebees cup, To steepe their barren crownes in, pilfer clouds From off Parnassus top. To build them shrowds

Of lawrell boughs to keepe invention green, Then drink nine healths of sacred Hippocreene To the nine muses, this sayes Perseus, Will make a Poet, I thinke cheper thus, Gold, musicke, wine, tobacco, and good cheere Make Poets soare aloft, and sing out cleare.

Ilt.

Are you born Poets?

Poet.

Yes.

Ilt.

So dy.

Poet.

Dy never.

Ilt:

My miserie's then a Poet, that lives ever, For time has lent it such eternity; And ful succession it can never dye, How many sorts of Poets are there?

Poet:

Two, Great and small Poets:

Ilt:

Great and small ones? so Which doe you call the great? the fat ones?

Poet:

No, But such as have great heads which emptyed forth Fill all the world with wonder at their worth. Proud flies, swolne big with breath and windy praise, Yet merit brakes, and nettles stead of bayes. Such, title Cods, and Lobsters of arts Sea; The small ones, call the shrimps of Poesie, The greater number of spawne feathered Bees Fly low like Kites, the other mount on trees, Those peck up dunghill garbadge, these drinke wine Out of Ioves cup: those mortall, these divine.

Ilt:

Who is the best Poet.

Poet.

Emulation, The next necessity; but Detraction The worst of all.

Ilt.

Imagine I were one, What should I get by't?

Poet.

Why opinion.

Ilt.

I've too much of that already, for tis known That in opinion I am overthrowne, Opinion is my evidence, Judge and jury,

Opinion has betraid me to the furie Of vulgar scandall, partiall opinion Gapes like a Sheriffe for execution. I wonderd still how Schollars came undone, And now I see tis by opinion; That foe to worth, sworn Enemy to art, Patron of ignorance, Hang man of desart, Aske any man what can betray a Poet To scandall? base opinion shall doe it. Ile therefore be no Poet, no nor make Ten muses of your nine, my reason take. Verses (tho freemen borne,) are bought and sold Like slaves; their makers too, (that merit gold) Are fed with shalls: whence growes this slight regard? From hence Opinion gives their reward.