Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

Satyre IIII.

WEll; I may now receive, and die; My sinne Indeed is great, but I have beene in A Purgatorie, such as fear'd hell is A recreation, and scant map of this. My minde, neither with prides itch, nor yet hath been Poyson'd with love to see, or to bee seene, I had no suit there, nor new suite to shew, Yet went to Court; But as Glaze which did goe To Masse in jest, catch'd, was faine to disburse The hundred markes, which is the Statutes curse; Before he scapt, So'it pleas'd my destinie (Guilty of my sin of going,) to thinke me As prone to all ill, and of good as forget∣full, as proud, as lustfull, and as much in debt, As vaine, as witlesse, and as false as they Which dwell in Court, for once going that way. Therefore I suffered this; Towards me did runne A thing more strange, then on Niles slime, the Sunne E'r bred, or all which into Noahs Arke came: A thing, which would have pos'd Adam to name, Stranger then seaven Antiquaries studies, Then Africks Monsters, Guianaes rarities, Stranger then strangers; One, who for a Dane, In the Danes Massacre had sure beene slaine, If he had liv'd then; And without helpe dies, When next the Prentises'gainst Strangers rise.

One, whom the watch at noone lets scarce goe by, One, to whom, the examining Justice sure would cry, Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are. His cloths were strāge, though coarse; & black, though bare; Sleevelesse his jerkin was, and it had beene Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seene) Become Tufftaffatie; and our children shall See it plaine Rashe awhile, then nought at all. This thing hath travail'd, and saith, speakes all tongues And only knoweth what to all States belongs, Made of th' Accents, and best phrase of all these, He speakes one language; If strange meats displease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast, But Pedants motley tongue, souldiers bumbast, Mountebankes drugtongue, nor the termes of law Are strong enough preparatives, to draw Me to beare this, yet I must be content With his tongue: in his tongue, call'd complement: In which he can win widdowes, and pay scores, Make men speake treason, cosen subtlest whores, Out-flatter favorites, or out lie either Jovius, or Surius, or both together. He names mee, and comes to mee; I whisper, God! How have I sinn'd, that thy wraths furious rod, This fellow chuseth me? He saith, Sir, I love your judgement; Whom doe you prefer, For the best linguist? And I seelily Said, that I thought Calepines Dictionarie; Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir. Beza then, Some Jesuites, and two reverend men

Of our two Academies, I named; There He stopt mee, and said; Nay, your Apostles were Good pretty linguists, and so Panirge was; Yet a poore gentleman; All these may passe By travaile. Then, as if he would have sold His tongue, he praised it, and such words told That I was faine to say, If you'had liv'd, Sir, Time enough to have beene Interpreter To Babells brick layers, sure the Tower had stood. He adds, If of court life you knew the good, You would leave lonelinesse; I said, not alone My lonelinesse is, but Spartanes fashion, To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last Now; Aretines pictures have made few chast; No more can Princes courts, though there be few Better pictures of vice, teach me vertue; He, like to a high stretcht lute string squeakt, O Sir, 'Tis sweet to talke of Kings. At Westminster, Said I, The man that keepes the Abbey tombes, And for his price doth with who ever comes, Of all our Harries, and our Edwards talke, From King to King and all their kin can walke: Your eares shall heare nought, but Kings; your eyes meet Kings only; The way to it, is Kingstreet. He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, Mechanique, coarse, So are all your Englishmen in their discourse. Are not your Frenchmen neate? Fine, as you see, I have but one frenchman, looke, hee followes mee. Certes they are neatly cloth'd. I, of this minde am, Your only wearing is your Grogaram;

Not so Sir, I have more. Under this pitch He would not flie; I chaff'd him; But as Itch Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron grown'd Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I foole found, Crossing hurt mee; To fit my sullennesse, He to another key, his stile doth addresse. And askes, what newes? I tell him of new playes. He takes my hand, and as a Still, which staies A Sembriefe, 'twixt each drop, he nigardly, As loth to enrich mee, so tells many a lie, More then ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stowes, Of triviall houshold trash; He knowes; He knowes When the Queene frown'd, or smil'd, and he knowes A subtle States-man may gather of that; He knowes who loves; whom; and who by poyson what Hasts to an Offices reversion; He knowes who'hath sold his land, and now doth beg A licence, old iron, bootes, shooes, and egge- shels to transport; Shortly boyes shall not play At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall pay Toll to some Courtier; And wiser then all us, He knowes what Ladie is not painted; Thus He with home-meats tries me; I belch, spue, spit, Looke pale, and sickly, like a Patient; Yet He thrusts on more; And as if he'undertooke To say Gallo-Belgicus without booke Speakes of all States, and deeds, that hath been since The Spaniards came, to the losse of Amyens. Like a bigge wife, at sight of loathed meat, Readie to travaile: So I sigh, and sweat

To heare this Makeron talke in vaine: For yet, Either my humour, or his owne to fit, He like a priviledg'd spie, whom nothing can Discredit, Libells now 'gainst each great man. He names a price for every office paid; He saith, our warres thrive ill, because delai'd; That offices are entail'd, and that there are Perpetuities of them, lasting as farre As the last day; And that great officers, Doe with the Pirates share, and Dunkirkers. Who wasts in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes; Who loves Whores, who boyes, and who goats. I more amas'd then Circes prisoners, when They felt themselves turne beasts, felt my selfe then Becomming Traytor, and mee thought I saw One of our Giant Statutes ope his jaw To sucke me in, for hearing him. I found 〈2 lines left blank〉〈2 lines left blank〉 _____ _____ _____ _____ _____ _____ Therefore I did shew All signes of loathing; But since I am in, I must pay mine, and my forefathers sinne To the last farthing; Therefore to my power Toughly and stubbornly I beare this crosse; But the 'houre Of mercy now was come; He tries to bring Me to pay a fine to scape his torturing, And saies, Sir, can you spare me; I said, willingly; Nay, Sir, can you spare me a crowne? Thankfully I Gave it, as Ransome; But as fidlers, still, Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will

Thrust one more jigge upon you: so did hee With his long complementall thankes vexe me. But he is gone, thankes to his needy want, And the prerogative of my Crowne: Scant His thankes were ended, when I, (which did see All the court fill'd with more strange things then hee) Ran from thence with such or more hast, then one Who feares more actions, doth hast from prison; At home in wholesome solitarinesse My precious soule began, the wretchednesse Of suiters at court to mourne, and a trance Like his, who dreamt he saw hell, did advance It selfe on mee, Such men as he saw there, I saw at court, and worse, and more; Low feare Becomes the guiltie, not the accuser; Then, Shall I, nones slave, of high borne, or rais'd men Feare frownes? And, my Mistresse Truth, betray thee To huffing, braggart, puft Nobility. No, no, Thou which since yesterday hast beene Almost about the whole world, hast thou seene, O Sunne, in all thy journey, Vanitie, Such as swells the bladder of our court? I Thinke he which made your waxen garden, and Transported it from Italy to stand With us, at London, flouts our Presence, for Just such gay painted things, which no sappe, nor Tast have in them, ours are, And naturall Some of the stocks are, their fruits, bastard all. 'Tis ten a clock and past; All whom the Mues, Baloune, Tennis, Dyet, or the stewes,

Had all the morning held, now the second Time made ready, that day, in flocks, are found In the Presence, and I, (God pardon mee.) As fresh, and sweet their Apparrells be, as bee The fields they sold to buy them; For a King Those hose are, cry the flatterers; And bring Them next weeke to the Theatre to sell; Wants reach all states; Me seemes they doe as well At stage, as court; All are players, who e'r lookes (For themselves dare not goe) o'r Cheapside books, Shall finde their wardrops Inventory; Now, The Ladies come; As Pirats, which doe know That there came weak ships fraught with Cutchannel, The men board them; and praise, as they thinke, well, Their beauties; they the mens wits; Both are bought. Why good wits ne'r weare scarlet gownes, I thought This cause, These men, mens wits for speeches buy, And women buy all reds which scarlets die. He call'd her beauty limetwigs, her haire net. She feares her drugs ill laid, her haire loose set; Would not Heraclitus laughto see Macrine, From hat, to shooe, himselfe at doore refine, As if the Presence were a Moschite, and lift His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift, Making them confesse not only mortall Great staines and holes in them; but veniall Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate. And then by Durers rules survay the state Of his each limbe, and with strings the odds tries Of his neck to his legge, and wast to thighes.

So in immaculate clothes, and Symetrie Perfect as circles, with such nicetie As a young Preacher at his first time goes To preach, he enters, and a Lady which owes Him not so much as good will, he arrests, And unto her protests protests protests So much as at Rome would serve to have throwne Ten Cardinalls into the Inquisition; And whisperd by Jesu, so often, that A Pursevant would have ravish'd him away For saying of our Ladies psalter; But 'tis fit That they each other plague, they merit it. But here comes Glorius that will plague them both, Who, in the other extreme, only doth Call a rough carelessenesse, good fashion; Whose cloak his spurres teare; whom he spits on He cares not, His ill words doe no harme To him; he rusheth in, as if arme, arme, He meant to crie; And though his face be as ill As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, yet still He strives to looke worse, he keepes all in awe; Jeasts like a licenc'd foole, commands like law. Tyr'd, now I leave this place, and but pleas'd so As men from gaoles to'execution goe, Goe through the great chamber (why is it hung With the seaven deadly sinnes) being among Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw Charing Crosse for a barre, men that doe know No token of worth, but Queenes man, and fine Living barrells of beefe, flaggons of wine.

I shooke like a spyed Sple; Preachers which are Seas of Wits and Arts, you can, then dare, Drowne the sinnes of this place, for, for mee Which am but a scarce brooke, it enough shall bee To wash the staines away; though I yet With Macchabees modestie, the knowne merit Of my worke lessen: yet some wise man shall, I hope, esteeme my writs Canonicall.